"Obvious."
Russell mimicked Charlotte's tone as he placed the milk in his hand onto the coffee table. He casually used the toe of his shoe to sweep aside the documents scattered all over the floor, clearing a small space where he could actually stand.
"So, that Mr. Apprentice is still unwilling to plead guilty?" he asked, despite knowing the answer.
"It is not merely a matter of not pleading guilty." Charlotte's voice revealed a trace of irritability. "He keeps repeating the same sentence, like a brainwashed madman."
"What sentence?" Russell picked up the milk and took a sip.
"'Teacher went to pursue his art.'"
She paused, her grey-blue eyes staring dead at Russell, as if trying to discern some clue from his unremarkable face.
"Mr. Watson, I need your common sense."
"Again?" Russell sighed. "My common sense tells me that when encountering such an uncooperative suspect, he should be handed over to the experienced detectives at Scotland Yard.
Instead of making things difficult for a university student who has to go to school tomorrow."
"Scotland Yard?" Charlotte let out a disdainful snort, as if she had heard the funniest joke of the century.
"They are currently considering whether to use torture to extract a confession.
If not for Lestrade doing his utmost to stop them, perhaps we would see the case results on the front page of The Times tomorrow."
"Then Inspector Lestrade really is a good cop." Russell took another sip of milk.
Next time, I won't mix lawn clippings into his pipe.
"Anyway, those people's brain structures are no different from the skull on the mantelpiece. In fact, they are even emptier than it."
"At least it doesn't play the violin at two in the morning."
Russell muttered in a low voice, successfully earning a sharp glare from Charlotte.
[Charlotte Holmes feels a trace of displeasure at your complaint. Malice Points +10]
Heh, an unexpected harvest.
Russell cleared his throat, deciding to quit while he was ahead. He didn't want to experience the sensation of being dissected by a genius's gaze again.
"So," Russell placed the empty milk cup back on the coffee table, deciding to steer the topic back on track.
"What do you want my common sense to do for you? Help you analyze that crazy talk about pursuing art?"
"No," Charlotte denied flatly. "I don't need to analyze crazy talk; I need to understand why he is speaking crazy talk."
Charlotte's grey-blue eyes locked onto him tightly, as if assessing the usability of a tool.
Desperate seconds later, she seemed to make a decision.
"Sit." She pointed concisely to the armchair opposite her, the only one that was relatively tidy.
Russell sat down as instructed, feeling as though he had been pushed into an interrogation chair.
"Now," Charlotte sat down opposite him, leaning her body forward and clasping her hands on her knees, forming a highly oppressive posture.
"Close your eyes. Imagine you are that apprentice, Edgar Wright."
"Role-playing?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "That'll cost extra."
Charlotte ignored his banter, continuing to set the atmosphere on her own:
"You love your teacher deeply. You view him as a father, as a god. You hold all his teachings as your guiding principles.
Now, he is dead. He died right in front of you, and everyone accuses you of being the murderer.
Tell me, Mr. Watson, in your common sense, what should you be feeling right now?"
Russell closed his eyes, beginning to imagine in coordination with her words.
A moment later, he spoke slowly:
"Despair, grief, anger at being betrayed by the whole world, and... fear. Fear that I will be sent to the gallows."
" completely correct." There was a hint of approval in Charlotte's voice.
"This is exactly the normal reaction of a normal person in this situation. However,"
She shifted the conversation, her tone turning ice-cold.
"Edgar did not. He had grief, but no anger, and certainly no fear. His entire being was like an empty shell."
"People who do art are all more or less a bit abstract; I actually think that's normal." Russell shrugged.
Hearing this, a trace of fleeting impatience flashed through Charlotte's grey-blue eyes, as if she were listening to a chimpanzee discuss Shakespeare.
"This is not abstract; this is a logical fallacy," she corrected.
"Emotion is the most fundamental driving force of human behavior. It follows strict causality.
Grief stems from loss. Anger stems from injustice. Fear stems from the unknown.
But Edgar... his emotional logic chain broke after the link of grief."
"So?" Russell tucked his hands into his sleeves, putting on an expression that said, 'Everything you say is right, but I just don't get it.'
"So, either he is telling a colossal lie."
Charlotte stood up and began pacing the room, the hem of her dark blue nightgown dragging out a silent trajectory on the floor.
"Or, there is a more powerful emotion, one that transcends fear and anger, supporting his current state."
"Such as?"
"I don't know." Charlotte stopped pacing, irritably scratching her already messy curly hair.
"That is the reason I called you in. I don't want to waste time thinking about such irrational problems; the probability of such questions is like Pi."
She turned around, looking down at Russell from above.
"Therefore, I need you to think on my behalf."
"..."
The corner of Russell's mouth twitched.
Subsequently, he put on a contemplative expression. Only after a moment did he slowly speak:
"I actually thought of one."
"Let's hear it."
"Sleep." Russell pointed to the sky outside the window, which was already turning the pale white of a fish's belly.
"Dawn has broken, Miss Holmes. Even if your brain is a steam engine, it needs coal and cooling.
Thinking about the same problem continuously will only overheat your thinking, eventually turning it into a pile of scrap metal."
Charlotte fell silent.
She stared at Russell. A few seconds later, she seemed to accept this suggestion derived from common sense.
"Makes some sense." She turned and walked to the window, pulling open the heavy curtains.
The first ray of morning light pierced the darkness, illuminating her pale face and the dark circles under her eyes.
"Then, as remuneration for providing effective advice," she said without turning her head.
"At seven o'clock tomorrow morning, I want a cup of hot coffee with double sugar and milk, and a copy of The Times that hasn't been touched by the dirty hands of a newsboy."
"Let Mrs. Hudson do it; I still have to go to school." Russell yawned, then frowned.
"Wait, don't you have to go too?"
"I have an exemption right. Mycroft gave it to me," Charlotte said faintly.
"Even if I skip every class during my entire university period, it won't affect my getting a diploma."
"Evil bureaucracy."
Russell cursed secretly.
"It's a trade. Mycroft wants me to try and integrate into normal human society, and my requirement was that he help me avoid all unnecessary, invalid social interactions," Charlotte explained.
Russell did not continue the conversation.
Because he was truly too sleepy.
·
Imperial College, Lecture Hall.
Russell chose the seat furthest back and closest to the window, then sat there and slumped directly onto the desk.
Sunlight spilled in through the massive glass window, warm and cozy, lying on his body like a docile cat.
What the professor on the podium was saying was no longer important; getting a good sleep was the top priority.
However, just as he was about to successfully rendezvous with the Sandman, the sound of a chair being dragged slightly rang out beside him.
Immediately after, a familiar scent—a mixture of white tea and ink—drilled into his nose.
Russell's sleepiness was instantly dispelled by half.
He didn't need to open his eyes to know who had arrived.
Mary Morstan's voice rang in his ear.
"Sleeping during the first class of the new semester—isn't that a bit improper?"
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