221B Baker Street.
Russell lay back in the armchair, a freshly brewed cup of black tea in hand, his gaze drifting out the window.
The rain kept falling harder, as though it meant to swallow the whole world, drumming against the windows, the eaves, and the streets — the dominant note of London's night.
Russell and Charlotte sat together in the sitting room. The room was quiet, with only the crackle of firewood in the hearth, and the racket outside only made the stillness inside feel deeper.
It felt like the world was throwing a grand fireworks show, and only he hadn't been invited — left alone at home, watching the brilliant blooms through the window, listening to everyone else cheering and celebrating together.
Charlotte sat in another chair, a book on psychology cradled in her hands, reading in silence.
Russell glanced at her, then down at the steaming cup of tea in his own hands, and in the end said nothing.
"She'll be fine," Charlotte said suddenly, without looking up.
Russell blinked. "Who?"
"Who else?" Charlotte turned a page, her tone flat. "From the moment you came downstairs to just now, you've looked out that window seventeen times. And sighed five times in between.
If you're not worrying about her, then I can only assume you've been possessed by something."
"..." Russell fell silent for a moment. "Was it that obvious?"
"Obvious enough that even Lestrade could see it," Charlotte said. Then she finally looked up at him.
"Honestly, sometimes I think you're too kind for your own good, Russell."
"Can I take that as a compliment?" Russell asked.
"No." Charlotte shook her head. "I'm just stating a fact. Your kindness makes you easy to take advantage of, and easy to hurt."
"Such as?"
"Such as how you take care of me. And how you indulge Mary." Charlotte looked at him.
"She drags you along and you run with her. She whines about not wanting to go home, so you actually don't take her home.
You know perfectly well it isn't right, and yet you do it anyway."
Russell said nothing, only took another sip of tea.
"You're always meeting other people's needs without even thinking about it, and you barely spare a thought for yourself."
"It's not... it's not like I'm that way with everyone," Russell said quietly.
"I know. Which is exactly what makes this complicated for me," Charlotte said, nodding.
"But honestly, you worry too much."
"Why?"
"Whether it's me or Mary, neither of us is as fragile as you imagine.
Being someone you consider special is flattering, I'll grant you that — but you could try trusting her the way you trust me.
Mary Morstan may act like an innocent little rabbit in front of you, but she's nowhere near that simple.
For her to have survived this long in a family like hers, and to have disguised herself so well — do you really think she's some simple little thing?"
"You sound like you know her pretty well," Russell said.
"Of course. We talked a lot — while you were in the shower," Charlotte said, noncommittal.
"About what?"
"About your various firsts, for instance."
Charlotte looked at him.
"..."
Russell said nothing, only kept drinking his tea.
But Charlotte didn't seem inclined to let him off so easily. She rose from her chair and came to stand in front of him.
"Speaking of which — this afternoon, you two were awfully close. She even dried your hair for you."
Charlotte said this as she leaned in toward Russell in his chair.
She bent slightly, bringing her nose close to his neck, and sniffed lightly.
"An... unpleasant smell."
Warm breath fell against Russell's skin, sending a faint prickle across it.
Russell sat rigid in the chair, his back stiffening slightly. He could feel her breath, the scent of coffee and old books mingled on her, and beneath it, the faint freshness of a recent bath.
Her hair fell forward, brushing against his cheek, cool to the touch.
"Charlotte..." he ventured.
"Don't move," Charlotte said softly, but with a tone that brooked no refusal.
She braced one hand on the arm of the chair, leaning her body over his, boxing him into a small space that belonged to her alone. The dark grey dressing gown shifted open slightly with her movement, revealing a sliver of pale collarbone — though she seemed entirely unaware of it.
"Um... Lady Holmes?" Russell's throat had gone dry. "What exactly do you intend to... do?"
"Overwrite," Charlotte said, concise.
"It's one thing outside, but if she thinks she can mark her territory here at Baker Street too, that woman is dreaming."
Her voice went cold, and she pressed closer still.
"Even experimental data needs to stay consistent.
A bed shouldn't have to tolerate someone else's snoring beside it."
The next day.
The rain had stopped.
Sunlight forced its way through the heavy clouds, doling itself out grudgingly over a city washed clean by a night of rain.
Russell felt like his body clock had finally righted itself.
He shut off the alarm before it could even ring, dressed, washed up, and went downstairs to make breakfast.
