Russell was momentarily at a loss for words.
He looked at Charlotte, lost in deep slumber, her whole body curled up on the sofa, her breathing even, like an exquisite doll.
After a moment of silence, Russell turned and walked into Charlotte's bedroom.
Compared to the living room, Charlotte's bedroom was surprisingly tidy.
Of course, that might also simply be because there wasn't much in the bedroom to begin with.
A bed, a wardrobe, a quilt—that was all there was.
Russell gathered up the quilt; lingering on it was a faint, clean scent that belonged to Sherlock, mingled with the smell of soap.
He carried the quilt back to the living room, walked over to the sofa, and was about to drape it gently over Sherlock.
However, when he bent down and looked at that sleeping, utterly defenseless profile, his movements couldn't help but freeze.
The dying firelight in the fireplace cast an especially soft glow over the features that usually seemed so sharp and aloof.
Gone was the coldness that kept everyone a thousand miles at arm's length; gone, too, was the intimidating intensity she wore when deep in thought.
At this moment, she no longer looked like the great detective whose name shook Scotland Yard—just an ordinary girl who had curled up on the sofa and fallen asleep out of exhaustion.
Her sleeping posture was terrible; she had shrunk into a small ball, like a cat lacking any sense of security.
Russell sighed.
If she slept the whole night on the sofa like this, even tucked under a quilt, her neck and back would surely be wrecked when she got up in the morning.
"Some assistant. More like a nanny, if you ask me."
He draped the quilt in his hands over the back of a chair, then bent down and carefully slid his arms beneath the crook of Sherlock's knees and her back.
Throughout the whole process, Russell kept his movements as gentle as he possibly could, terrified of waking this rare, well-behaved cat.
[Sleight of Hand] once again came into play at this moment.
Lighter than he'd imagined.
That was Russell's first impression as he lifted her up.
Just then, the girl in his arms seemed to sense something.
Charlotte unconsciously shifted her posture, her head coming to rest against his chest.
Russell's body instantly went stiff.
He lowered his head to look at this dead-to-the-world creature in his arms, feeling her steady, warm breath brushing lightly against his chest through his shirt.
Good—she hadn't woken.
He let out a breath of relief, then headed toward the bedroom.
Russell walked to the bedside and slowly, gently laid the girl in his arms down onto that soft bed.
He pulled the quilt over and tucked her in carefully, even thoughtfully tucking the corners in snug and tight, leaving not the slightest gap.
Only when all this was done did Russell turn and slip silently out of the room, considerately pulling the door softly shut behind him.
"Good night, Sherlock."
He said it softly, in a voice only he himself could hear.
In the living room, the flames in the fireplace had gone out entirely, leaving only a few crimson embers flickering in the darkness.
Russell didn't bother turning the lights back on.
He walked over to the information wall plastered with clues, looked at the notes and mind maps upon it, and stood quietly in the darkness for a long while.
After a long time, he finally let out a nearly inaudible chuckle.
Then he set off once more and vanished into the darkness.
In the morning, the deeply sleeping Charlotte furrowed her brow slightly, a vague, indistinct murmur escaping her throat.
The girl slowly opened her eyes from her dreams.
The sunlight pouring in from outside the window made her eyes uncomfortable, so she rolled over and wrapped the quilt around her head.
But even so, though her body's instincts wanted to laze in bed a while longer, her already-booted-up brain wouldn't allow it.
"Tch…"
Charlotte clicked her tongue in displeasure, then threw off the quilt and abruptly sat up.
The sunlight slanted in, spilling across the side of her face, laying a warm, pale-golden sheen over her black curls.
"I distinctly remember falling asleep on the sofa…"
Charlotte muttered to herself, reaching up to scratch at her hair.
Her brain spun at high speed, trying to organize a relatively clear chain of logic out of those chaotic fragments.
"The sofa… then… the violin… and then…"
And then there was no "and then."
The last thing that surfaced in Charlotte's memory was the soft, rushing sound of running water coming from the kitchen.
She threw off the quilt, climbed out of bed, casually draped the warm robe over herself, then made her way out of the living room and down the stairs.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."
"Oh, good morning, Charlotte. You're up later than usual today."
Mrs. Hudson turned to look at Charlotte, then set breakfast on the table.
"We're out of coffee; there's only milk left. You don't mind, do you?"
"That's fine." Charlotte took the warm milk, took a sip, then asked, "Where's Watson?"
"Russell? He's already left for school. It's nine o'clock already, Charlotte."
Mrs. Hudson said.
"Oh…" Charlotte gave a small acknowledgment, paused, then asked again:
"Last night, did you come into my room?"
"No. Why?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Did you lose something?"
"No—it's nothing." Charlotte shook her head.
"Everything's fine."
After finishing breakfast, Charlotte went back upstairs.
She brewed herself a cup of coffee, then pulled over that comfortable armchair, reclined in it, and gazed at the information wall before her.
On the newspapers, every target of Moriarty's operations had been marked out by Charlotte.
Originally, she had intended to investigate the identities of these victims, so as to further uncover the connections or commonalities between them.
She had divided the victims into two categories: those whose belongings were stolen and then returned, and those whose dirt was dug up and directly exposed.
Charlotte's main line of reasoning had been built around the latter group.
But this idea was quickly ruled out.
Because that fellow committed his crimes purely on a whim; the only thing these victims had in common was that they were either all very rich, or all unclean.
"Among these people, those belonging to the party opposing Mycroft make up about one-fifth."
Charlotte murmured to herself.
"But that doesn't prove anything. These people pose no threat to Mycroft; there's no need to go to such great lengths to bring them down.
So… this isn't Mycroft's doing?"
The girl knitted her brows.
"But if it truly has nothing to do with Mycroft, then why would he provide cover for Mycroft?"
Her gaze lingered on the line connecting [Moriarty] and [Mycroft].
On that line still remained the cross Russell had drawn the day before.
Charlotte pondered for a moment, then rose and wiped away that cross.
After thinking it over for a while, she drew a question mark in its place.
"It's impossible that there's no relationship between these two… but perhaps I'm overthinking it?"
She murmured to herself.
Immediately after, the girl's gaze fell again upon the line connecting [The Professor] and [Moriarty].
In the same way, she once more reached out, wiped away the cross on it, and drew a question mark.
Everything had returned to the starting point.
But in Charlotte's eyes, it was as though a new path—one she had never before conceived of—had opened up.
"You always manage to bring me some new tricks, Watson."
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