The world-changing conclusion completely burned away the heavy atmosphere that had hung over the living room for three days, as if the fireplace flames themselves had consumed it.
Mary watched Charlotte collapse onto the sofa with a long sigh and smiled with satisfaction.
Two girls who normally exchanged sarcasm and cutting remarks whenever they shared a room had, in this space filled with the scent of tea and charcoal ash, reached a strange mutual understanding. The usual cold, confrontational jokes, the mutual suspicion and probing—all of it was gone.
Mary picked up her teacup again and took a sip of the slightly cooled tea. She looked out at the raging blizzard, but this time the suffocating anxiety in her eyes had faded, replaced by a lightness and vitality that suited her age.
"He walked hundreds of miles through wind and snow, carrying a box full of old paper, and finally pushed open this door. Instead of thanking heaven for his safety, we ought to laugh at the pitiful predicament he brought upon himself."
Mary lifted the cold teacup once more. She did not sing, yet the light, quick way her fingertips stroked the rim of the cup conveyed the young woman's excellent mood at that moment.
"He got what he deserved."
Charlotte snorted, yet her ash-blue eyes shone with expectation she could not hide.
"It's his own fault for always taking on the most troublesome work alone and treating everyone else like fools in a greenhouse."
Once the crisis had been logically resolved, the atmosphere visibly brightened, and the girls' conversation inevitably shifted to more everyday, personal topics.
Mary leaned forward a little, rested her chin on her hand, and adopted a very relaxed, slightly languid posture. She gazed at Charlotte's face—still lightly smudged with charcoal ash yet unable to conceal its beauty—and suddenly said quietly:
"Speaking of which, there are less than two days left until Christmas."
Charlotte looked up at her with a somewhat puzzled expression.
"I promised I would prepare a special Christmas present for him at Kensington Manor."
Mary's voice carried a faint trace of the cunning and composure unique to a lady of rank. She deliberately emphasised the word "special," and a meaningful light appeared in her emerald-green eyes.
"Well then, Miss Holmes? Now that the fog has cleared, would you temporarily set aside your detective's pride and help me prepare this gift?"
"After all, whether as a partner in cases or… in some other capacity, it would be better to let him understand my feelings a little sooner."
These words were spoken casually and elegantly, and combined with Mary's ambiguous smile, they almost openly invited crossing a certain boundary concerning the girl's emotions. The part of Charlotte's brain that had been thinking about the case immediately went on strike.
After two seconds of blankness, she suddenly realised the deeper meaning hidden in the young woman's words. A vivid flush instantly spread from her long white neck to her ears—so bright that even the fireplace flames could not hide it.
"You… you are truly shameless!"
Charlotte suddenly stood up and hastily turned her face away so she would not have to look at Mary's mischievous eyes.
"What on earth kind of outrageous thoughts run through your head all day!"
Seeing the usually meticulous, know-it-all detective as relaxed as a ripe apple, Mary could not help chuckling. On that snowy night, a clear, beautiful laugh restored a little youthful vitality to 221B Baker Street.
"Don't tell me you haven't done anything with him. I won't believe it."
Mary continued relentlessly. At the end, her voice rose slightly, carrying a somewhat languid intelligence.
Faced with the open probing and mockery of the head of the Morstan family, Charlotte's usual proud composure completely collapsed. She bit her lower lip hard, enduring the increasingly rapid beating of her heart as she tried to hide her irritation.
"These are not the same thing at all!"
The detective stubbornly retorted, her gaze unsteady, until she could only stare fixedly at the nearly ashed-out logs in the fireplace.
"Besides… who would want to go with you to deliver such a ridiculous gift?"
That man usually looks gentle and polite, but at heart he is a self-indulgent, shameless scoundrel.
As if recalling nights of back pain, an unconscious note of genuine dissatisfaction seeped into Charlotte's pronunciation.
