The moment her words landed, Russell froze for a beat, then hurriedly swallowed the food in his mouth.
"It's done?"
"That's what Lestrade said." Charlotte nodded.
"By the way, you've still got a minute and a half."
So Russell stopped dawdling, shoveled the remaining steak on his plate into his mouth in a few quick bites, then gulped down a big mouthful of water and forced the food down.
And promptly started coughing, because he'd eaten too fast.
"Cough, cough..."
"You trying to die? Eating like that—no matter how big a hurry you're in, you can't do it like this." Mrs. Hudson patted Russell on the back.
"Leave the plates, I'll clear them. You two be careful out there."
"Got it, Mrs. Hudson!" Russell called back, then quickened his pace to catch up with Sherlock, who had already reached the door.
The carriage arrived a little later than expected.
Charlotte and Russell climbed into the cabin, and were greeted by Lestrade's voice.
"Good evening, you two."
"Good evening, Inspector Lestrade." Russell nodded.
"You're one minute late," said Charlotte.
"Don't worry about that. I'm not a machine—I can't always be punctual to the second," Lestrade said breezily.
"Besides, thanks to that whole mess Moriarty stirred up, I've been answering the phone until I'm practically sick of it these past few days. It took some doing just to scrape together this little bit of time."
As he spoke, he wearily pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Honestly, that guy never spares a single thought for anyone else's wellbeing when he pulls off a job. The ones who had it coming, fine—but why do I have to suffer along with them..."
[Malice Points from Lestrade +50]
Russell silently looked out the window and said nothing.
"So—Charles Brown, he's really recovered?" Charlotte cut straight to the point.
"More or less," Lestrade nodded. "Ms. Vanessa called to tell me—she's Charles's attending physician."
"What do you mean, 'more or less'?" Charlotte frowned. "Better is better, not better is not better. What's 'more or less' supposed to mean?"
"It means... he's now regained his basic ability to speak, and to move on his own," Lestrade said.
"But—?" Charlotte looked at him.
"But that state doesn't hold all the time. Every so often he still slips into a kind of... stress reaction."
Lestrade took a silver hip flask from his pocket and poured a mouthful down his throat.
"It's at its worst whenever the name Moriarty comes up. After that, it's best not to let him see anything to do with masks, or with melting—candles, for instance."
"And if he has an episode, what happens?" Russell asked, curious.
"Hysteria, raving, babbling nonsense... basically, whatever a madman does, that's what he does." Lestrade shrugged, then looked at Charlotte.
"So how we phrase the questions later is something we'll have to think over carefully. Can't be too blunt, but if it's too oblique he might not follow it. He's only regained the ability to speak—but up here, the trauma he took was no small thing."
Lestrade tapped the side of his head.
"A mere thief frightened him into this state?" Charlotte knit her brows.
"Mm, to be honest, I can sympathize with him quite a bit," Lestrade said. "I feel like I'm about to go mad myself."
Russell once again chose to keep his silence.
Silence was the Cambridge of this night.
The carriage finally came to a stop outside a sanatorium that looked heavily guarded.
This was one of the most exclusive private sanatoriums in London, catering to a great many high-profile clients.
Lestrade had gone to enormous trouble to find the connections to get Charles squeezed in. Not that he was paying for it himself, anyway.
The three of them stepped down from the carriage and, led by Lestrade, walked into the white building that gave off a heavy reek of disinfectant.
The corridor was very long, the walls a monotonous white, with a tightly shut door at regular intervals, each fitted with a small observation window.
Now and then a nurse pushed a cart past them, footsteps hurried.
"Dr. Vanessa is waiting for us in the reception room." Lestrade led the two of them to the door of a reception room and pushed it open, stepping inside.
An intellectual-looking woman of around thirty, dressed in a white lab coat and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, was seated within.
"Good evening, Inspector Lestrade." She rose to her feet and extended a hand toward Lestrade.
"Good evening, Dr. Vanessa." Lestrade shook her hand. "This is Charlotte Holmes, and this is her assistant, Russell Watson."
"I've heard a great deal about you, Miss Holmes." Vanessa's gaze settled on Charlotte, carrying a touch of curiosity and appraisal.
"Let's get straight to the point, Doctor. Charles Brown—how is his condition?" Charlotte came right out with it.
"Much better than when he was first brought in." Vanessa nodded and picked up a medical chart from the desk. "He can already carry on normal conversation, and his logical thinking has basically recovered. But there are still some problems—which I imagine Inspector Lestrade has already mentioned to you on the way here?"
"Mm, Inspector Lestrade has given us the gist—about his stress reactions."
Russell nodded, taking it upon himself to act as the spokesman.
"Yes." Vanessa pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose. "We've found that the patient displays extreme fear and aversion toward certain specific words and images. Such as masks, shadows, melting, and..." She paused and glanced at Charlotte.
"Moriarty."
"Then, what about a code—or password?" Charlotte went straight for the heart of it. "Has he remembered anything? Mentioned any numbers in passing?"
"No," Vanessa shook her head. "While he's in a lucid state, he's no different from a normal person. But the moment anything about Moriarty comes up..." Vanessa did not go on.
"In any case, his condition is fairly good right now, which is why I called you in. If there's anything you want to learn, you'd best ask while you can—nighttime is when his episodes are least frequent."
"Understood. Thank you for your trouble, Ms. Vanessa." Russell nodded.
"You're welcome, it's only my duty." Vanessa smiled and shook her head.
She then led the three of them to the door of the ward where Charles Brown was kept.
"He's right inside here," Vanessa said. "When you speak with him, remember to keep your tone calm—don't get worked up, and don't be overbearing. Give him as much time to think and remember as you can. And, of course, most importantly—"
"Don't say Moriarty."
"Exactly."
Vanessa nodded, then reached out and pushed the door open, stepping inside.
"Mr. Charles, some friends have come to visit you."
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