The sitting room fell quiet for a moment.
Mary held her cup, silent for a few seconds, then laughed softly.
"Worthy of the name Charlotte Holmes," she said, her tone impossible to read as admiration or something else.
"To deduce so much from just a few details—truly astonishing."
"So, was everything I said correct?" Charlotte asked, cup of coffee in hand.
"Most of it, I'd say." Mary met her gaze evenly, without the slightest flinch or guilt.
"Most of it? Then what was the small part I got wrong?"
"Well... my father doesn't actually object to Russell. Quite the opposite—he's rather fond of him. He had no objection at all to my inviting him to the house," Mary said, then smiled faintly at Charlotte.
"And for that, I have you to thank, Charlotte. If you hadn't agreed to that interview with The Times, I might never have had the chance."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
"If Mr. Morstan has no objection to him, then why run away?" she asked, puzzled.
"Because I didn't want him to meet Russell." Mary took a sip of her ginger tea. "Just as you don't want Mycroft to poach Russell into some civil service post—their appreciation for him always comes from... other motives."
Charlotte didn't argue. She only took another sip of her coffee.
Neither of them spoke, but something seemed to be quietly fermenting in the air.
It wasn't hostility—at least not openly. Compared to something so direct, it was more like a standoff, one where both sides understood perfectly well what the other was thinking.
Then, once again, Mary broke the silence first.
"Speaking of which," she said, taking another sip of ginger tea, glancing around the room, "I never expected Miss Holmes's room to look quite like this."
Her tone was casual, as if she were making idle conversation, or gossiping about something inconsequential—just as she might at one of her salons.
"Is there a problem?" Charlotte shot back.
"I don't mean to critique anyone's private space, but..." Mary paused. This time there was no mockery in her voice, only genuine curiosity. "Don't you think it's a bit of a mess?"
"A mess?" Charlotte repeated the word flatly. "That's simply the physical manifestation of thought."
"Is that so?" Mary smiled. "Here I thought it was proof that Miss Holmes isn't very good at keeping her room tidy."
"I can find anything I want in this environment exactly as it is. Meaningless tidying would only disrupt that order," Charlotte said.
"Rather than waste time on such things, I'd rather do something of actual value—after all, not everyone has several maids at their beck and call."
At that, Mary's brow furrowed slightly, clearly catching the barb in Charlotte's words.
"At least the maids get paid. Russell hasn't received a single penny—isn't that rather pitiful?" she said. "Treated entirely like a servant, and an unpaid one at that."
"..." Charlotte's brow creased. "He volunteers."
"A person's kindness shouldn't be exploited under the name of 'volunteering,' don't you think?"
"Then I hope, when he brings you breakfast every Thursday, you're paying him for it," Charlotte said. "Gas isn't cheap on Baker Street."
"..." Mary was momentarily at a loss for words. "He promised me himself."
"A person's kindness shouldn't be exploited under the name of 'volunteering.' You said that yourself." Charlotte handed the line right back to her, unchanged.
The gunpowder in the air seemed to thicken.
The two of them sat in silence by the fire, sipping their coffee and ginger tea, as if by unspoken agreement taking a halftime break.
But the break didn't last long. It ended quickly—and Charlotte was the one who ended it.
"You and Russell," Charlotte said, breaking the silence, looking at Mary.
"Me and Russell?" Mary tilted her head. "What about us?"
"When did it start, between you two?" Charlotte asked.
"What is Miss Holmes referring to?"
"You know exactly what I mean," Charlotte said.
"I see..." Mary nodded. "You want to know when I started falling for him."
Charlotte neither confirmed nor denied it.
"That might be a bit hard to answer," Mary said. "Honestly, I don't know either."
"You don't know?"
"No, I don't."
She nodded, her tone sincere, without a trace of performance.
"All I know is, by the time I realized it, it was already too late."
Charlotte fell silent.
"What about you?" Mary threw the question back at her. "Miss Holmes, when did you start liking him?"