"His monstrous stamina was probably not used solely for dealing with those gang thugs. Sometimes I seriously wonder whether a tireless steam engine is hidden inside his body. No matter how late he works, the next day he calmly serves perfectly fried bacon, while you are left without even the strength to get up."
The moment she said it, Charlotte shut her mouth in irritation. These everyday words that casually leaked inner dissatisfaction sounded exactly like the intimate whispers two married women might exchange over afternoon tea. Such words should never have come from the mouth of Holmes, who had always prided herself on rational thought. Hearing this indirect confession, Mary felt not the slightest jealousy; instead, she smiled in agreement.
"He truly does possess monster-level strength."
Mary quietly agreed with her feelings. She set down the teacup, raised her right hand—slightly reddened from the warmth of the bone-china cup—and traced an elegant arc with her fingertips. A somewhat contemplative expression appeared in her eyes.
"But more than his astonishing stamina, what I find most attractive about him… is his hands."
After those words, the air in the living room felt even more ambiguous. Mary leaned forward a little; in the flickering firelight her emerald-green eyes shone with a dangerous yet bewitching light.
"Those hands that can dismantle a complex mechanical padlock in 0.5 seconds in the dark and snap an enemy's neck in an instant are equally skilful and irresistibly charming when doing other things."
She unflinchingly watched Charlotte's increasingly red cheeks and spoke in a soft, low voice.
"Thanks to that precise, almost abnormal control, there was never a single wasted movement when undoing the heavy ribbons of a corset. He always knew exactly where to pause and how to apply pressure; even the rhythm of his calm words felt like a piano piece that had been choreographed in advance… It left people with no room to think or refuse; one could only be manipulated by him."
Charlotte's breathing clearly stopped for a moment. She unconsciously grabbed the velvet cushion beside her, hugged it tightly to her chest, and tried to resist Mary's aggressive frankness. Yet the image of those well-shaped hands and the sensation of them crawling across her skin repeatedly flashed through her mind.
Seeing Charlotte's face flush and a faint redness spread even to her white neck, Mary could not help chuckling again.
"Charlotte, are you still going to play dumb?"
Mary no longer called her Miss Holmes. Her tone carried a more intimate, teasing note suitable for girls of the same age.
"We have already fallen for the same fraudster, and when confronting him one of us is clearly at a physical disadvantage… shouldn't we seriously reconsider the Christmas present?"
Charlotte buried most of her face in the soft cushion, leaving only her ash-blue eyes visible as she glared at the elegant, composed professor in front of her. Her expression mixed embarrassment and irritation.
"Who would want to do something like that with you?"
Charlotte muttered something in a low voice, but this time the initial resistance and resolve were clearly lacking. She seemed somewhat hesitant.
Yet this rare gentle atmosphere did not last long.
Mary's smile faded a little; once Charlotte's flushed cheeks had calmed, their conversation gradually died away. The living room grew quiet again, and almost unconsciously their gazes turned toward the pendulum clock in the corner.
The relief gained from exposing Milverton's enormous lie vanished from the living room like the ebbing tide.
The hands passed the Roman numeral IX and began sliding slowly but steadily toward the X mark.
9:30.
Even allowing for the maximum delay caused by the blizzard, the last train from Sheffield to London should have arrived at Euston Station an hour earlier.
Yet Russell still had not returned.
Mary's smile slowly disappeared.
"If he took the six-o'clock from Sheffield and travelled at train speed, he should already be sitting on the sofa complaining about the cold weather by now."
Mary's voice was calm and showed no sign of panic, yet beneath that deliberately maintained composure lurked a tension ready to explode at any moment.
Charlotte did not answer. The body temperature that had just dropped a little fell again. She casually tossed the cushion aside and hurriedly returned to the window, stepping onto the cashmere carpet.
Outside, the snow in London showed no sign of stopping. The wind whipped up large clumps of snow that swirled violently in the dim light of the gas lamps, like a white giant beast swallowing the city.
