Charlotte Holmes.
After realizing he was in a parallel London, one of Russell's goals was a pilgrimage to Baker Street 221B.
But there was no Conan Doyle here, and no world-famous detective stories.
Baker Street 221B had no Sherlock Holmes—at least, he'd assumed as much. Only Mrs. Hudson lived there, renting out her rooms.
Thus, Russell had moved in as an ordinary tenant, no trouble at all.
Now, a living Sherlock Holmes—albeit female—sat beside him.
Did that mean even in this world, reality was more complicated than he'd thought?
The idea sent a chill down his spine, but he shook it off.
If the real Moriarty was out there, he'd surely have noticed someone borrowing his name. On the other hand, Russell still hadn't received any Malice Points from Moriarty — perhaps the infamous mastermind simply didn't care. Or perhaps, this parallel London had no Moriarty at all.
Either way, it wasn't a bad thing for him.
If Moriarty existed, he probably enjoyed watching fires started in his name.
If not, all the better.
Nodding, Russell consoled himself.
Charlotte didn't chat further, but Russell grew curious about her opinion of "Moriarty the Phantom Thief". So he coughed and leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially,
"Miss Holmes, you're good at deduction—what do you think of the recent newspaper stories about Moriarty?"
Charlotte finally looked up from the ornate ceiling, glancing at him.
"A person with an excessive hunger for performance," she said offhand.
"Lestrade keeps asking me to help catch him, but I have no interest in performance artists."
A relief washed over Russell.
Better to have no interest than the opposite.
…
The long and dry ceremony finally staggered to an end.
Students bolted from their seats like prisoners pardoned, the hall erupting in noisy chatter.
"See you later, new neighbor."
Charlotte stood, waved, and melted into the departing crowd, the hem of her trench coat describing a graceful arc.
Russell stayed till almost everyone had left before rising.
What next?
Return to Baker Street, or return the stolen item first?
Mary Morstan was probably still on campus. Perfect timing.
But if he went back now, he might bump into Charlotte. Troublesome.
Just then, a faint voice reached his ear.
"Hello, Mr. Watson."
He turned, meeting that same deep blue gaze—Mary Morstan.
"Hello, Miss Morstan." Russell managed a neutral smile. "Did you need something?"
"Just curious," Mary said, studying him.
"Anyone who can initiate a conversation with Charlotte Holmes can't be ordinary."
"Charlotte Holmes... Is she famous?" Russell raised an eyebrow, both teasing and serious.
"Today was only our first meeting. She's my new neighbor, that's all."
He'd lived in London for over ten years but had never heard of Charlotte Holmes. Otherwise, he'd never have doubted she existed.
But from Mary's tone, she clearly knew the name well.
"Sounds like you're not that interested in London high society or academic circles," Mary smiled faintly.
"She is the sister of Mycroft Holmes—the man said to command the entire British intelligence network from his office.
Charlotte herself has, even before college, helped Scotland Yard solve over a dozen cold cases as a consulting detective. Of course, she never used her real name in public, nor sought attention, so it's not odd you've never heard of her."
It explained much.
Russell realized now: "No wonder she saw through my plan to skip class so easily," he joked. "Looks like life on Baker Street won't be so dull after all."
Mary seemed mildly surprised by Russell's composure, if not by his curiosity.
"You don't seem afraid of her?" she asked softly, her expression unreadable.
"Why should I be?" Russell replied calmly.
"She's a neighbor, not a creditor. And as a law-abiding student, what reason would I have to fear a detective?"
"She's a high-functioning sociopath," Mary warned.
"I don't like to label people by a single trait," Russell answered.
"And from our chat, I saw no reason to keep my distance."
Mary's lips softened, her politeness no longer forced.
"True enough," she agreed. "Ms. Holmes only concerns herself with criminals and puzzles. Ordinary people — I doubt she can even remember their names."
Which meant, of course, that Charlotte had already remembered him.
Russell took this as a compliment and only smiled.
Mary stopped speaking, moved two paces ahead to walk beside him, and the two melted into the exiting crowd.
For a while, only the chattering of students filled the air.
Russell was pondering how to finish the conversation and slip away to return the brooch, when Mary broke the silence.
"By the way, Mr. Watson," she said, as if offering a casual remark, her voice suddenly low,
"What do you think of all the noise surrounding the Phantom Thief Moriarty recently?"