Charlotte paused.
"Which kind of liking do you mean?"
"What other kind is there?" Mary said. "Obviously the kind between a man and a woman—unless you mean the kind a mother feels for a child?"
At that, Charlotte's brow furrowed slightly, as if she didn't quite grasp Mary's meaning.
She lifted her coffee cup, took a sip, and then said, "The day before yesterday."
"The day before yesterday?" A flicker of curiosity crossed Mary's eyes. "Really?"
"Do I have any reason to lie about something like this?" Charlotte shot back.
"Fine. The day before yesterday it is." Mary nodded, accepting the answer.
"Then it seems I got there first, Miss Holmes. You're the latecomer."
"You two haven't even confirmed anything between you. What difference does first or last make?" Charlotte said dismissively.
"But so many of his firsts were mine," Mary said, smiling, then began counting off on her fingers for Charlotte.
"First time holding hands, first hug, first walk, first date, even our first kiss—all mine."
"And if we're going by that logic," Charlotte said, her expression unchanging, "the first time he made breakfast for someone, the first time he made coffee for someone, the first time he carried someone in his arms—plenty of those were mine."
"By the way, I should correct one thing—the kiss you gave him was on the cheek, so that one doesn't count. And you won't get another chance at it in the future, either."
The moment those words landed, the smile vanished from Mary's face.
"What do you mean?"
"The day before yesterday, on the bridge over the Thames, I kissed him," Charlotte said. "Just the corner of his mouth, though."
She paused, watching the expression on Mary's face, the corner of her own mouth curving upward.
"Yesterday, in the second-floor box at the Royal Opera House, I kissed him again—guess where, this time?"
The sitting room fell into a dead silence, as if even breathing had been forgotten.
Mary's hands, still holding the ginger tea, froze in midair, her fingertips going faintly pale.
Her expression didn't change—she still wore that same composed smile—but in those blue eyes, something seemed to be dimming, bit by bit, like a clear sky slowly swallowed by clouds.
But soon, she laughed again. "It seems Miss Holmes moves rather fast."
"I thought you were angry," Charlotte said mockingly.
"Why would I be?" Mary laughed along with her. "It's just a first kiss. Not a big deal at all. For all we know, he lost that a long time ago, back when he was still a child."
"A fine excuse to comfort yourself."
Mary smiled but didn't respond, her gaze drifting past Charlotte to land on the closed door.
"Some people really are insatiable."
"Look who's talking," Charlotte said with a laugh. "There's still time for you to give up on him. Think of it as cutting your losses early."
"Love is like a light—shining on two people at once, and neither one's brightness dims for it."
"Shelley's poem."
"Miss Holmes reads poetry?" Mary looked mildly surprised.
"Occasionally," Charlotte said.
This little discovery seemed to thaw some of the seemingly unbridgeable gap between them, and the gunpowder in the air lightened somewhat.
Mary set her ginger tea down on the small table and gathered her damp hair with both hands, sweeping it to one side, exposing her fair neck and the curve of her ear.
The motion was natural, yet carried an inexplicable touch of languid allure.
"Speaking of which," she suddenly said, "Miss Holmes—may I call you Charlotte?"
Charlotte glanced up at her.
"Suit yourself."
"Then you may call me Mary," Mary said with a smile. "After all, we're practically rivals in love now."
Charlotte didn't answer.
"Oh, right—your notebook, the one with the sketches. It's been a while since you last updated it."
Mary suddenly remembered something and said it aloud.
"And here I was looking forward to some new content."
"I'm not idle enough to spend every day scribbling in it, broadcasting my daily life to anyone who'll listen," Charlotte said.
She paused, then a provocative smile crossed her face.
"Besides, I'm afraid if I drew certain things, someone wouldn't be able to handle it."
Mary's smile faltered for a moment, then returned to normal.
"I see. Here I thought there was simply nothing left to draw."
