"The probability is far too low," Charlotte countered without a moment's hesitation.
"Especially when the timing lines up so precisely."
"That's fine, then. Let's look at Mycroft instead."
Russell didn't linger to wrangle over that point, but simply pressed on:
"Let's suppose he really is just as Mary guessed—that he only wanted to use Moriarty's hand to eliminate his own political rivals, and that's why he chose to shield him.
Does that have anything to do with The Professor? No.
And this time, with Moriarty going to Buckingham Palace, the reason Mycroft chose to keep it quiet might simply be that he wanted to see just how far Moriarty could go—using it to gauge the level of threat he poses.
Just like you said a moment ago: Mycroft knows that The Professor exists, but to him, The Professor's threat level isn't high, so Mycroft never paid him any mind."
Russell took every possibility apart and laid them out before Charlotte in a plain, straightforward way.
Charlotte listened in silence, not interrupting.
She watched Russell, watched that earnest, deadpan air he wore as he analyzed it all, and the irritation in her eyes was gradually replaced by something far more complicated.
"So, your conclusion is," she finally said, slowly, after a long moment, "that all of this is nothing but coincidence?"
"Real life doesn't have to make logical sense. It isn't a novel or a play."
Russell shrugged.
"In any case, the trail on The Professor has gone cold for now, and Moriarty's side won't yield any results until Sunday. Even if you rack your brains until they break, you won't be able to think up anything new."
He paused, walked over to stand in front of Charlotte, and said in a tone that was almost like coaxing a child:
"So why not set all of this aside for now and get a good night's sleep?
Who knows—maybe first thing tomorrow morning, Lestrade will have already caught Billson."
Charlotte looked at him in silence.
The flames crackled in the fireplace, stretching and overlapping the two of their shadows across the wall.
No one knew how much time had passed before she finally let out a sigh so faint it was nearly inaudible.
"I'm hungry."
"Hm?" Russell froze for a beat, not quite catching up with how abruptly the topic had leapt.
"I said, I'm hungry, Watson."
Charlotte repeated herself, her tone restored to its usual matter-of-fact certainty.
"It's dinnertime now. As my assistant, don't you think you ought to prepare something for me?"
"..."
Russell looked at her, looked into those grey-blue eyes that had regained their spark, and in the end he could only laugh helplessly.
"Creamy baked meat-sauce pasta, or a smoked ham sandwich?"
"Sandwich."
Charlotte didn't hesitate in the slightest.
Russell turned and headed downstairs, leaving the door open.
Soon enough, the kitchen sent up the faint "sizzle" of butter melting in a frying pan, followed closely by the toasty, wheat-scented aroma of bread being browned.
Charlotte sat quietly on the sofa, looking at the few photocopied photographs on the table, and tilted her head to listen to those sounds of ordinary daily life drifting up from the kitchen.
The clatter of a spatula against the frying pan, the sound of the tap being turned on and off, the sound of plates being taken down from the cupboard…
These sounds were utterly ordinary—so ordinary they were almost dull.
Yet, for some reason, woven together they became like a soothing lullaby, and her heart, restless from the broken trail, miraculously, bit by bit, settled back into calm.
"Your sandwich." Russell's voice called her back from her brief reverie.
He came over to her carrying a plate, and on it sat an exceptionally appetizing-looking smoked ham sandwich.
The bread had been toasted golden and crisp, emerald lettuce leaves peeked out from between the two slices, red tomato and pink smoked ham layered one over the other, all drizzled with just the right amount of mayonnaise.
The boost from [Sleight of Hand] didn't only apply to picking locks; any operation involving the hands could reap its bonus.
"It looks a touch more professional than the ones Mrs. Hudson makes."
Charlotte picked up one half, inspecting that flawless cross-section, and offered her verdict.
"Back at the orphanage, I'd occasionally slip into the kitchen to help out, and one thing led to another until I'd picked it up."
Russell explained offhandedly, then sat down on the sofa beside her, took up his own portion, and began to dig in with gusto.
Charlotte said nothing more.
She bit into the sandwich in small mouthfuls, chewing slowly and carefully.
One sandwich was quickly dispatched.
Charlotte drew out a napkin, dabbed at the corners of her mouth, then pushed the plate aside.
The fullness in her stomach gave her brain a long-absent, comfortable sort of weariness.
She set the emptied sandwich plate carelessly to one side, but didn't rise at once, only leaning back against the sofa and letting out a contented sigh.
"Dopamine, endorphins, the pleasure brought on by rising blood sugar…" she murmured to herself, "a dull chemical reaction."
"That's just being full, damn it."
Russell corrected her from the side, clearing away the plate in front of him as he did.
Charlotte shot him a glance but didn't argue.
She stood, walked over to the fireplace, and picked up the violin that had been left propped carelessly against the wall.
Just as Russell assumed she was about to start aiding her thoughts again with that grating noise, this time, Charlotte didn't draw out those rapid, jumbled notes.
She tucked the instrument between her shoulder and chin, closed her eyes, and her slender fingers danced lightly across the strings.
A melody, lilting and touched with a soothing softness, flowed slowly out from the friction of bow against string—like a brook beneath the moonlight, quiet and gentle.
Russell had never heard this piece before, but it was unlike anything Charlotte had ever played.
None of the agitation of deep thought, none of the exhilaration of cracking a puzzle, none of the fretful tedium of boredom.
It was serene, even carrying a faint trace of languor.
As though someone who had been wound tight all day had, at last, in the night, shed every defense and weariness, flinging themselves utterly and lazily into a soft bed.
Russell didn't disturb her.
He simply sat there quietly, tidying away the tableware on the table, casting his gaze, now and then, toward the girl lost in her own world.
The flames in the fireplace flickered tirelessly, stretching her figure long across the wall, swaying gently to the rhythm of the music.
The piece came to an end.
Charlotte slowly lowered the violin and opened those grey-blue eyes, which looked especially bright in the firelight's glow.
"Today's piece was finally listenable," Russell remarked beside her.
"Then I can only apologize for your impoverished musical sensibilities."
Charlotte retorted in kind.
"Thanks to you, I feel like I can't think at all anymore right now."
She lay back on the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling.
"I feel like my head has been wiped completely blank."
"We generally call that phenomenon being tired."
Russell said, "And the best remedy is to lie down in bed and have a really good sleep."
"Sleep?" Charlotte repeated. "Sleep is a compromise to physiological need, a waste of time.
My brain has no need for such an inefficient method of resetting."
"But your body does." Russell stacked the finished plates together and picked them up, ready to carry them off to the kitchen.
"Besides, didn't you just say you can't think anymore?
What's the difference between a brain that can't think and a sponge soaked in water?
At least a sponge can still be used once it dries out. Keep burning yourself out like this and watch out—one of these days you really will short-circuit."
Charlotte didn't argue.
She only watched in silence as Russell carried the tableware into the kitchen, listening to the sound of the tap being turned on—a soft, rushing hush, thoroughly hypnotic.
She leaned back against the sofa, turning her gaze once more to that ball of fire in the hearth, flaring and dimming by turns, the dancing light reflected in her grey-blue eyes, flickering between bright and dark.
When Russell came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands dry, he found her still holding that same pose, utterly motionless, like a beautiful statue sunk in contemplation.
"Still not going?" Russell walked over beside her.
But Charlotte gave him no response.
She had fallen asleep.
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