Mycroft drew a slow breath and drained his cup of tea in one swallow.
The porcelain hid his face, making his expression impossible to read.
But one thing was certain:
He was not in a good mood.
After finishing the tea, he set the cup down and placed the letters neatly before him.
His posture remained controlled and composed, yet Russell could feel it—Mycroft was angry.
If Russell could absorb malice from anyone, this would have been a magnificent harvest.
Unfortunately, he couldn't.
"Sir Phineas Black," Mycroft said, his voice dropping. "For the sake of his distant relation to Her Majesty, I've tolerated his tedious club with one eye half-closed.
"If these were common graft, I could handle it tomorrow.
"But this isn't corruption." His gaze sharpened. "This is treason."
"So, Mr. Holmes," Russell rose and gently pushed the velvet chair back into place, "are you ready to work overtime?"
Mycroft didn't answer. He reached for a small silver bell on the desk and gave it a light shake.
The clear chime echoed through the quiet study.
In under ten seconds, a butler's voice appeared at the door as if it had been waiting there all along.
"Sir. Your command?"
"Anthony," Mycroft's tone returned to its usual calm authority. "Prepare a pot of coffee. No milk, no sugar. Bring it in ten minutes."
"As you wish, sir."
Anthony asked nothing, then withdrew.
Silence settled again—until Russell spoke.
"And about the wager…"
"I will honor it," Mycroft cut in, eyes returning to the papers. "Until the day the countdown ends, no one beyond you and me will know of this."
He paused, then looked up at Russell.
"Did you leave him a note?"
"Of course. Whether he ever sees it is another matter." Russell shrugged. "I put it in the box where the letters were stored."
"I understand." Mycroft nodded once.
"On the day your deadline arrives, I will make all of London your stage." His voice was steady—and frighteningly matter-of-fact. "Scotland Yard, the Royal Guard—both will clear the ground for you."
He watched Russell, something complex flashing in his eyes.
"I'm curious, Mr. Moriarty. What exactly are you planning?"
"You'll find out when it happens."
Russell offered no explanation. Instead, he bowed with the elegance of an actor nearing curtain call.
"Then I won't interrupt your work."
He stepped backward, fading into the shadow by the window as if the darkness itself accepted him.
"Enjoy your evening, Mr. Holmes."
With the last word, he tipped backward into the night beyond the glass—and vanished.
Mycroft remained in the high-back chair for a long time without moving.
Tonight would be sleepless.
Russell returned to Baker Street after his little tour.
He slipped in through the window as usual, changed out of his thief's attire, pulled on sleepwear—and hit the mattress like a stone.
No dreams.
The next morning, he spent a few pennies to buy a newspaper from a street boy.
Fleet Street still reserved the biggest headline space for him, tirelessly hyping the approaching performance.
Even when there was nothing new to print, they'd slap a giant countdown number on the front page and fill the margins with his "glorious achievements."
Russell sat with a glass of warm milk, amusedly rereading his own rising legend.
Back then, I was so skinny.
He set the empty glass on the table, took one of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, and flipped through the inner pages at a leisurely pace.
The headline was Moriarty's carnival.
The inside pages, however, were London's unchanging daily grind—parliamentary quarrels, stock swings, a noblewoman's scandal, and petty complaints about weather and prices.
After skimming, Russell lost interest and set the paper down. He greeted Mrs. Hudson and headed out.
Charlotte had been up early as well. After eating a little downstairs, she'd locked herself in her room again.
"Both siblings have their own work," Russell murmured.
"Busy, busy—busy is good…"
If everyone stayed busy, no one watched him.
That was the beauty of hiding in plain sight.
He went to his lecture hall as usual, took his seat in the last row, bantered with the white-tea-scented girl as usual, slept through class as usual, then spent lunch making a bold raid on the cafeteria for fresh malice.
After school, he returned to Baker Street and checked on the great detective's progress—by habit.
When he opened the door, Charlotte wasn't at the information wall.
She sat in a robe on the sofa, coffee in hand, staring into the fireplace with an absent look.
"Charlotte?" Russell walked over, waved a hand in front of her eyes.
Her gray-blue gaze slid over to him, utterly alive.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just noticed you were spacing out." Russell sat beside her, eyes going to the wall. "Still no leads?"
"First: I'm not spacing out. I'm thinking," Charlotte said, her gaze following his to the wall. "Second: obviously."
She took a sip of coffee and spoke before Russell could.
"We've squeezed everything we can from the criminals. Their Southwark hideout was searched—nothing but burned ash and useless paper. Bilson has evaporated. Charles either refuses to speak, or repeats the same mad lines."
She clicked her tongue, irritation sharp.
"Tch. It's all Moriarty's fault."
[Charlotte Holmes's irritation and complaints detected. Malice +20.]
"What does that have to do with him?" Russell raised an eyebrow.
Maybe he should just rename himself "Moriarty 258" at this rate.
"If he'd worn an ordinary mask instead of a skin mask, Charles wouldn't have gone this insane," Charlotte said.
"If he wore an ordinary mask, he couldn't have blended in," Russell argued. "And a skin mask is obviously more practical."
"It's practical for him. Miserable for me." Charlotte stirred her coffee with a spoon, clinking softly.
"If you're miserable, stop sealing yourself in a room all day," Russell said, standing. "Clues don't appear just because you stare at a wall."
He hesitated, then offered his hand.
"Dinner's still a bit away. Walk with me?"
....
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