After a brief silence, both women's smiles faded at the same time. Mary set down her ginger tea and stood, curious.
"So while Russell and I were at Imperial College, what were you doing here at Baker Street?"
She made a point of emphasizing that it was she and Russell at Imperial College, then walked over to stand in front of the evidence board.
"Still searching for information on the Professor and Moriarty?"
"Mm." Charlotte nodded.
"Any leads?" Mary asked, standing before the evidence board, her gaze sweeping over the densely packed notes and annotations.
"There are." Charlotte said. "I already know who the Professor is."
"Oh?"
At that, Mary turned to look at Charlotte. "Who?"
"You," Charlotte said, looking at her. "Mary Morstan. You are the Professor."
The silence that followed was longer than any that had come before, so long it seemed to reach the very end of time. Even the rain outside seemed to have stopped.
Mary looked at Charlotte, and Charlotte looked back at Mary, as if the two of them were exchanging some unspoken message through their eyes.
Throughout it all, neither of them spoke, neither of them moved. Only the fire crackled in the hearth, popping softly.
No one could say how much time passed before Mary was the first to react, breaking the deathly silence.
She let out a soft laugh, as if she'd just heard an amusing joke.
"And here I thought Charlotte Holmes was just a wooden block who couldn't tell a joke," she said, smiling.
"Mycroft always says I have no sense of humor," Charlotte said, laughing as well. "Looks like he was wrong."
The two of them laughed together, their voices ringing pleasantly through the sitting room.
Mary returned to the sofa and continued drying her hair by the fire, draining what little ginger tea remained in her cup.
"You know," she said, "running away from home today was, so far, the closest I've ever come to freedom."
She said it, and Charlotte raised an eyebrow, adopting the posture of someone ready to listen.
They both, by unspoken agreement, skipped past the topic that would have weighed down the mood. Some things weren't fit to bring up now, and some tables weren't meant to be overturned yet.
"The closest to freedom," Charlotte repeated the phrase, her tone impossible to read as question or statement.
"Mm," Mary nodded, holding her now-empty cup in both hands, her fingertips brushing lightly against the rim.
"Not having to manage anything, not having to think about anything—just running, running and running."
She paused, turning her head to look at Charlotte.
"Have you ever felt that way, Charlotte?"
Charlotte was silent for a few seconds.
"No," she said. "I have no need to run."
"I do envy you that," Mary said, laughing. "But then, you'd miss out on certain things."
"Such as?"
"Such as running hand in hand with him down a street in Kensington District," Mary said.
"And then it started to rain," Charlotte said, her expression unchanging.
"Yes, and then it started to rain," Mary said noncommittally. "So, to keep me from getting soaked, he pulled me under an eave—a very small one."
She said softly, "We stood there together, pressed close—not as close as an embrace, but at that distance, it wouldn't have been surprising if something had happened."
Charlotte said nothing, only listened in silence.
"He said we couldn't stay there, or I'd catch cold."
Mary told the story softly. In that moment, it seemed the only listener in the world who could hear this story was Charlotte—the only one this could be told to.
"But I was being difficult. I gave him this pitiful look, told him I didn't want to go home, and he gave in."
"That fits his nature," Charlotte said flatly.
"Yes, that's exactly like him," Mary said with a smile. "So he took off his coat and draped it over my shoulders, then pulled me along, running the rest of the way to Baker Street."
She continued, "I pulled him along for the first half of the way, and he pulled me along for the second."
"Sounds like two lunatics."
"Staying sane all the time is exhausting," Mary said softly.
"And isn't it nice, having someone willing to be a lunatic with you?"
Charlotte didn't answer. She finished the last of her coffee. Mary said nothing more either, leaning back against the sofa, letting the heat of the fire dry her damp hair.
The sitting room fell quiet again. The rain outside seemed to be easing, and both of them heard a sound coming from the next room.
"Looks like someone's finally willing to climb out of the bathtub," Mary said with a soft laugh.
