「...」
At that moment, it was as if the air had frozen over.
Mary's smile, bearing an undercurrent of expectation, a hint of pride, even a budding girlish joy, was as delicate as fine porcelain fresh from the kiln—her expression seemed to crack and scatter bit by bit in the cold wind.
Her blue eyes widened slightly, and in an instant, her flawless and perfect expression disappeared.
What is this man talking about? Is it really appropriate to say something like this in a situation like this? Is this... a provocation?
Noticing that Mary had gone silent for a moment, Russell asked again,
"Are you alright, Miss Morstan? Professor Thomson's lectures are... honestly, they're like hypnosis."
He scratched his head, posing like an earnest but not particularly gifted model student.
At last, Mary snapped back to herself, and looked seriously at Russell, who was sitting at his desk. Drawing in a deep breath, her previously frozen expression stirred again, but her smile had become... noticeably colder.
It's like talking to a corpse.
"Here," she said.
From her recently organized stack of books, she elegantly drew out the one at the very top.
"Thank you!" Russell beamed, eagerly reaching to accept it.
But at the very moment his fingertips brushed the notebook, Mary's hold slackened just a little.
Thud.
The heavy notebook dropped to the floor with a dull sound.
"Oh my, I'm sorry." Mary's gentle smile had not a hint of regret.
"My hand slipped."
Russell froze in place, halfway to reaching for the notebook. Slowly, he lowered his head to look at the notebook resting quietly on the floor, then raised his head again to look at the girl smiling before him like a saint.
[Mary Morstan is annoyed at your lack of romantic sensibility and is now determined to make things difficult for you. Malice level +10.]
Ugh, in a hurry again... Russell grumbled inwardly but didn't show it on his face.
"It's fine, I'll pick it up myself," he offered graciously, bending to retrieve the grades notebook.
Mary watched quietly as he picked it up, dusted it off, and carefully put it away in his bag.
Tch, she thought.
She really is annoyed. If she weren't restrained by her position and status, she would likely go even further to inconvenience him. Maybe she'd even step on his notebook and force him to beg before she relented.
[Mary Morstan now feels a deeper distaste toward you. Malice level +20.]
"Well then—"
Mary took a deep breath and tried to compose herself, but her voice was still tinged with a barely-suppressed tension.
"Let's not bother Watson with his studies any further," she said, then turned and left.
Her leather boots clacked sharply against the floor, quick and snappy, as if venting her owner's irritation.
"Wait—"
Russell's voice called out from behind, forcing Mary to halt once more.
"What, do you want more notes?" she asked, turning her head to glare at him.
"No, not that… I just meant—if I can make it after work, I plan to go there Saturday night," Russell replied.
"I'm not sure I'll make it... but I'll do my best."
"I don't like giving promises I'm not sure I'll keep... but this is the best answer I can give."
Hearing his words, the tension visibly left Mary's shoulders. She turned, those icy blue eyes fixing upon Russell once more.
Only seconds ago, her eyes were as cold as a Siberian front, but now faint ripples were appearing, as if the ice and snow of a spring lake were beginning to melt.
"...Alright."
Her reply was gentle and toneless, but Russell detected a subtle, nearly invisible thread of happiness within it.
"Don't expect too much," he cautioned, feeling the need to set expectations up front.
"I really might be late... or I might not even show up at all."
"I see." Mary nodded, saying nothing more. She looked at Russell with those blue eyes, as if trying to etch his insincere sincerity into her heart. Then, she turned and left with calm, elegant steps.
This time, the tapping of her boots had returned to their usual measured cadence, no longer agitated.
Russell watched her disappear through the doorway and let out a long sigh of relief.
"Women really are trouble," he muttered to himself as he stowed away the borrowed notebook and got ready to head out.
…
When Russell returned to 221B Baker Street, he pushed open Charlotte's door with ease, only to be assaulted by the suffocating stench of rosin mixed with chemical reagents—enough to make him feel faint.
Even after the case had been solved, the state of the room hadn't improved; if anything, it had gotten worse. Sheet music, empty test tubes, and open textbooks on toxicology were scattered haphazardly over the floor.
Charlotte Holmes herself, the room's owner, was sitting with her legs draped over the arm of her chair, half-hanging from the seat and lazily leaning on the coffee table. She idly plucked at her violin strings with the bow, producing a sound that was more noise than music.
"I thought you'd finally give this poor Stradivarius a break now that the case is solved," Russell muttered, holding his nose with a look of distaste as he entered.
Charlotte didn't even bother to lift her eyelids as she replied, indifferent, "Boredom is the greatest enemy of intelligence, Watson. The case may have ended, but another hasn't yet appeared. I must always find something to do."
"Well, you shouldn't take it out on your instrument," Russell said indignantly. "If it could talk, it would be denouncing your barbarism right now!"
Finally, Charlotte looked away from the imaginary stain on the ceiling and glanced briefly at him with her steel-gray blue eyes.
"It already does," she replied. "It speaks a language only those lacking imagination could understand."
"..."
Russell decided there was no point in arguing philosophy with this woman.
"Could you at least mind your posture a little?" he said.
"What?" Charlotte arched a brow at him.
"This is my room, my private space, and I can't even choose how I sit?"
"No, I just—never mind, do whatever makes you happy," Russell shrugged, tossing the sandwich he'd casually brought from school onto the only relatively clean corner of the table and pulling over a chair.
Then he took out an invitation.
"This is for you."
Charlotte accepted the invitation and glanced at it.
"An icebreaker party? A boring social game where hormone-ridden youngsters gather to exchange insincere compliments and cheap gossip. If there's anything genuine to be found, it's only in the restless hormones of such a group," she sneered, tossing it contemptuously onto the nearest pile of trash.
"Not interested."
"But Mr. Timmy Roy and Mr. Macoff both specifically instructed me to tell you they wish you'd take part in more social activities." Russell deliberately mentioned her brother's name.
As expected, Charlotte's brow furrowed at the mention of Mycroft.
"That only makes me more disinterested," she said icily. "Go by yourself."
"Sorry, I wasn't invited." Russell shrugged. "That's why I said the invitation was for you, not me."
…