Hearing Charlotte's words, Russell couldn't help but laugh.
"I'll just take that as a compliment."
He walked over to Charlotte's side and fell into step beside her.
Charlotte said nothing, only walking along at an unhurried pace, her gaze resting on the meticulously trimmed branches lining both sides of the path.
The moonlight stretched their shadows long, interweaving and overlapping upon the white gravel path, like a frame from a silent black-and-white film.
The garden was vast, and very quiet—so quiet it seemed as though there were nothing in all the world but the footsteps of the two of them, and the faint, barely-there sound of their breathing.
"Come to think of it, if Moriarty really does show up tomorrow night, what will you do?"
Russell suddenly spoke, breaking the stillness.
"Whatever needs to be done, I'll do." Charlotte tilted her head to look at him. "What, are you worried he'll lay hands on someone and hurt them?"
"It's not quite that..." Russell shook his head. "I just feel like this doesn't really fit your style."
"What style?"
"You know... personally throwing yourself into a fight and all that. It doesn't really seem like the sort of thing a detective ought to be doing."
"Should I be counting on you instead, then?"
"...Am I allowed to refuse?"
Charlotte shot him a sidelong glance.
"Though I have no interest in extra, meaningless physical labor, Moriarty is a bit different."
"Different how?"
"Aren't you even curious? How he managed to come and go beneath Lloyds Bank as freely as a ghost?"
Charlotte said.
"If I could cross hands with him tomorrow night, I might just be able to see through something."
"Didn't you already say it yourself? That it was simply by relying on superb footwork, moving swiftly under the cover of smoke bombs?"
"That's only a hypothesis. Until I've witnessed it with my own eyes, no conclusion can be drawn."
The two chatted in fits and starts, and before they knew it, they had already walked deep into the garden.
Here stood a small white pavilion, at the center of which sat a round marble table, along with several stone stools.
Charlotte halted her steps, walked into the pavilion, brushed the fallen leaves from a stone stool with her hand, and then sat down.
"Tired?" Russell sat down beside her.
"I just think the view here is rather nice." Charlotte pointed to a spot not far off.
Russell looked in the direction her finger indicated, and what met his eyes was a tranquil lake.
The moonlight spilled across the surface of the lake, stirring up rippling glimmers of light, like a layer of finely shattered silver foil scattered upon it.
"It really is nice." Russell nodded.
Silence fell over the pavilion once more.
Charlotte propped her cheek on one hand, gazing at that lake, lost in some thought or other.
Russell did not disturb her, only sitting quietly across from her, watching her profile, its contours softened by the moonlight.
In this moment she had none of that sharpness or languor she carried on Baker Street, nor the focus and detachment she wore when pondering a case.
She simply sat there in silence, like a night-blooming cereus quietly unfurling beneath the moonlight.
After who knew how long, Charlotte's voice suddenly rang out, very soft, as if afraid of disturbing this expanse of night.
"Watson."
"Hm?"
"Why did you choose to become my assistant?" Charlotte asked.
She did not turn her head, her gaze still resting on the distant surface of the lake, as if the answer she sought lay there.
The question came rather abruptly, and for a moment Russell didn't quite react.
"Why..." He thought for a moment, then said, "Wasn't this something you unilaterally declared?"
"But you didn't object, did you?"
"I did object a few times, actually."
"Then why did you stop objecting afterward?" Charlotte turned her head back, looking at Russell.
"Because some things, once said often enough, start to become true." Russell didn't look at her; this time it was his turn to gaze at the lake.
"Besides... if you really think about it, it's actually no big deal, is it?" He smiled.
"Otherwise, I'd probably never have the chance in my whole life to sit in a pavilion at Buckingham Palace and admire the night."
At his words, Charlotte said nothing, only gazing at him quietly.
The moonlight traced the contours of his profile, carrying a hint of nonchalance.
Those eyes of his, which always seemed somewhat languid, now reflected the shimmering light of the distant lake, appearing a touch deeper than usual.
"Just because of that?" In the end, she couldn't help but speak up.
"When you go off to deal with those thorny cases, isn't your motive just as simple?
It's only because it's interesting, so you just do it. That's all there is to it."
Russell turned his head, meeting Charlotte's gaze.
"Some things don't need that many reasons."
"..." Charlotte was momentarily struck speechless by him, at a loss for how to retort.
She looked at Russell, looked at her own reflection mirrored in his pupils.
Within those gray-blue eyes, something seemed to be quietly melting away.
Like the frozen surface of a lake, splitting open into a faint, slender crack under the warmth of spring.
"What a boring fellow."
She withdrew her gaze and looked back at the lake once more, and silence settled over the pavilion again.
Suddenly, a night breeze swept in, shattering the mirror-like surface of the lake, stirring up ring after ring of ripples, along with a touch of chill, drifting into the pavilion.
That gust blew in rather hurriedly, like a careless guest, setting the leaves at the treetops rustling, and lifting the ends of the young girl's hair.
Charlotte instinctively shrank her neck.
The evening gown she wore today, in pursuit of so-called elegance and decorum, had been made of rather thin fabric.
Indoors it would have been fine enough, but out here in the open air it proved somewhat inadequate to the task.
A nightgown is still more comfortable... the young girl thought to herself.
Just as she was about to rise and move to another spot, a tailcoat jacket—still carrying a lingering warmth, and somewhat too large for her—came to rest upon her shoulders.
Charlotte gave a slight start and turned her head, meeting Russell's black eyes, which appeared especially clear beneath the moonlight.
"You..."
"Careful you don't catch a chill."
Russell's voice was very calm; at this moment he was left wearing only a white waistcoat, along with a white shirt underneath.
The necktie at his throat had been loosened a little as well, making him look a shade less modest, and a touch more casual—like some cynical young master.
"What about you?" Charlotte tugged at the coat on her shoulders, which still retained the body warmth belonging to another person, as well as a scent resembling black tea and whiskey.
It was the smell of cologne—No. 24 Bond Street.
Clearly, this was a perfume Buckingham Palace had prepared for its guests, probably spritzed on offhandedly by the maid while she helped him change clothes.
To be honest, it wasn't unpleasant at all.
"Don't worry," Russell flexed his wrist, "a bit of cold like this is nothing to me."
As he spoke, he rubbed his hands together and breathed onto them, like an ordinary student waiting for a bus in the dead of winter.
Watching him like this, Charlotte opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end said nothing at all.
She only silently pulled that oversized coat a little tighter around herself, then buried her cheek into that soft collar that still held a trace of warmth.
"Thank you."
She said softly, her voice very small, nearly drowned out by the sound of the wind.
"You're welcome."
Russell smiled.
"I'm your assistant, aren't I?"
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