Pratt sat by the window in a rocking chair. When he saw the three of them, he gave a bitter smile.
"Miss Holmes. You're faster than I expected."
"You killed Craig," Charlotte said evenly.
"Yes."
Lucian stood by the door, pen poised above the page.
"You endured three years. Why now?" Charlotte asked.
Pratt took three items from inside his coat and set them on the table.
A ship ticket. An appointment letter from Boston University. A medical diagnosis report.
"Late-stage lung disease—six months at most," he said hoarsely. "I was going to start over in the New World. Boston was willing to give me a chance. They didn't care about my stain."
Charlotte glanced at the date on the diagnosis. "Diagnosed two weeks ago."
"Yes." Pratt's eyes hollowed. "The moment I got that paper, something clicked. Why should I run? Why should I let the devil who ruined everything keep living?"
"So you decided to make him pay before you died."
"Three years ago, if it weren't for him, Martha wouldn't have died." Pratt closed his eyes. "She fell ill. We needed money for treatment. I was this close to getting a teaching post… and then Craig stole my paper. I lost everything. By the time I scraped together the money, it was too late."
The room fell silent.
Pratt drew out an empty vial.
"Digitalis glycoside," he said. "I took it ten minutes ago."
Lucian moved instinctively as if to rush forward, but Charlotte stopped him with an arm.
"Too late," she said. "At that dose, even pumping his stomach won't help."
Pratt gave a faint nod, his voice thinning.
"You're from the literature faculty, aren't you? Tell the young ones he bullied… the devil is dead. Maybe life will be a little easier now."
His breathing weakened.
His head bowed.
Relief—almost a smile—rested on his face.
Mary stepped forward, checked his pulse, and shook her head.
Lucian stayed where he was, letting out a quiet sigh inside.
Tonight, he'd intended to teach Craig a lesson as Moriarty.
He hadn't expected someone to beat him to it.
…
By the time they left the building, the horizon had already begun to pale.
Mary stayed behind at the scene to wait for Scotland Yard. Only the remaining two walked in silence toward the carriage stand.
Lucian kept his head down, frowning at his notebook, unconsciously muttering to himself.
Charlotte caught the motion from the corner of her eye—him scribbling, then scratching out an entire line.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Huh?" Lucian looked up. "Trying to figure out how to write Pratt's ending… 'trading his life for delayed justice' feels too cliché, but 'martyrdom' feels too melodramatic…"
"Boring."
"I know you think this case is uninteresting, but readers won't," Lucian insisted. "They'll want to know how someone can endure three years—"
Charlotte's steps paused.
"Goldfish. What do you think?"
Lucian blinked. "Think what?"
"He had six months left. Revenge is done. Why end his life early?"
Lucian thought for a moment.
"Maybe he wanted to make sure Craig died before he did. He had half a year left, but anything can happen in half a year. He could get hit by a carriage tomorrow. His lungs could worsen next week. He waited so long—if Craig outlived him by even one day, to him, that would be failure."
Charlotte stared at him for two seconds.
"One hundred eighty days," she said, "for a state of mind."
"Yes."
"It matches my reasoning." Charlotte bit down and cracked the last piece of candy in her mouth. "You're occasionally useful, goldfish."
Lucian lit up with a flattered smile.
"To receive Miss Holmes's approval is the greatest honor of my—"
"Don't rush to flatter." Charlotte cut him off. "I'm verifying something. When logic and emotion point to the same conclusion, reliability increases. You're a control group, not an advisory council."
"…Yes," Lucian said meekly.
They reached the carriage stand.
Charlotte hopped into a carriage. Lucian was about to bid farewell when she suddenly lifted the curtain.
"Oh, and don't write this case."
"What?"
"The motive is mediocre. The method is mediocre. Even the murderer is mediocre." Charlotte's tone was indifferent. "If you want to use my name to earn稿费, at least wait for an interesting case."
"But Miss Holmes!" Lucian instantly put on a heartbroken expression. "Pratt's story is so moving! Three years of endurance, exchanging his life for justice—readers will cry!"
"That's the readers' problem."
"Can't you have a little empathy?"
"Empathy doesn't help me solve cases."
"But it helps you win readers!"
"I don't need readers."
