"Evidently," Russell mimicked her tone, setting the mug of milk on the coffee table, and nudged scattered documents aside with his toes to make himself some standing space.
"So, the pupil is still refusing to confess?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"It's not just refusal," Charlotte's voice revealed a trace of irritation. "He keeps repeating the same words, like some brainwashed lunatic."
"What does he say?"
Russell sipped his milk.
"He says, 'My master left for the pursuit of art.'" She paused, her gray-blue eyes scanning Russell's unremarkable face as if searching for a hint.
"I need your common sense, Watson."
"Again?" Russell sighed. "Common sense suggests a stubborn suspect should be dealt with by an experienced Scotland Yard detective—rather than bothering a university student who has class tomorrow."
"Scotland Yard?" Charlotte snorted, as if she'd just heard the joke of the century.
"They're already considering whether to torture a confession out of him. If Lestrade hadn't insisted on stopping them, this case might be tomorrow's front page news."
"Lestrade is truly an excellent officer," Russell took another gulp, resolving not to mix any more green plants into his next pipe.
"In other words, these people's brains are just as empty as the skull above the fireplace—if not emptier."
"At least they wouldn't play the violin at two in the morning."
Russell muttered the last bit under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Charlotte.
[Charlotte Holmes finds your comment mildly irritating. Malice +10.]
Hey, a bonus! Russell coughed, deciding to quit while ahead—he didn't want another round beneath the genius's piercing gaze.
"So," he said, steering the conversation back. He set the empty mug on the coffee table.
"What exactly do you need from my common sense? Help analyzing that wild claim about the pursuit of art?"
"No," Charlotte replied crisply. "It's not about analyzing madness. It's about understanding why madness is spoken of." Her gray-blue eyes watched him as if appraising a tool.
After a moment, she seemed to make up her mind.
"Sit," she said, pointing to the room's only relatively clean armchair across from her.
Russell felt like a suspect shoved into an interrogation seat, but obeyed.
"Now," Charlotte sat opposite, leaning forward with her hands folded authoritatively on her knees,
"Close your eyes and imagine you're the disciple, Edgar Wright."
"Roleplay? I'll have to charge extra."
She ignored his joke, maintaining the serious atmosphere.
"You love your master deeply, see him as father and god, and regard everything he teaches as the ultimate truth. Now, he's dead—right before your eyes—and everyone is accusing you of murder. Tell me, Watson—according to your common sense, what should you be feeling right now?"
Russell closed his eyes and followed her prompt, then, after a moment's thought, replied quietly.
"Despair, grief, a sense of being betrayed by the world—and…fear. Fear of the gallows."
"Exactly." Charlotte nodded. "That's exactly the normal reaction for an ordinary person in such a situation. But—" she suddenly shifted tone, "Edgar didn't show those. He was sad, yes, but felt no anger—nor fear. He was like an empty shell."
"Artists tend to be a bit abstract in temperament. That's not unusual," Russell shrugged.
For a split second, Charlotte's gray-blue eyes flashed as if she were a gorilla being asked to discuss Shakespeare.
"That's not abstraction, that's logical error," she corrected. "Emotion is the primary force behind human action, always following strict chains of causality. Sorrow follows loss, anger follows injustice, and fear comes from the unknown. For Edgar, after sadness, the chain was broken."
"So?"
Russell steepled his hands behind him, looking as if to say, "You're probably right, but I don't get it."
"In other words, he's either lying—or something even stronger than fear or anger is supporting him now."
"Like what?"
"I don't know," Charlotte stopped and irritably ruffled her already tangled hair. "That's why I called you. I don't want to waste time on impossible questions—the kind with the odds of guessing pi."
She turned and looked down at Russell.
"So, I want you to think about it for me."
"…"
Russell's lips twitched, but after a contemplative pause, he said slowly,
"I do have a suggestion."
Let's hear it.
"Go to sleep."
Russell pointed to the window, where the sky was already turning pale blue.
"It's almost dawn, Holmes. Even if your brain is a steam engine, you still need coal and cooling. If you keep running in circles around the same problem, you'll overheat and collapse."
Charlotte was silent for a moment, then stared at him. After several seconds, she seemed to accept the advice, grounded in common sense.
"Fair enough," she said, turning to draw back the heavy curtains. The first light of dawn pierced the darkness, lighting her pale face and the dark circles under her eyes.
"As a reward for your helpful advice," she said without turning, "I want a hot coffee, double sugar and milk, and a copy of The Times untouched by the paperboy's dirty hands—delivered at 7 AM sharp."
"Let Mrs. Hudson do it. I've got school," Russell yawned and frowned.
"Wait, shouldn't you be going too?"
"Mycroft arranged my exemption," Charlotte replied calmly. "I can miss every class until graduation without it affecting my diploma."
"Bureaucracy…" Russell muttered a curse under his breath.
"It's the arrangement—Mycroft wanted me to make the effort to fit in, and in return, he agreed to help me avoid unnecessary, inefficient social interactions," Charlotte explained.
Russell was too sleepy to answer.
. . .
…
Imperial College London, Lecture Hall
Russell picked the rearmost seat by the windows and promptly started a nap party as soon as he sat down. Sunlight streaming through the big glass panes was comforting as a warm cat lying on his chest. Whatever the professor was saying on stage was of no importance—sleep mattered more.
But just as he was slipping into dreams, he heard the faint scrape of the chair next to him. Soon after, a familiar scent of white tea and ink drifted to his nose, instantly cutting his drowsiness in half.
He didn't even need to open his eyes to know who it was.
Mary Morstan's voice sounded in his ear.
"Is it really so wrong to nap in your very first class of the semester?"
…