Charlotte stared at Russell's outstretched hand, frowning.
"Why?" she asked. "What's the point?"
"No point," Russell said honestly. "I just think you need fresh air."
"I go out."
"Walking downstairs to grab food doesn't count."
Russell kept his hand extended.
Charlotte tilted her head, studying him for a long moment.
"Five minutes," she said at last.
She placed her hand in his palm.
"If I'm still bored after five minutes, we come back."
"Deal." Russell smiled and pulled her up.
They walked side by side along Baker Street.
Evening air carried a wet chill. The streetlamps had already lit, casting hazy yellow pools across the damp cobblestones.
Charlotte had exchanged her robe for a trench coat. Hands in pockets, she paced beside Russell.
Where Russell looked genuinely relaxed, Charlotte seemed… restrained.
Her eyes kept sweeping the street, scanning every passerby.
"Look over there," she suddenly said, chin tipping toward a corner.
Russell followed her gaze.
A well-dressed middle-aged man paced back and forth, anxious, checking his pocket watch again and again.
"That man—around forty-five, married," Charlotte rattled off rapidly. "Judging by the wear on his wedding ring, he's been married at least fifteen years.
"Clothes are proper, but there's a faint ink stain at his cuff—clerical work. Lawyer or accountant, perhaps.
"He's been waiting here at least ten minutes. He checks his watch every thirty seconds, restless, yet his eyes keep drifting toward the flower shop across the street. He isn't waiting on business. He's waiting on a mistress."
"How do you know it's a mistress and not a man who forgot his anniversary and is buying his wife flowers?" Russell asked.
"His tie is a Windsor knot, immaculate. Whoever he's meeting matters—he needs to look his best.
"But there are uneven flecks of mud on his shoes, concentrated near the heel. He came in a hurry—possibly running."
Russell nodded as if deeply impressed. "So… why are you profiling him?"
"I don't know," Charlotte admitted, shaking her head. "Instinct, I suppose."
"Instinct?"
"I can't do nothing the way you can—walk with an empty head."
"Who says I'm not thinking?" Russell protested.
"Thinking about what Mrs. Hudson will cook isn't 'thinking,'" Charlotte snapped back. "And I bet it's a sandwich."
"I say it's a creamy meat-ragù bake," Russell countered.
"Impossible," Charlotte said flatly. "Mrs. Hudson makes smoked ham sandwiches at least four nights a week.
"And I saw her slicing ham at noon."
"Then let's wager," Russell said. "I'm keeping my guess."
"On what?" Charlotte asked.
"If I lose, I'll handle your breakfast and newspapers for the next week."
"That's what an assistant is supposed to do anyway," Charlotte complained—then accepted.
"And if I lose?" she asked. "Write your research proposal?"
"No need. Even if you wrote it, I wouldn't dare show it to Professor Fields." Russell shrugged. "If I win, it's simple."
He paused, then said it with a straight face under her puzzled stare.
"Tomorrow, you attend Imperial College for one full day. Just one. How about it?"
Charlotte's brow knit tightly.
"Are you sure your brain didn't freeze on that walk? How does that benefit you?"
"Moriarty steals things and returns them. How does that benefit him?" Russell shot back.
"So—do you dare?"
Charlotte fell silent, thinking fast.
She had seen Mrs. Hudson with the ham. Every chain of logic pointed to sandwiches.
This wager was unloseable.
In that case, agreeing to a meaningless, absurd request from a doomed loser wasn't exactly painful.
And besides—her breakfast and morning paper were secured for a week. That was hardly a downside.
It would also force her "assistant" to do something useful for once.
"Fine," she said evenly. "Deal.
"I suggest you set an alarm when we get back. If I don't see breakfast and the paper by seven, every day you're late adds another week."
"Of course." Russell fell into step beside her, smiling.
They kept walking, idly profiling passersby for no reason at all, then arguing over minor details just to have something to do.
The sky darkened. Baker Street's bustle softened into evening quiet.
Passing a newsstand, Russell watched a paperboy sell the last copies to a late passerby.
On the front page: the same giant countdown number, and Moriarty's signature.
Judgment Day — Countdown: Four
"A carefully designed manipulation of public emotion," Charlotte said, following his gaze with faint contempt. "He knows what people want, and he gives it to them in exactly the right dose.
"A suspense. A hero. An enemy. A stage where they can vent their cheap feelings."
"Or maybe he just thinks it's fun," Russell said.
"Then he's a hopeless narcissist with a performer's sickness." Charlotte snorted. "Shallow."
Russell smiled and didn't argue.
They crossed the street and returned to 221B.
Before Russell could take out his key, the familiar wooden door opened from within.
Warm air—thick with butter, cheese, and tomato—rolled out around them.
Not sandwiches.
The same thought flashed through both their minds—followed by completely different reactions.
"Oh, you're back!" Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of garlic bread, smiling warmly, utterly unaware she'd just decided a wager.
"Go wash your hands. Dinner's almost ready."
Charlotte's face stiffened.
Her gaze slid past Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen, locking onto a steaming bake dish on the table—golden cheese bubbling on top.
Russell followed her eyes and broke into a bright, victorious grin.
"Don't be late tomorrow, Charlotte."
....
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