Mary had been staring at the bag of now-cooled cookies in her hands all morning.
The girl's eyes wavered between light and shadow. She slumped over the desk, muttering to herself, and slipped one cookie into her mouth.
The biscuits were still crisp; it was only that, compared to fresh out of the oven, they had lost a touch of their warmth.
I really am a fool. Truly.
Mary thought to herself in silence.
I only knew that he had gone to Buckingham Palace with Charlotte and wouldn't be on Baker Street the whole day—I didn't know he wouldn't be coming Monday either.
Still, if she thought about it carefully, it was actually quite normal.
How could Buckingham Palace possibly let the two of them stay up all night catching a thief and then just package them up and ship them straight back to Baker Street?
It was only that, when she had come to that familiar seat clutching that bag of cookies, and waited an entire morning without catching sight of that familiar figure, the loneliness in her heart was hard to avoid all the same.
Actually... it might not be a bad thing that he didn't come today.
Mary consoled herself this way.
This batch of biscuits hadn't baked well—a bit overdone, and she hadn't gotten the ratio of water to flour quite right either.
As a reward, it would come across as a little perfunctory, or simply not presentable.
Better to wait for next time. Whenever her father wasn't home, she'd sneak the oven again and make another batch.
Next time would surely be better than this one.
Mary tied the string of the cookie bag, then stood up and left the lecture hall.
The girl headed toward that familiar empty classroom, the one where no one would disturb her.
The instant she pulled the door open, for some reason, an illusion—or perhaps an expectation—welled up in her mind out of nowhere.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if Russell were inside.
The thought briefly seized a patch of high ground in Mary's mind, only to be flung off a moment later.
"Day in and day out, what on earth am I even thinking about."
She couldn't help grumbling at herself.
"If that's how it is, wouldn't it look as though I cared an awful lot about him?"
Grumbling all the while, the girl pulled open the back door of the empty classroom.
And then, she froze where she stood.
It was as if Santa Claus had truly heard her wish.
That figure she had been muttering about all morning was, at this very moment, bathed in the afternoon sunlight, seated in the back row by the window, gazing out at the world beyond the glass.
The sunlight dyed his short black hair with a layer of warm gold. He didn't turn around—he showed her nothing but the back of his figure, yet it was enough to leave Mary nearly unable to tell whether this was reality, or merely an illusion conjured up by too much longing.
She blinked, then rubbed her eyes.
That figure was still there, hadn't vanished, and even slowly turned his head.
"You're here," Russell said with a smile. "I've been waiting for you a while."
"You—" Mary's lips parted; a thousand words churned at her throat, but in the end they dissolved into nothing more than the simplest of questions:
"How are you here...?"
"The matter's wrapped up, so naturally I came back," Russell said with a laugh.
"Mycroft gave me a half-day off."
"Is that so..." Mary answered with a soft sound, walking over to sit in the seat beside him, though the corners of her mouth couldn't help but curve upward.
"Have you had lunch?"
"Mm." Russell nodded. "The kitchens at Buckingham Palace truly live up to their reputation."
"In that case, would you like some Afternoon tea?"
Mary said softly, and after hesitating for a moment, she finally set that cookie bag down on the desk after all.
Even knowing this creation wasn't perfect, she still found herself hoping she might get an answer.
"Though it can't compare to Buckingham Palace, of course."
At her words, Russell looked curiously at the cookie bag on the desk, then back at Mary.
"You baked these?"
"Father doesn't allow me into the kitchen, remember?" Mary blinked, telling a lie.
It was nothing but a harmless little lie, yet for some reason, her heartbeat quickened uncontrollably.
Especially the moment she watched him take out a cookie and slip it into his mouth.
In that instant, Mary felt as though her heart were about to leap out of her chest.
"How... how is it?" she couldn't help but ask, prodding cautiously. "Our family's chef..."
"Mm..." Russell chewed the cookie, letting out a thoughtful murmur.
The biscuit crumbled between his teeth, the crisp texture mingling with the mellow fragrance of nuts, spreading across the tip of his tongue.
"Not bad. It's just a touch too sweet, and the heat was overdone—the nuts are a little bitter."
He said softly, then picked up another piece and tossed it into his mouth.
"For a beginner, though, this is already quite good."
At this, Mary was slightly taken aback, instinctively defending herself: "I told you... that wasn't made by me..."
"So what you're saying is, in order to bake this batch of cookies, your household specially hired an apprentice chef?"
Russell's counter-question left Mary momentarily speechless. She opened her mouth, only to find that any defense rang pale and powerless.
A charming flush crept swiftly up her fair cheeks, spreading from her face all the way to the delicate curves of her ears.
"I... I just..." she stammered, like a child caught doing something wrong, her eyes darting away, not daring to meet Russell's gaze.
"Just what?" Russell looked at her, a mischievous smile on his face.
"I just happened to take a bit of interest in baking, is that not allowed?"
The girl finally summoned her courage, lifting her head, those beautiful azure-blue eyes carrying a trace of the chagrin of having been seen through.
"Of course it's allowed," Russell nodded, that infuriatingly punchable smile still on his face.
"What a shame. And here I thought these were specially prepared for me."
"You wish." Mary pursed her lips, dragging that bag of cookies back toward her own direction, then picked up a piece and slipped it into her own mouth.
She felt her cheeks must surely be as red as a ripe apple.
"Anyway," to cover up her loss of composure, she cleared her throat and forcibly steered the conversation back on track.
"Today's class quiz—I checked your score for you."
"Mm-hm?"
"You scraped onto the passing line, exactly tenth place," Mary said. "Your luck wasn't half bad."
"Luck is part of skill too," Russell said noncommittally.
The two chatted on like this, off and on, savoring this afternoon that belonged to them alone.
The sunlight streamed through the window, stretching their shadows long across the floor, almost overlapping into one.
"Come to think of it," Mary suddenly remembered something and turned her head to look at Russell.
"Last night—did Moriarty show up?"
"He probably did," Russell said.
"Why 'probably'?" Mary tilted her head.
Whether or not you were there—surely you'd know that yourself?
"Because he knocked me out cold. I didn't see him at all," Russell spread his hands.
"By the time Charlotte found me, it was all already over."
He recounted to Mary the events of the previous night, in the version Charlotte had told him, narrating it all in unhurried detail.
And whenever Mary asked about certain details, he fobbed her off with the excuse that he hadn't been present.
Throughout the whole process, the girl dutifully played the role of the listener, offering reactions perfectly on cue.
Now astonished, now knitting her brows, now struck by sudden understanding.
It was only that the smile between her brows could not, by any means, be concealed.
As though wordlessly saying a single line:
Mm, that's right, do go on.
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