Just as breakfast landed on the table, the sound of a door opening came from upstairs.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, then down the stairs — unhurried, step by step.
Russell looked up. Charlotte appeared at the turn of the staircase, still wrapped in her dressing gown, hair mussed.
She came down yawning, her eyes landing first on the table, then on Russell.
"Morning," she said, her voice still husky with sleep.
"Morning," Russell nodded. "Good timing."
Charlotte walked over to the table and sat down in her usual spot. She took a sip of milk to wet her throat first, then picked up a still-steaming sandwich and bit into it.
After breakfast, Russell stood up and glanced at the clock.
"I'm off," he said — today was a school day.
"Mm," Charlotte nodded, eyes on the morning paper, not bothering to look up.
Russell grabbed his backpack and pushed out the door.
Imperial College, a lecture hall.
Students clustered here and there, their chatter humming through the air.
After a weekend to digest it, the gossip and curiosity surrounding Russell had mostly faded from its initial peak.
Some people had apparently started an underground betting pool on which girl he'd end up with first.
Too bad Russell never caught wind of the odds, or where to place a bet.
Otherwise he might have turned bookmaker himself, and taught this lot what the Wolf of Baker Street really meant.
Russell took his usual seat at the back and glanced instinctively to his side — then paused.
Mary wasn't there.
The seat beside him lacked its familiar occupant, and the air was missing that faint hint of white tea fragrance.
Russell reached out and touched the chair without thinking. Cold. She hadn't been there yet.
He looked out the window, then at the door, his gaze drifting back and forth between the two, a little lost.
The empty seat beside him felt like something was missing.
He set his backpack down absently, then leaned back against his chair, without even the urge to nap.
Russell's eyes stayed fixed on the clock on the classroom wall, watching the second hand circle around and around, time crawling by in the long wait.
Some ten minutes must have passed before he finally heard footsteps at the back door.
He turned almost on instinct, and met a gaze full of curiosity and warmth.
Mary stood at the back door, her sky-blue eyes fixed on him, smiling.
Sunlight streamed in through the hallway window behind her, gilding her silver hair with a soft glow.
"Morning," Mary said softly, her voice carrying its usual sweetness.
"Morning." Russell blanked for a second, his gaze following her until she sat down beside him. "Why so late today?"
"Overslept," the girl said with a smile. Then, as if something occurred to her, she leaned in close to Russell and pressed her cheek against his arm, letting one side of her face rest against it.
"What's wrong — did somebody get used to having me around while I was gone?"
"No," Russell said, unfazed. "I was just wondering whether the star freshman representative of Imperial College would actually be late."
"Is that so?" Mary drew the words out. "Really not used to it?"
"No," Russell said flatly.
"But I'd be really uncomfortable if you weren't here."
Mary blinked, looking pitiful, her eyes glistening.
"So, in Russell's eyes, I'm just... someone who could take it or leave it?"
Russell blinked, taken aback, and looked down at the face pressed against his arm.
He knew she was putting on an act. Knowing that didn't stop his heart from skipping a beat anyway, traitorously.
"Done performing?" Russell asked, helpless.
"I'm not performing anything," Mary said, blinking, the pitiful look deepening. "Unless you admit you'd miss me."
"People are watching..."
"Then let them watch."
"Admit it, or I'm not getting up."
"Russell—"
"Fine, fine, I admit it," Russell sighed in surrender. "I'd miss you if you weren't here. Happy now?"
At that, the girl's eyes lit up instantly, as if stars were sparkling inside them.
She straightened up, the corner of her mouth curving into a satisfied smile, then pulled her textbook from her bag and set it neatly on the desk, her movements composed and graceful — as if the clingy girl from a moment ago had been someone else entirely.
Russell watched her, shaking his head in resignation. He was just about to settle in for a nap when something felt off.
"You smell..." He paused, then leaned in toward Mary and sniffed.
Beneath the familiar scent of white tea, there was a sharp, pungent smell clinging to her.
"Why do you smell like disinfectant?" Russell frowned, looking at her.
Mary's hand paused for a fraction of a second, then quickly returned to normal.
"Oh, that," she said with a laugh, casual. "I stopped by the school infirmary this morning. Must've picked it up there."
"The infirmary? What were you doing there?"
"Helping out," Mary said. "The school got a new batch of medical supplies, and I helped Madam Sophie carry them in, that's all."
She said this, then smiled at Russell and reached out to pinch his nose.