No sooner had she said it than faint footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed by the sound of someone descending the stairs.
"Sounds like he's gone to fetch tea," Charlotte said.
After a while, footsteps climbing the stairs sounded again, then stopped at the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
Russell knocked on the door. "Open up—my hands are full with the tea things."
"I'll get it," Mary said, rising before Charlotte could respond, and walked briskly to the door.
The door opened, and Russell stood there, having changed into dry clothes—dark gray trousers, a white shirt with the cuffs carelessly rolled up to the elbows, revealing his forearms.
His hair was still wet, pushed carelessly back, with a few stray strands falling across his forehead, still dripping.
"Mary?" Russell blinked, clearly not expecting her to be the one answering the door.
His gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, over her—she was wearing Charlotte's dressing gown, her long silver hair still damp, gathered to one side and draped over her shoulder.
The white fabric made her look even softer than usual. The robe was slightly too large for her, its collar loosely open, revealing a small stretch of pale collarbone...
"Where are you looking?" Mary said, feigning reproach. "Any lower and it'd be improper."
At that, Russell immediately averted his eyes, coughing lightly twice.
"I wasn't looking."
"Really?" Mary tilted her head, clearly unconvinced.
"Really," Russell said, his expression unchanged, then sidled past her into the room, tray in hand.
Mary just smiled at that, then followed him in, pulling the door shut behind her.
Inside Charlotte's room, the fire in the hearth was burning brightly, warming the whole space with a cozy heat.
Charlotte sat in the armchair, watching as Russell set the tray down on the table.
"Ginger tea?" she asked.
"Mm," Russell nodded. "Mrs. Hudson just made it. It'll warm you up. Want a cup?"
"Might as well." Charlotte didn't refuse, so Russell poured her a cup as well.
"Your hair," Charlotte said suddenly. "Why haven't you dried it?"
"I've been trying my best. It just won't cooperate," Russell said, shrugging. "It'll dry eventually. No big deal."
At that, Charlotte frowned, then set down her cup, stood, walked into the bathroom, and returned with a towel, which she draped over Russell's head.
"Dry it properly," she said, brooking no argument. "Unless you want to catch cold."
"After this cup," Russell said, pulling the towel off, ready to drink his hot ginger tea first. But the next moment, someone yanked the towel out of his hands.
"Well, in that case, I'll help," Mary said, taking the towel and walking over to Russell with a playful smile, then gently draping it back over his head.
"Here, lean toward me a bit. I'll dry it for you," she said, and with one hand, pulled him back toward her.
Russell hadn't even registered what was happening before he found himself pulled against her—her slender fingers threading through his damp hair, the towel settling gently over his head as she began drying it.
His back went rigid for a moment. He could feel her body pressed against his from behind, and through the loose fabric of the dressing gown, the softness of her skin.
Not only that—through the thin layer of the robe, he could even feel her slightly quickened heartbeat, and the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
That scent of white camellia surrounded him again—stronger than usual, thanks to the recent bath, the lingering heat, and the near-touching closeness of their bodies now.
A warm breath drifted from behind him, mingling the scent of white tea and ginger tea with her own distinctly girlish fragrance, wrapping around Russell like an invisible net.
Mary's fingers were nimble, and gentle—the motion less like drying his hair, more like a loving caress.
The towel's fibers moved through his hair, soaking up the excess water, while her fingertips brushed—seemingly by accident, seemingly not—across his scalp, the curve of his ear, the back of his neck.
"There," Mary finally released her hands after some time, her voice carrying a note of satisfaction.
Russell let out a breath as if he'd been granted a reprieve, instinctively trying to lean forward, to put a little distance between them.
But a pair of soft hands pressed gently down on his shoulders. "Don't move," Mary's voice came from behind him, tinged with a lazy, husky note. "It's not dry yet."
Charlotte watched the scene unfold coolly, without any visible reaction. She knew she wasn't capable of doing something like that herself—and besides, Mary really would dry his hair thoroughly, at least.