"Then what do you need?"
"Silence." Charlotte let the curtain fall. "Especially silence from goldfish."
"Wait!" Lucian grabbed the window frame. "Then what kind of case would you be willing to read? Give me a standard, at least!"
The curtain lifted a fraction.
"One that I find interesting."
"What counts as interesting?"
"If I knew, it wouldn't be interesting."
"That's cheating!"
"That's logically consistent."
"That's logical bullying!"
"You may interpret it that way." Charlotte's tone didn't change. "In any case, even if you write it, I won't read it."
"Why?"
"Your prose would lower my IQ."
"I can improve!"
"You can't. Your problem is congenital."
"How would you know if you haven't read it?"
"I read your notebook."
"That was a draft!"
"A draft exposes a person's true level best." Charlotte shifted her lollipop from left to right. "Your metaphors are like moldy cheese, your adjectives like pepper poured with a heavy hand, and your overall structure like a plate of pasta that's been dropped on the floor. Is that specific enough?"
Lucian's face twitched.
"…Are you perhaps a little obsessed with food?"
"I haven't eaten in four days. No wonder I'm having meaningless conversations with you."
Charlotte frowned, as if surprised by herself.
How long had it been since she'd talked this much nonsense with anyone?
It had to be low blood sugar impairing her judgment. She should eat more candy after she got back.
"There won't be a next time."
"Huh?"
"Not related to the case. Don't write it down." Charlotte waved a hand. "In short, this case has no literary value. Writing it would only waste paper and readers' time. Your cheap sentimentality—"
"I'll write a case that'll make you want to read it twice!" Lucian cut in. "I'll make all of London know the name of Holmes!"
The curtain lifted fully.
For the first time, Charlotte's expression actually changed.
Not moved—
Disgusted.
"All of London already knows my name. It also knows I'm a socially inept antisocial freak—sharp-tongued, cruel, cold-blooded, more excited by corpses than living people. Are you sure you want to write a biography for someone like that?"
"Absolutely!" Lucian said without hesitation.
"Why?"
"Because someone like that has a story!" Lucian's eyes shone. "Imagine it—a genius misunderstood by the entire world, hiding a relentless pursuit of truth behind a mask of indifference, seeking justice alone amid everyone's curses—"
"Stop."
"What?"
"Your speech just gave me goosebumps in three layers." Charlotte's face was blank. "And I don't have an inner heart, or obsession, or whatever nonsense you're making up. I solve cases because I'm bored."
"Even better!" Lucian wasn't discouraged in the slightest. "A genius pure to the extreme! Not for fame, not for justice—only to fight boredom. That's depth!"
"…"
Charlotte stared at him for five seconds.
"Goldfish, you do have one talent."
"What is it?"
"Turning every negative evaluation into positive material." Her tone could have been praise or mockery. "I've only seen that level of shamelessness in politicians."
"Thank you for the compliment!"
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I choose to take it as one!"
Charlotte went silent for two seconds.
Then the curtain dropped.
"Do as you like."
The carriage started moving.
"Rest assured!" Lucian shouted at the retreating carriage. "I will make the whole world know your name!"
The curtain lifted a corner, revealing Charlotte's cool profile.
"So the whole world knows I'm an antisocial freak?"
"So the whole world knows you're a genius!"
"No difference."
"Huge difference!"
"No difference to me."
"But to readers, there is!"
"I don't care about readers."
"But I care about稿费!"
Silence.
A faint scoff drifted from behind the curtain.
"At least you're honest."
"Then will you let me write?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because your last line confirmed something for me."
"What?"
"You really are doing it for money." The curtain fell again; Charlotte's voice came from inside. "Someone who can flatter an antisocial freak for money will definitely write something full of vulgar pandering. I don't want my name tied to that."
"Just you wait, Miss Holmes!" Lucian yelled, voice cracking. "One day you'll come begging me to write!"
"Impossible."
The carriage grew more distant.
Inside, Charlotte leaned against the carriage wall and rubbed her temples.
Why had she kept responding to that money-grubbing mediocre goldfish?
She'd already dropped the curtain.
…Fine. One last line.
From far away, a final, indifferent answer floated back.
"Absolutely impossible."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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