"So frightened he went mad?"
Mary's eyes widened slightly, and the shock in them was genuine.
"They're robbing banks—how could they be that mentally fragile? What kind of people did they hire?" she wondered.
"Charlotte said the same thing. The man just kept repeating this strange phrase, 'Moriarty's face is melting,' and wouldn't answer any other question—like he was possessed." Russell shrugged.
"And Charlotte lost the trail. All we can do now is hope Lestrade's psychotherapist helps, or that Scotland Yard catches Professor soon, otherwise there won't be any new leads."
"Mm."
Mary's gentle reply signaled the last traces of tension had left her eyes.
As long as I'm not suspected, it's fine... Is there a risk of that crazy guy recovering? Maybe it'd be best to bring him along with The Professor...
A dark light flickered in Mary's eyes, but she quickly hid it, just as the school bell rang, ending the lull and restoring the usual classroom noise.
…
Class time.
Lectures at Imperial College London were as dull as ever. The old professor's voice, slow and sonorous, echoed from the podium like sleepy church bells on a drowsy afternoon.
Russell propped his chin up, occasionally yawning. Maybe Mycroft was right after all.
Compared to everyone else's laziness and slackness, Mary was the complete opposite of Russell.
She sat up straight, pen gliding smoothly across her notebook, recording every bit of knowledge.
She watched the blackboard; he watched her.
It was a pleasant sight.
Just as Russell closed his eyes again and was about to respond to Sand Man's invitation to dream, a fair hand entered his vision, along with an open notebook.
Russell's attention shifted to it; on the page was a question written in immaculate handwriting:
"What does 'melting face' mean?"
Mary didn't look at him; she still stared at the blackboard, tapping the notebook lightly with her pen tip.
Russell's gaze first fell on her arm, then slowly drifted up to meet the girl's profile.
He glanced at it, picked up his pen, and quickly scribbled beneath:
Charlotte speculates that this visual effect resulted from the mask being corroded by some kind of chemical reagent. Incidentally, the idea of clones was one of Moriarty's tricks; through subtle movements, he was able to create an illusion as if clones were present. To put it simply, Charlotte blamed it all on the gang's lack of experience.
Finishing, he returned the notebook.
Mary glanced over the reply, raising her eyebrows slightly.
She stared at the reply, seemingly deep in thought.
After a while, she lowered her eyes, appearing to have finished processing her thoughts.
The scrape of pen on paper sounded again, and the classroom returned to its previous stillness.
Wrong.
The handwriting doesn't match.
Still, by logic and analysis, she had already deduced that the man sitting next to her had nothing to do with the phantom thief Moriarty.
Yet, for some reason, her intuition kept telling her never to overlook any possibility.
Again and again, intuition was overturned by rational analysis and facts.
Sometimes even Mary herself couldn't make sense of what she was doing.
Even if Russell were Moriarty—so what?
Even the girl herself couldn't imagine how she'd react in that scenario.
Would she be happy, angry, or sad?
Once her thoughts began crumbling, Mary found she couldn't stop them.
This can't go on, she realized, and she forced herself to focus on the professor's lecture.
But the harder she tried to forget, the sharper the outline became.
Her eyes fixed to the blackboard, yet her peripheral vision naturally drifted to the man already fast asleep next to her.
Sunlight spilled in through the window, casting a soft golden hue across his short black hair, his steady breathing gentle in the quiet back row.
Somehow, it made her think of a cat dozing lazily and contentedly by a fireplace.
Seriously...
Mary couldn't help a sigh, while her pen drifted, unconsciously, to an empty page in her notebook.
This time, she didn't jot down anything about the case; she just started drawing with the pen tip.
After a few quick strokes, a simple stick figure sleeping atop a desk came to life on paper.
Thinking it looked a bit plain, she added a little pair of fluffy cat ears to the stick figure's head.
Yes, much better.
Unnoticed by herself, a faint smile—barely there—tugged at the corner of her lips.
During that boring class, time drifted gently by. The sunlight through the window shifted from bright to soft shadows.
When the old professor announced class was over, the classroom quickly snapped back to its usual buzz.
At that moment, Russell slowly sat up, blinking sleepily, and—as always—turned to look at Mary next to him.
"We skipping class, or is it already over?"
"Already over," Mary answered quietly, flipping past the page with the stick figure and sliding her notebook over in front of him.
"Here. Today's notes."
"Thanks."
Russell yawned and, without a second thought, tucked the notebook away in his bag.
The two of them left the classroom one after another. The mellow, gentle glow of dusk cast long shadows over the ground, like an old yellowed film.
It looked as though just another day would pass as usual—until, suddenly, the girl walking next to him stopped without warning.
"Hm? What's wrong?"
Russell turned his head, looking at Mary.
She stood absolutely still, hands clasped gently behind her back, unconsciously twining her fingers together.
The rays of the setting sun angled from the side of the classroom building, outlining her silver hair in a soft, warm halo. Her tailored uniform was dyed a gentle tone, somewhere between orange and crimson, by that light.
She didn't answer right away; her head tipped forward as her gaze fell to her spotless black shoes, toes gently tracing circles atop cobbled stones carpeted in autumn leaves.
A gust of wind sent several faded yellow London plane leaves whirling gently between them, before drifting off into the distance.
The air was uncannily still; only faint playground sounds from far away gave a sense of reality, like ambient sound in a movie.
Russell didn't urge her. He simply waited, standing there patiently and watching her, waiting to hear what she would say next.
Finally, as if making up her mind, Mary slowly looked up.
In those blue eyes, gone was any trace of scheming, probing, or playful teasing seen in the classroom.
In that moment, the deep Aegean sea reflected only the sunset—and the boy before her.
Her voice was so soft it seemed afraid to disturb the peace.
"Um..." she started, a faint, unintentional hesitation breaking her words. "Are you... free this weekend?"