"Sniffing a girl's scent so blatantly — people might really start to think you're a pervert."
She gave his nose a gentle pinch, the gesture affectionate and easy, like scolding a disobedient cat.
Russell's nose itched from the pinch, and he instinctively pulled back. Mary withdrew her hand.
"Helped carry things?" Russell rubbed his nose, still watching her. "You? Carrying things?"
"What, you don't think I can?" Mary tilted her head, a hint of petulance in her voice. "Do you think I'm the type of noble young lady who's never lifted a finger in her life?"
"That's not it," Russell shook his head. "I'm just a little surprised."
Mary smiled and didn't reply further. She opened her textbook, eyes on the page, sunlight pouring through the window and gilding her silver hair with a soft glow again.
Everything looked perfectly normal, but Russell still felt something wasn't quite right.
His gaze lingered on Mary for a moment; the smell of disinfectant seemed to still linger at the tip of his nose.
"Are you sure it was just helping carry things?" he asked again.
At that, Mary looked up, her sky-blue eyes on him, full of innocence and confusion.
"What else would it be?" She blinked. "You think I could be up to something bad in the infirmary?"
Russell looked at her, saying nothing, and Mary didn't flinch either — she met his gaze steadily, even blinking once more, playing cute.
After a few seconds, Russell looked away.
"Nothing," he said. "I just thought the smell was a bit sharp."
"Then I'll stay away from the infirmary next time," Mary said with a smile, then reached out and patted the back of his hand lightly. "Come on, don't overthink it. The Professor will be here soon."
She withdrew her hand and turned back to her textbook.
Sunlight fell across her profile, softening and warming her delicate features.
Russell didn't ask any more questions.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the blackboard, though his mind wasn't there at all.
Eventually he gave up thinking altogether and slumped forward onto the desk.
The morning classes passed quietly.
When the bell rang for the end of class, Mary packed up her things and turned to look at Russell.
"Let's go."
She held out her hand, pale and open in midair, fingers slightly spread, as though waiting for something that was simply owed to her.
Russell looked at that hand, smiled, and took it.
The moment their palms touched, Mary's fingers slipped through his and tightened.
They walked out of the classroom together, through the hallway, and down the stairs, under everyone's watching eyes.
The sunlight was lovely today, lighting up the whole campus bright and warm.
Mary walked beside him, her steps light, her skirt swaying gently in the sun — looking, on the surface, no different than usual.
The same familiar empty classroom.
Once the door was shut, Mary threw herself into Russell's arms without a moment's hesitation.
Russell caught her instinctively and ruffled her hair with a resigned air, as though this level of closeness had long since become routine.
He lifted Mary up and set her down firmly on the desk, then took a seat beside her.
"So, after you got home yesterday, did Mr. Morstan say anything to you?" he asked.
Mary sat on the desk, swinging her legs lightly, her slender calves wrapped in sheer black stockings that traced an inviting curve in the sunlight.
The toe of her boot tapped rhythmically against the desk leg, making a soft clicking sound.
Russell sat in the chair beside her, those legs occasionally drifting into the corner of his eye.
He looked at Mary's swinging legs, let his gaze linger for a moment, then quickly looked away, pretending to stare out the window as if nothing were happening.
"Him?" Mary drew out the word. "He was pretty annoyed with me."
"Is that so?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "He didn't do anything to you, did he?"
"What could he do to me?" Mary smiled. "I'm the face of the Morstan family, after all."
"Even if he was angry, there wasn't much he could actually do about it — so he just gave me a bunch of the usual lecture."
"The usual lecture?"
"You know, the sort of thing... nobles and rich families are always going on about."
The girl counted on her fingers, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"Like, mind your station, remember your manners, don't shame the Morstan name... I've heard it so many times my ears are practically callused."
"That's all?" Russell asked.
"What else would there be?" Mary bent forward, level with Russell's face. "Did you want him to fly into a rage and lock me up at home?"
"I never said that." Russell took a bite of his sandwich, eyes drifting out the window, playing it casual.
But those legs kept swinging in the corner of his eye.
Watching him try so hard to act unbothered, Mary's mouth curved up into an amused smile she couldn't quite suppress.
"Why so quiet?" She leaned in closer. "What are you thinking about?"
Warm breath brushed lightly across Russell's cheek, carrying its familiar scent of white tea.
"I'm thinking that if you keep swinging your legs like that, your shoe's going to fall off."
