"Obviously."
Russell mimicked Charlotte's tone as he set the mug of milk down on the coffee table. With the tip of his slipper, he nudged a scattering of documents aside to carve out a patch of floor he could actually stand on.
"So," he asked—fully aware of the answer—"our apprentice still refuses to confess?"
"It's worse than refusing," Charlotte's voice carried a thin edge of irritation. "He keeps repeating the same sentence, over and over, like some brainwashed lunatic."
"What sentence?" Russell took a sip of milk.
"'My teacher has gone to pursue his art.'"
She paused. Her gray-blue eyes pinned Russell's face as if she expected a clue to be hiding somewhere in his thoroughly ordinary features.
"Dr. Watson, I need your common sense."
"Not this again." Russell sighed. "My common sense says that when a suspect refuses to cooperate, you hand him over to Scotland Yard's experienced inspectors."
"Not keep a university student up at two in the morning."
"Scotland Yard?" Charlotte let out a contemptuous nasal sound, as if she'd just heard the joke of the century.
"They're already discussing whether to beat a confession out of him."
"If Lestrade weren't restraining them, we'd probably see the 'result' on tomorrow's Times."
"Inspector Lestrade is a decent policeman, then." Russell drank again.
Maybe next time he wouldn't put landscaping mulch into Lestrade's pipe.
"In any case," Charlotte said flatly, "their brains are no different from the skull on my mantel—if anything, emptier."
"At least the skull doesn't play violin at two in the morning," Russell muttered.
Charlotte flicked him a look sharp enough to slice.
[Charlotte Holmes is mildly displeased by your remark — Malice +10]
Unexpected income. Lovely.
Russell cleared his throat and decided not to push his luck. He had no desire to be slowly executed by a genius' stare.
"So," he said, forcing the conversation back onto the rails, "what exactly do you want my 'common sense' to do? Interpret that line about pursuing art?"
"No." Charlotte rejected it immediately. "I don't need you to interpret madness. I need you to understand why someone would speak it."
Her gaze stayed fixed on him, cold and evaluative, like she was assessing the reliability of a tool.
A few seconds passed. She seemed to make up her mind.
"Sit," she said, pointing to the one armchair that was still relatively clean.
Russell sat. He felt as though he'd been placed in an interrogation chair.
"Now," Charlotte sat opposite him and leaned forward, hands clasped over one knee in a posture designed to pressure.
"Close your eyes. Imagine you are the apprentice—Edgar Light."
"Role-play?" Russell lifted a brow. "That'll cost extra."
Charlotte ignored him and continued, voice carefully building atmosphere.
"You love your teacher. You regard him as father, as god. Every word he speaks is doctrine."
"Now he is dead—dead in front of you—and everyone accuses you of being the murderer."
"Tell me, Dr. Watson. In your common sense, what should you be feeling?"
Russell closed his eyes and followed the scenario.
After a moment, he spoke.
"Despair. Grief. Fury at the world for turning against you. And… fear—fear of the gallows."
"Correct." There was a trace of approval in Charlotte's voice.
"That is a normal reaction in a normal human being. But—"
Her tone cooled.
"Edgar didn't. He had grief, yes. But no anger. No fear. He was… hollow."
"Artists tend to be a little abstract," Russell shrugged. "Seems normal to me."
A flash of impatience crossed Charlotte's eyes—so quick it was nearly invisible, like watching a person listen to a gorilla lecture on Shakespeare.
"This is not abstraction," she corrected. "This is a logical fallacy."
"Emotion is the lowest-level driver of human behavior. It obeys causality."
"Grief comes from loss. Anger comes from injustice. Fear comes from uncertainty."
"And Edgar's chain—breaks after grief."
"So?" Russell folded his hands, wearing the expression of someone who understood every word and none of the meaning.
"So either he is telling an enormous lie," Charlotte rose and began pacing. The hem of her dark blue robe whispered across the floor.
"Or there is a stronger emotion—something that overrides fear and anger—holding him upright."
"For example?"
"I don't know." Charlotte stopped, aggravated, and dragged a hand through her already messy curls.
"That is why I brought you in. I refuse to waste time forcing my mind through non-rational possibilities—those possibilities multiply like the digits of pi."
She turned, looking down at him.
"So I need you to think in my place."
Russell's mouth twitched.
He put on a thoughtful expression, waited just long enough to make it convincing, then said slowly:
"I have thought of one."
"Say it."
"Sleep." Russell pointed toward the window, where dawn was already whitening the sky.
"It's morning, Miss Holmes. Even if your brain is a steam engine, it still needs coal and cooling."
"Grinding the same problem until you overheat won't produce truth. It'll just turn your mind into scrap."
Charlotte fell silent.
She stared at him. After a few seconds, she appeared to accept the intrusion of common sense.
"Reasonable."
She walked to the window and pulled the heavy curtains back.
The first thread of sunlight cut through the darkness, laying bare her pale face and the bruised shadows under her eyes.
"Then as payment for your 'useful suggestion,'" she said without turning, "tomorrow at seven, I want a hot coffee with double sugar and milk, and a copy of The Times that hasn't been touched by a newsboy's filthy hands."
"Have Mrs. Hudson do it," Russell yawned. Then he frowned.
"Wait. Don't you have classes too?"
"I have exemptions." Charlotte's voice was calm. "Mycroft arranged them."
"I could skip every lecture for the entire term and still collect my diploma."
"Bureaucracy," Russell muttered darkly.
"It's a trade." Charlotte explained. "Mycroft wants me to attempt integrating into normal society. My condition was that he remove all unnecessary social obligations."
Russell didn't respond.
Because he was too tired to remain human.
Imperial College London. Tiered lecture hall.
Russell chose the back row by the window—then sat down and immediately folded over the desk.
Sunlight poured through the large panes of glass, warm and soft like a docile cat curled over his shoulders.
What the professor was saying was irrelevant.
A proper sleep was the only priority.
But just as Russell was about to sink into bliss, a quiet scrape of a chair reached his ears.
Then a familiar scent—white tea and ink—slipped into his nose.
Half his drowsiness evaporated.
He didn't need to open his eyes to know who had arrived.
Mary Morstan's voice sounded close to his ear.
"Sleeping through the first lecture of a new term… isn't that a little improper?"
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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