"Scared insane?" Mary's eyes widened—this time the shock wasn't an act. "They're robbing a bank and their nerves are that fragile?"
What kind of bargain-bin crew did Bilson hire?
"Charlotte said the same thing," Russell shrugged. "The guy's like he got cursed. Ask him anything and he won't answer—just keeps repeating one line:
'Moriarty's face melted.'"
Russell stretched, bored.
"So Charlotte's lead is dead for now. All we can do is hope the psychiatrist Lestrade hired gets results… or pray Scotland Yard catches Bilson soon."
He leaned back again. "Otherwise, I don't see this going anywhere for a while."
"I see." Mary's voice softened, and the last trace of tension drained from her eyes.
As long as the suspicion didn't drift toward her, fine.
Though whether that "madman" might recover later was another question.
If necessary… she might have to deal with him, along with Bilson…
A shadow crossed Mary's gaze—brief and quickly buried.
The class bell rang, a sharp rest in the noise.
Time for lecture.
Imperial College was as dull as ever.
The old professor droned steadily at the front, like a church bell on a sleepy afternoon.
Russell lay on his desk, one hand propping his chin, yawning now and then.
Maybe Mycroft had been right.
Compared to Russell's slack sprawl, Mary sat perfectly upright. Her pen moved smoothly across her notebook, capturing every point.
She watched the blackboard.
He watched her.
In its own way, it was a rather pleasant view.
Just as Russell was about to close his eyes and accept an invitation to dreamland, a pale hand slipped into his field of vision—silent as fog.
With it came an open notebook.
Russell's eyes dropped to the wrist, then lifted along the arm to Mary's profile.
Mary kept her eyes on the board. She didn't look at him—only tapped the notebook lightly with her pen.
So Russell looked down.
Written in tidy, elegant handwriting was a single line:
"What does 'a melting face' mean?"
Russell stared at it, then took his pen and wrote beneath it in messy scrawl:
"Charlotte thinks it's a visual effect caused by a mask being corroded by some chemical agent.
As for 'duplicates,' that's probably just Moriarty's footwork—silent movement creating the illusion of being in multiple places.
In short, Charlotte thinks the robbers were just ignorant."
He slid the notebook back.
Mary glanced down at the reply, one eyebrow lifting.
She stared at it for a while, as though thinking.
Then she lowered her eyes, apparently finished, and the soft scratch of pen on paper resumed. The back row returned to its quiet.
But something still felt wrong.
The handwriting didn't match.
Her reason and analysis had told her again and again: the lazy boy beside her had nothing to do with Moriarty.
And yet, her instincts kept forcing her to chase every sliver of possibility.
Every time, instinct lost to reality.
Sometimes even Mary couldn't tell what she was doing, or why.
Even if Russell was Moriarty… so what?
She couldn't even imagine what she'd feel under that premise.
Joy? Rage? Hurt?
Her thoughts began to slide—and once they started, they wouldn't stop.
She shook her head, forcing her attention back onto the lecture.
But like trying to forget something only makes it clearer—
her eyes stayed on the board, while the corner of her gaze kept drifting toward the boy beside her, now fully asleep.
Sunlight through the window dyed his short black hair with a faint golden sheen. His steady breathing echoed lightly in the quiet back row.
It reminded her, absurdly, of a cat dozing by the fireplace—lazy and strangely serene.
Honestly…
Mary sighed internally.
And without meaning to, her pen found a blank space on the page.
This time she didn't write about the case.
She doodled.
A few strokes became a simple stick figure slumped over a desk, asleep.
Then she decided it looked too plain—so she added a tiny pair of fluffy cat ears on top.
Better.
A small smile tugged at Mary's lips—one she didn't even notice.
Time crawled through the dull class. The light outside shifted from bright to amber.
When the professor finally announced dismissal, the students surged into noise like prisoners granted parole.
Russell lifted his head, blinking blearily, then—by habit—looked at Mary.
"Class over?"
"Yes." Mary answered softly. She quickly flipped past the page with the cat-eared doodle, then pushed her notebook toward him. "Today's notes."
"Cheers." Russell yawned and, without hesitation, stuffed her notebook into his bag.
They left the lecture hall one after the other. The sunset was warm without being harsh, spilling across the pavement and stretching their shadows long—like an old film reel unspooling across the ground.
Russell thought the day would end as usual.
Then Mary stopped.
"Hm?" Russell turned to her. "What is it?"
Mary stood still, hands clasped behind her back, fingertips unconsciously winding around each other.
The slanted sunset light outlined her silver hair in a soft, warm halo. It also tinted her neatly tailored uniform with a gentle gradient of orange and rose.
She didn't answer immediately. She lowered her gaze to her spotless black shoes.
The toe traced small circles on the leaf-strewn stone path.
A breeze swept a few dry plane-tree leaves between them, spiraling upward before drifting away.
The quiet was almost too much—only distant noise from the sports field, muffled like background audio in a film.
Russell didn't rush her. He simply waited.
At last, Mary seemed to make up her mind and lifted her head.
Her sea-blue eyes held none of their usual calculation, none of her classroom teasing.
Just the evening glow—and his silhouette reflected within it.
Her voice came softly, as though afraid to disturb the moment.
"So… um…"
A faint hesitation clung to the end of the word, subtle even to her.
"This weekend… do you have any plans?"
....
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