The rain outside would be stopping soon anyway. What harm was there in letting her have this small moment? Once she'd left, Charlotte could always claw back double what she'd given up.
Still, watching it, she found it... rather unpleasant.
"Are you his mother?" Charlotte said flatly, out of nowhere. "Does everything have to be handled personally by you?"
"Well... I'm not his mother, but I wouldn't mind taking care of him for the rest of his life. Is that a problem?" Mary asked with a smile.
"Of course not," Charlotte said, her gaze sweeping over the two of them before landing on Russell's face, which was written all over with helplessness. "As long as he's willing to be your son."
"Hey—Charlotte." Russell raised his head, about to protest, only to be pushed gently back down by the tender hand behind him.
"Don't move," Mary's voice came again, with a tenderness that brooked no resistance. "Almost done."
Her fingers threaded through his hair again, the motion slower now, gentler than before—each pass like the light brush of a feather, sending a wave of indescribable tingling through him.
Russell felt as if his scalp might burst into flame.
Charlotte lifted her cup of ginger tea, blowing on the steam, her eyes lingering on the two of them out of the corner of her vision, those grey-blue eyes giving nothing away.
"Your clothes should be dry by now," she said suddenly after a few seconds, breaking the lingering warmth of the moment.
"Is that so?" Mary's hands paused. "That's a shame. I suppose I'd better get ready to go."
"Yes," Charlotte set down her cup. "Off you go. Don't let me keep you."
"You seem rather eager for me to leave," Mary said, her fingers still lightly twirling through Russell's hair.
"I just think, as the young lady of the Morstan family, you shouldn't make your family worry too much. Don't you agree?"
At that, Mary fell silent for a moment, then let go of his hair.
"You're right, Charlotte," she said, standing up. The oversized dressing gown swayed gently with her movement.
"So, might I borrow your telephone?"
"Go ahead," Charlotte said without objection.
Mary walked over to the telephone, hesitated briefly, then picked up the receiver and dialed the number.
After murmuring something to whoever answered on the other end, she set the receiver back down.
"Your clothes are dry," Charlotte said, gesturing at the garments she'd fetched earlier while Mary was on the phone.
"Thank you," Mary said with a smile. "I'll borrow your room for a moment."
She said this, then turned and slipped into Charlotte's room, emerging again five minutes later.
She'd changed back into her own black shirtdress, all traces of her rain-soaked bedragglement gone, transformed once more into the elegant, composed Miss Morstan.
The dried skirt had regained its lightness, the lace trim no longer hanging limp but curling with a hint of perfect crispness.
She stood in the doorway, her blue eyes strikingly bright under the warm yellow lamplight.
Her damp hair had mostly dried, falling in loose waves over her shoulders, the ends slightly curled, as if she'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine.
"Do I look nice?" Mary asked, noticing Russell's gaze, tilting her head deliberately.
"Mm," Russell nodded, not denying it.
The rain outside was gradually easing, leaving only the faint sound of dripping water from the eaves onto the windowsill—a soft, ticking patter.
About fifteen minutes later, a knock sounded downstairs.
"That must be the carriage," Mary said softly, then looked at Russell. "Will you see me out?"
Russell nodded and stood.
The two of them walked out of the room, one after the other, their footsteps making a light sound on the wooden stairs.
Charlotte remained seated in the armchair, unmoving, her gaze following the two figures disappearing through the doorway, until the door gently closed.
On the stairs, Mary walked ahead, with Russell trailing half a step behind.
The hallway was quiet, with only the soft sound of their footsteps and the fading patter of rain outside. The dim wall lamps cast a warm glow, stretching their shadows long across the wall, overlapping, then separating again.
Mary didn't turn around, but her voice drifted back softly.
"Back in the room just now," she said, "Charlotte and I talked about quite a lot."
"What about?" Russell asked.
"About you," Mary said.
"About me?" It was phrased as a question, but Russell didn't seem surprised.
