"…."
For a moment, the air seemed to congeal.
The smile on Mary's face—that bright, expectant curve, touched with a subtle triumph and even a hint of a girl's shy anticipation—shattered like fine porcelain caught by a sudden winter gust.
Her blue eyes widened slightly.
The immaculate composure she prided herself on went blank.
What… is this man saying?
Is this the kind of thing you say at a moment like this?
Is this… a provocation?
When Mary didn't respond, Russell asked again.
"Is it okay, Miss Morstan? Professor Thomson's class… you know. It's basically a lullaby."
He scratched the back of his head, putting on the earnest look of a top student who was trying very hard—despite being tragically limited by talent.
At last, Mary snapped back to herself.
She stared at Russell where he sat, eyes sincere, posture relaxed.
She drew in a breath.
The frozen expression began to move again—only now the smile that returned was… chilling.
Like she was watching a corpse speak.
"Notes."
From the stack of books she'd just packed away, she calmly slid out the top notebook with perfect elegance.
"Thanks!" Russell lit up and reached for it.
But just as his fingertips were about to touch the cover, Mary's fingers loosened.
Thud.
The heavy notebook dropped straight to the floor with a dull, humiliating sound.
"Oh—sorry," Mary said softly, smiling without the slightest trace of remorse. "My hand slipped."
Russell's hand froze midair.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze to the notebook lying innocently on the floor… then raised his eyes to the saintly-looking girl smiling at him.
[Mary Morstan felt provoked and displeased by your total lack of romance. She attempts to make things difficult for you. Malice +10]
There it is—she's mad again.
Russell complained internally, but not a flicker of it reached his face.
"No worries. I'll pick it up."
He smiled magnanimously and bent down to retrieve the notebook that stood between him and his credits.
Mary watched him pick it up, brush off the dust, and tuck it into his bag as though it were priceless.
Tsk.
Annoying.
If it weren't for her status and upbringing, she would absolutely have escalated the difficulty—say, stepping on the notebook and making him beg her to move her foot.
[Mary Morstan is intensely displeased with you. Malice +20]
"Since you've borrowed the notes," Mary inhaled slowly, forcing her expression back into something passably normal—though her voice still carried the faint bite of clenched teeth, "I won't disturb Mr. Watson's diligent pre-studying."
With that, she turned and walked away.
Her boots struck the floor in crisp, rapid tap-tap beats—like she was venting the emotion she refused to show.
"Wait—!"
Russell's voice rang out behind her again, forcing Mary to stop for a second time.
"What now?" She turned back, irritated. "More notes?"
"No… I just wanted to say—Saturday night, once I'm done with my own business, if I can make it in time, I'll come."
Russell spoke carefully, as if choosing each word on purpose.
"Even so… I can't guarantee it. I'm not fond of promises I can't be sure I'll keep, so… that's the best answer I can give."
At those words, the tension in Mary's back visibly eased.
She turned fully, her icy-blue eyes refocusing on Russell's face.
The gaze that had been Siberian cold moments ago now looked like a spring lake after thaw—still cool, but with the faintest ripples.
"I see."
Her voice was flat, but Russell still caught the thread of quiet happiness underneath—so subtle it would have been easy to miss.
"Don't get your hopes up," Russell added, feeling obligated to set expectations. "I might really be late. I might even not come."
"I understand," Mary said, nodding once.
She didn't say anything else.
She only looked at him—deeply, as if engraving his carefully sincere expression into memory.
Then she turned and left the lecture hall for good.
This time, her footsteps were no longer hurried. They returned to their usual composed rhythm.
Russell watched her disappear through the doorway and let out a long breath.
"Women are a pain," he muttered under his breath.
He shoved the borrowed notebook into his bag and left as well.
Back at 221B Baker Street, Russell pushed open Charlotte's room with practiced ease.
A thick stench of chemical reagents mixed with rosin hit him full in the face and nearly sent him straight back out.
If anything, the room was messier than before—like solving the case had only freed up more time to generate chaos.
Sheet music lay scattered across the floor alongside empty test tubes and an open book on toxicology.
And Charlotte Holmes herself was practically draped across an armchair, legs crossed and propped on the coffee table.
She held her violin and was idly scraping the strings with the bow.
The sound was less "music" and more "evidence of a crime."
"I thought solving the case would spare that poor Stradivarius," Russell said, pinching his nose as he walked in with visible disdain.
Charlotte didn't even bother lifting her eyelids.
"Boredom is the greatest enemy of human intelligence, Watson. One case ends, the next hasn't arrived. I need something to do."
"You can't abuse instruments as a hobby," Russell declared righteously. "If it could speak, it would be reporting you for brutality."
Charlotte finally shifted her gaze away from a nonexistent stain on the ceiling and glanced at him with those grey-blue eyes.
"It is speaking. In a language only people with imagination can understand."
"…."
Russell decided not to debate philosophy with her.
"Could you at least pay attention to your… posture?"
"What?" Charlotte arched an eyebrow, looking at him like he'd suggested burning the room down. "This is my room. My private space. Am I not even allowed to choose how I sit in my own chair?"
"No, I just—forget it. Do what you want."
Russell shrugged, placed the sandwich he'd brought back from school onto the only relatively clean corner of the table, then dragged over a chair and sat down.
Then he took out the invitation.
"This is for you."
Charlotte picked it up and scanned it at speed.
"Icebreaker party? A tedious social game. A group of hormonally overloaded young people gathering to exchange fake compliments and cheap information. If there's anything real in it, it's only their uncontrollable hormones."
As she spoke, she tossed the invitation into a pile of junk with contempt.
"I'm not interested."
"But Mr. Timmy Roy specifically told me that Mr. Mycroft Holmes also wants you to participate in more social events."
Russell deliberately invoked her brother's name.
As expected, Charlotte's brow tightened.
"Then I'm even less interested," she said coldly.
"You go."
"Unfortunately, I wasn't invited," Russell replied, shrugging.
"Which is why I said—this invitation is for you, not for me."
-------
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