"So it falls off," Mary said, unconcerned, still swinging. "It's not like I'll fall over."
She said it as though it were obvious — as if she were certain someone would be there to pick it up and put it back on for her.
Russell didn't answer, silently chewing his sandwich.
A soft clack.
The sound reached his ears, and Russell glanced over on instinct. Her boot had fallen to the floor, leaving only a smooth, black-stockinged leg still swinging.
Their eyes met, and there was a hint of teasing on Mary's face.
"It fell," she said.
"Yeah, it fell," Russell nodded, popping the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and chewing, without making any further move.
"Russell—" Mary swung her leg and gave his shoulder a light kick.
"Hm?"
"I want to get down." She said it in a whiny voice.
Russell paused mid-chew and turned to look at her.
The girl sat on the desk, hands braced on either side of her, head tilted slightly as she looked at him, that leg still swinging.
Freed from the boot's constraint, the calf wrapped only in black stockings swayed gently in the air, ankle slender, the curve of her foot elegant.
The stocking caught a faint sheen in the sunlight, wrapping her small foot, toes curling slightly, as if waiting for something.
"Want to get down?" Russell repeated her words.
"Mm," Mary nodded, swinging a little wider now. "Want to get down."
"Can't manage it yourself?"
"Can't," Mary said, blinking innocently. "I'll get my stockings dirty."
"Just step on the chair."
"That'll still get them dirty. The boot's too far away," Mary said.
"Then never mind," Russell said. "No rush, we've still got a while before class. Just sit a bit longer."
"..." Mary paused for a moment, then pouted and shook Russell's shoulder with her hand.
"But I want to get down now."
Russell sighed, resigned, then stood and went to retrieve the fallen boot.
Watching him, Mary's smile deepened. She stopped swinging her leg and extended the foot in its pale grey stocking toward him.
Seeing this, Russell raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"I can't reach it," Mary said, blinking innocently, making a little reaching gesture to prove she genuinely couldn't manage her own boot under the circumstances.
"Just pull your leg back."
"But then I'd get the desk dirty with my foot. That's no good."
"..." Russell said nothing, his expression slowly settling into something calm and unreadable. Then he reached out and took hold of that slender ankle directly.
His warm palm pressed against the thin stocking, and he could clearly feel the warmth and softness of the skin beneath.
The girl's body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, and the smile on her face froze for a moment.
"I... I think I can put it on myself, actually..."
Mary said this, instinctively trying to pull her leg back, but Russell's grip held steady — firm enough that she couldn't pull free, careful enough not to hurt her.
"R-Russell... I changed my mind... I'll do it myself..."
"You'll get the desk dirty," Russell said with a smile. "Let me."
He ran his thumb lightly across her ankle — a light touch, but it sent something like an electric current racing through her entire body.
The girl's cheeks flushed scarlet in an instant, her heartbeat picking up speed.
"Stop — stop this," she said, her voice carrying a faint, barely noticeable tremor, almost pleading.
"You're the one who started this story, Mary," Russell said softly.
Mary's ankle rested in his palm, so slender it seemed it might snap if bent the wrong way.
The thin black stocking did nothing to block the warmth of his palm; the heat seeped through the fabric like a small flame, licking its way from her ankle up her calf, and finally up to her cheeks.
Mary bit her lower lip, her sky-blue eyes now full of nothing but flustered embarrassment.
Her cheeks were burning.
This wasn't right. This wasn't how the script was supposed to go...
He was supposed to blush like some shy little scholar and lower his head to help her with her shoe...
Who had reprogrammed him into this?
"I'm not doing anything," Russell said, amusement in his voice, his hands not pausing for a moment.
He lowered his head and gently cradled that small foot, wrapped only in a thin layer of stocking, in his palm.
The stocking felt smooth and delicate beneath his touch; through the sheer black fabric, he could just make out the pale skin and the round curve of her toes.
His thumb slid down from her ankle, tracing the elegant curve of her instep, coming to rest finally on the arch of her foot, pressing down lightly but firmly.
"That tickles..."
Mary flinched instinctively, her voice carrying a faint tremor — a complicated mix of resistance and some indescribable anticipation.
"Don't move," Russell's voice came from below, sounding calm, but Mary caught an undertone in it that brooked no defiance.
So she didn't dare move again.
But somewhere inside her, a strange new feeling had begun to stir.
Something like this... might not be so bad after all.
____
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