After a relatively idle, relatively peaceful Friday with no unexpected interruptions, Saturday quietly arrived.
London, for once, put on a pleasant face.
There was no endless drizzle, nor that layer of fog that always seemed like it would never lift.
When Russell pushed open the window, a rush of crisp, cold air poured in, sharpening his still-drowsy mind considerably.
He stood at the window and stretched, his bones giving a faint crackle.
He picked up the interview invitation The Times had sent and looked it over once more.
Ten o'clock sharp, Fleet Street, third floor of the editorial offices.
There was still time.
Russell pushed open the door. The hallway was silent, and across from him Charlotte's door was shut tight, without the slightest sound.
It seemed she was still asleep.
Russell checked his pocket watch—it had just gone eight.
Never mind, let her sleep a little longer. There was no rush anyway.
He went downstairs to the kitchen and cracked two eggs into a frying pan.
"Sssss—"
The egg whites set quickly in the heat, making a pleasant sizzle that announced the start of a new day.
By the time breakfast was ready and laid out on the table, Russell still hadn't seen that familiar figure appear.
He ate his own portion, then lifted his head to look at the clock.
The hour hand was crawling sluggishly toward nine.
At that, Russell let out a sigh, then rose and went upstairs, knocking on Charlotte's door.
"Charlotte?"
No response.
So Russell knocked twice more.
"Charlotte, it's nine o'clock."
From inside came a rustling sound, like something being knocked over, followed by a muffled, indistinct grumble.
Russell sighed.
"I'm coming in?"
Charlotte didn't object—though of course she didn't agree either.
But there was no time to worry about that.
Russell reached out and pushed the door open. The room, unsurprisingly, was a total mess.
Stepping over the chaos, Russell walked straight into Charlotte's bedroom.
Charlotte was curled up on the bed, wrapping herself in the quilt and her dressing gown, looking for all the world like a raccoon roused mid-hibernation, its fur all fluffed up.
It was, frankly, an unspeakably bad sleeping posture.
Russell couldn't help pinching the bridge of his nose.
Hearing the movement, Charlotte forced her eyes open to a slit. Her hair was a mess, a few strands still stuck to her face.
There was even one stubborn tuft standing straight up on top of her head.
"What time is it…?"
The girl's voice was hoarse, thick with sleep.
"Nine." Russell leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her.
"Don't tell me you stayed up all night again?"
Charlotte didn't answer, only scratched at her hair, her gaze sweeping absently around the room before slowly focusing and settling on Russell.
"…What time is the interview."
"Ten," Russell said. "You've got about half an hour to pull yourself together, eat something, and get out the door."
At that, Charlotte blinked and looked at Russell.
Her expression made it perfectly clear: Can I not go?
"No," Russell said. "You're the one who agreed to it with The Times, in your own words. If you don't show up, I can't guarantee what tomorrow's paper will say."
Hearing that, Charlotte fell silent for a moment, then slowly, reluctantly, extracted herself from the covers.
"Coffee," she said, her voice still hoarse. "Make it strong."
"It'll be ready once you've washed up."
Russell turned and headed downstairs, the sound of Charlotte shuffling into the washroom in her slippers following behind him.
Before long, Charlotte appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed and ready.
Hearing her, Russell finally picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup.
Then he lifted his head to look at Charlotte.
Charlotte was still wearing that dark grey turtleneck sweater—his—and the coat too.
Her hair was slightly tidier than when she'd gotten up, but a few loose strands still hung disobediently at the sides of her face, probably because she'd been in a rush, or perhaps because she simply couldn't be bothered.
She looked a bit more awake now than she had straight out of bed, likely thanks to washing her face with cold water.
"Coffee's ready," Russell said. "Come down, we haven't got much time."
Charlotte descended the stairs, reached out to take the coffee cup, and took a light sip.
This time her taste buds lodged no protest.
Having confirmed the temperature was acceptable, Charlotte downed it in two or three gulps, then snatched up a piece of toast, clamped it between her teeth, and headed for the door.
Seeing this, Russell gave a helpless shrug, turned to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, and then followed after her.
The early morning Baker Street was bathed in thin sunlight. From afar came the sound of carriages, along with the crisp cries of newsboys hawking their papers.
Russell waved down a carriage, and the two of them climbed in.
The carriage jolted over the cobblestones of Baker Street, and Charlotte's body swayed with it, her shoulder bumping lightly against Russell's arm.
She didn't move.
Russell glanced down—she was still holding that half slice of toast between her teeth, her eyes half-closed, her lashes casting two small shadows in the morning light.
"What time did you actually go to sleep last night?"
Charlotte didn't answer, only silently stuffed the last bite of toast into her mouth, chewed a couple of times, and swallowed.
She shrank back into the cushion, pulling the collar of her coat up to cover the lower half of her face, leaving only her eyes exposed.
Grey-blue, and remarkably bright in the dim light of the carriage.
That is, if one ignored the eyelids drooping at a visible pace.
"How much longer?" Charlotte asked.
At that, Russell glanced out the window.
The carriage was passing through Oxford Street, and the pedestrians on either side were gradually growing more numerous.
Gentlemen in small round hats hurried past with briefcases tucked under their arms, while ladies in wide, flowing skirts walked arm in arm, pausing to chat before shop windows.
"About a quarter of an hour." Russell drew his gaze back and turned to look at her.
Charlotte had already closed her eyes.
Her head was tilted slightly back, resting against the wall of the carriage, that stubborn tuft of hair still standing defiantly atop her head, swaying faintly in the light leaking through the window.
The sunlight fell across the side of her face, tinting her already fair complexion with a faint, shallow warmth.
Her breathing was very, very soft, her chest rising and falling gently with each breath.
Charlotte, asleep, looked several years younger than when she was awake—like some child who needed a grown-up to wake her for school, rather than the Holmes who could give Scotland Yard such headaches.
The carriage jolted again.
Toward Russell's direction. Charlotte's head lolled to the side—
Russell instinctively raised his hand, paused it in midair, then gently cradled her head to keep it from hitting the carriage wall.
Her hair brushed across the back of his hand, her face just beneath his palm, so close, so close that he could feel the faint, warm breath of her exhale.
She didn't wake.
Russell held that pose, not moving.
The carriage rolled onward, its wheels grinding over the cobblestones with a steady rumble.
Outside the window came the occasional snatch of pedestrians' conversation, the distant tolling of church bells, the cries of the newsboys.
Those sounds seemed muffled by some intervening layer, growing blurred and far away.
And so he simply held her head, watching her sleeping face, utterly still.
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