The figure stood against the light, her silhouette outlined by a fuzzy golden rim, appearing exceptionally tall and slender.
She seemed to be a late-arriving freshman, yet her gestures showed not a shred of guilt for her tardiness as she walked straight into the auditorium.
Sunlight spilled in following her footsteps, dispelling the gloom in the corner and allowing Russell to see the newcomer's appearance clearly.
That was a young woman with a beauty even more aggressive than Mary Morstan's.
A head of slightly curly black hair was scattered casually, with a few unruly strands sticking to her pale cheeks. She wasn't wearing a school uniform; instead, she wore a coffee-colored trench coat that was so large it fit somewhat poorly. Her eye color was a rare grey-blue.
She seemed completely unaware that she had interrupted someone's grand escape plan. Her gaze swept rapidly across the entire auditorium, as if performing some kind of silent estimation.
From the height of the ceiling to the arrangement of the seats, and then to the expression on everyone's face.
Finally, her line of sight landed on Russell, whose movements were frozen in place as he was preparing to slip away.
Eye contact.
If meeting Mary's gaze was like falling into an ice cave, then locking eyes with this lady was like being scanned inside and out by a precision scanner.
"New here? Looking for a seat?" Russell spoke dryly, attempting to break the awkward situation.
The woman didn't answer. She merely tilted her head slightly, her grey-blue eyes lingering on him for a moment. Then, she walked in with a swagger and sat down right next to Russell.
Doomed. I can't escape now.
Russell lamented inwardly. He silently retracted the foot that had already taken a half-step out and sat up straight again, trying to look like a good student listening attentively.
The arrival of this uninvited guest was like a giant boulder thrown into a calm lake, stirring up significant ripples in the back row of the auditorium.
The originally drowsy students cast curious glances one after another, bringing Russell, who was in the corner, into their line of sight as well.
The spotlight effect made Russell feel like he was sitting on pins and needles.
The woman beside him, however, seemed deaf to it all. She crossed her legs and leaned back against the chair, her posture lazy and casual.
Her gaze swept quickly around the auditorium again. Those grey-blue eyes held none of the curiosity or awe that a freshman should have.
On the contrary, her look was like that of a seasoned criminal investigator scrutinizing a crime scene.
No, not a criminal investigator.
It should be... a detective.
Russell frowned. He couldn't quite say why he had such a thought. But instinct told him that for the woman before him, "detective" was definitely a more fitting description than "criminal investigator."
Just as Russell was thinking this, the woman observing the auditorium suddenly turned her head and cast her gaze upon him.
Her voice wasn't loud, yet it traveled clearly into Russell's ears:
"You are nervous."
She didn't speak a question, but a statement.
"Huh?" Russell froze for a second, instinctively refuting, "No, I'm just... a bit hot."
"Since I sat down, your left index finger has unconsciously tapped your thigh exactly eleven times. This is a typical physiological reaction under a state of anxiety."
Her speech was extremely fast and her enunciation clear, as if reading a report written in advance.
"Furthermore, your shoe soles are stained with the mixture of coal ash and small amounts of clay unique to the back alleys of Baker Street. There is a half-dried footprint on your left pant leg, indicating you stepped in a puddle when you went out.
Judging by the evaporation rate of the water stain, you left the house approximately one hour and fifteen minutes ago.
"Normal walking time from Baker Street to here is only forty minutes.
You are late. It should be intentional, the purpose being to choose a seat in the very last row. Additionally, your muscles are tense all over, and your line of sight constantly shifts between the back door and the podium.
"Conclusion—you are planning to escape."
Russell opened his mouth, but couldn't squeeze out a single word.
Just as he was pondering the background of this person before him, she unexpectedly called out his name directly.
"Russell Watson."
Holy shit, doxxed!
Russell's mind went blank instantly, the blood in his whole body seemingly congealing.
He swore that in the nineteen years since he crossed over, this was the moment closest to a supernatural phenomenon, aside from facing the System panel.
The other party didn't care about Russell's shocked gaze, but continued on her own:
"You live at 221B Baker Street. Your hobbies are sleeping in and tinkering with some nutritionless pranks.
There are slight ink stains on your cuffs, but your finger joints are very clean, proving you don't write often. However, being able to test into this place is enough to prove your IQ isn't low.
"In addition, you seem very irritable, frowning from time to time. I guess it's because my appearance just now interrupted your plan to escape.
Before I apologize to you, I'd like to confirm first—is there anything wrong with what I just said?"
A barrage of reasoning without punctuation rained down like a storm. Russell was smashed dizzy and couldn't say a word for a long time.
Is there anything wrong?
It's almost entirely correct!
So what, do you want me to give you an award?!
"You... how did you know?"
Russell suppressed the urge to curse and struggled to squeeze out a smile.
Hearing this, the corners of the black-haired woman's mouth hooked up in an extremely shallow arc.
"Basic observation and deduction, that's all," she said in a tone of course-it-is.
"Starting with the simplest part: your name."
She lifted her chin, gesturing at the freshman name tag on Russell's chest.
"It's hanging right there, Mr. Russell Watson."
Russell instinctively looked down. The name tag he had forgotten in the corner was hanging blatantly on his chest.
"Then... what about the residence?" he asked again.
"When I moved in, Mrs. Hudson mentioned you to me.
She said the tenant in 221B next door, Mr. Watson, is a lazybones who likes to play pranks but looks decent enough."
Her gaze lingered on Russell's face for two seconds. "She was indeed correct. In every sense."
"..."
"And the final point," she concluded, her tone carrying obvious boredom. "For anyone preparing to flee a boring lecture only to be interrupted, their micro-expressions and body language will display a high degree of consistency."
"..."
Russell didn't know what to say for a moment.
Or rather, after hearing the person before him deliver a spree of deductions about him, it was hard for him to think about the earlier matter regarding Mary Morstan.
Only one thought remained in his mind right now.
Who is this absolute badass?
"Charlotte. Charlotte Holmes. Also your future neighbor, and classmate."
The other party seemed to guess his thought at this moment, so she offered her name.
Hearing the other party's name, Russell froze first, then suddenly realized, smiling with relief.
Oh, Holmes.
That's not strange then.
Wait...
Holmes?!
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