"Either the tracks have frozen on a large scale, or a serious snow-clearing accident has occurred at the signal box, and all southbound trains are stranded in the wilderness."
Charlotte stared fixedly at the frost clinging to the glass and first considered the most likely natural disasters.
Mary said nothing. Neither of them wanted to voice the possibility; neither wished to contemplate deeply.
A more realistic possibility.
Northern industrial cities did not value etiquette and rules the way London's West End did; they were overflowing with the most vicious outlaws. Russell had not only had to face the fury of the blizzard but also had to break through the deeply rooted local bullies alone. His skills were indeed excellent, yet he was still only human.
Mary suddenly stood up. The motion was so forceful that the tea tray on the small table overturned; the bone-china teacup struck the table with a loud noise. Yet this woman who always paid attention to etiquette paid it no mind. She walked straight to the coat rack by the door and vigorously pulled off the slightly damp cloak.
"I'm going to find the station master at Euston."
Mary threw the cloak over her shoulders and quickly fastened the straps with her fingers.
"If the Grand Central Railway's private communication lines are cut, I will use the Morstan name to contact the Military Intelligence communication room and have them connect me to the military telegraph lines to locate someone."
"I'm coming with you."
Charlotte had already leapt up from the sofa and seized the thick coat hanging over the back of the chair.
Waiting itself had already reached the limit for both of them. Walking through mud and blizzard outside was far better than remaining shut in this stifling room thinking meaningless thoughts.
The moment both their hands stretched toward the living-room doorknob at the same time—
"Ring-ring!"
Downstairs on the front porch, the old brass doorbell suddenly rang with a sharp, rapid sound.
For 0.5 seconds the two of them froze as if turned to ice.
In the next instant, composure, self-control, and reason were all blown away.
Charlotte flew out of the living room without even fastening her coat buttons. The corridor was narrow; Mary followed right beside her, and the two of them almost raced side by side toward the rather steep wooden stairs.
"Don't push!"
"Holmes, you stepped on my skirt!"
"Stop pretending! The key is clearly in his pocket!"
The two girls who had been praising each other only moments earlier stumbled and hurried downstairs like toddlers fighting over a priceless treasure.
Charlotte skipped the last three steps, regained her balance, and flung open the heavy oak door with force.
"That damned bastard!"
Charlotte's dissatisfaction—mixed with relief and irritation—stuck in her throat.
The young man in the black coat with the enigmatic smile was not standing outside the door.
A cutting blizzard-like wind rushed into the narrow corridor; the gas-lamp flame flickered and went out.
Standing in the wind and snow was a middle-aged man wearing a deep-grey overcoat and a silk hat covered in snow.
Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
From the great disappointment of expectations betrayed, Charlotte and Mary's faces instantly turned pale. The only sound echoing in the lobby was their slightly ragged breathing from having run so hard.
Lestrade clearly had not expected such a scene when the door opened. He brushed the snow from his boots, removed his silk hat, and glanced at Charlotte and at the head of the Morstan family who should not have been there. His expression instantly changed to surprise.
"Miss Morstan?"
Lestrade frowned, unable to hide the astonishment in his tone.
"What are you doing on Baker Street in such terrible weather?"
But there was no reply to this greeting.
"What's wrong?"
Charlotte opened her mouth.
"If there's a case that needs solving, don't come looking for me. I'm busy right now."
Noticing that the two girls' behaviour was strange, Lestrade did not even have the energy to investigate why they were staring at him as if they had seen a ghost at midnight. He solemnly put his hat back on, tapped the riding crop at his waist, and began speaking in the urgent, business-like tone unique to those in charge of a case.
"Charlotte, put on your coat and get into the carriage with me at once. Don't waste time. This is Mycroft's order."
"Where are we going?"
Charlotte asked, disappointed.
Lestrade raised his coat collar against the cutting wind and lowered his voice to speak a certain name. The moment the two girls heard it, they both caught their breath.
"The Savoy Hotel."
…