"Mm," Mary nodded, her steps unbroken.
"We talked about when you started making me breakfast, when you started making her coffee, when you first held my hand, when she first kissed you."
Russell's steps faltered slightly.
Mary seemed to sense it. She stopped walking and turned around.
At the landing of the stairs, she stood two steps above him, looking down at him. The dim light fell across her face from the side, splitting it into halves of light and shadow—one gentle, one mysterious.
"She kissed you twice," Mary said, her tone calm. "Once on the bridge, once at the opera house."
Russell opened his mouth, about to say something, but Mary raised a hand, gently stopping him.
"No need to explain," she said. "I'm not angry."
She paused, the corner of her mouth curving up slightly. "I won't lose to her."
Another knock sounded downstairs, more urgent this time.
Mary lowered her hand, stepped back, and resumed her composed smile.
"Let's go," she said. "The carriage is waiting."
She turned and continued down the stairs.
"Wait." Russell suddenly spoke, catching hold of her.
At that, Mary turned back to face him.
She stood before that familiar door, night and light rain behind her, him in front.
"What is it?" Mary asked.
Russell said nothing. He simply took the now-dried black overcoat down from the coat rack and draped it over her shoulders.
"You get cold easily. Wear this," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Mary froze where she stood.
She looked down at the coat—Russell's coat—still holding the warmth of having just been dried by the fire, carrying a faint scent that was uniquely his.
Clean, warm—the kind of scent that made you want to bury your face in it and breathe deep.
"And you?" Mary asked.
"I'll manage. I have more," Russell said with a smile, then reached out and ruffled her hair.
"There. Go on home. Don't worry your family."
"Mm..." Mary nodded, pulling the coat tighter around herself, nearly swallowed whole by the thick black fabric.
The coat was far too big for her, nearly covering her skirt entirely, leaving only a thin sliver of her slender calves and her pale gray boots visible.
"I'm going now," Mary said softly.
"Mm," Russell nodded. "Be careful out there."
Mary took a few steps forward, then suddenly turned back, tilted her head up, and pressed a light kiss to his cheek.
"That one's for today."
She laughed, then stepped back, retreating under the doorway's shelter once more.
"Remember what I told you," she said, her voice carrying a faint trace of laughter. "Wait for me a little longer. It won't be much longer now."
"When the time comes, I'll kiss you properly—for real, and without shame."
Mary walked to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out under the driver's umbrella into the carriage.
"I had a wonderful day today," she said to Russell, her blue eyes full of laughter.
"See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow," Russell said, nodding.
The driver closed the door, and the carriage rolled slowly into motion, soon vanishing into the curtain of rain.
The carriage left Baker Street behind, racing on toward Kensington District.
Mary leaned back inside the carriage, wrapping the coat tightly around herself, watching the streets blur past outside the window in the falling rain.
The scenery shifted from unfamiliar to familiar, until at last the carriage came to a stop before the gates of the Morstan Estate.
The butler, who had been waiting a long while, hurried forward at once, raising an umbrella, opening the carriage door, and helping the young lady down.
"Welcome home, miss—"
When he caught sight of the obviously oversized coat she wore, a flicker of surprise crossed the butler's face, but he composed himself quickly, saying nothing more, only escorting Mary step by step through the rain until they reached the front door.
That silent man stood at the entrance, watching without a word as the girl approached him.
He could see the smile still lingering at the corners of her mouth, as if she'd just returned from some wonderfully joyful journey, worn out but weary in the best way—yet those blue eyes remained just as clear as ever.
That escape, he thought, must have been a wonderful thing—for someone of her age, her station, perhaps she would never again have an experience quite like it in her life. It would be a memory worth savoring for a lifetime.
So she had no intention of apologizing to her father, because she didn't believe she'd done anything wrong.
Father and daughter stood in silence in the rain, until Mary finally lifted her head, looked at her father, and gave him a small smile.
"I'm home, Father."
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