Passing through the grand gates of Belville Street, the clear early-winter air of London wrapped around him. Just as Mycroft had predicted, the blizzard that had raged for three days and three nights had finally ceased. A thin mist drifted over the Thames, and the gas lamps cast soft, warm yellow circles of light across the snow-covered streets.
Russell did not hail any of the carriages waiting at the corner. He thrust both hands deep into the pockets of his cashmere coat and walked west along the quiet, deserted road, his boots crunching softly on the smooth snow. His steps felt much lighter than before.
When he turned onto the familiar street, the distant Westminster clock struck three in the morning.
221B Baker Street.
Russell stopped and looked up. From the second-floor living-room window a bright, steady, warm light still shone. Even through the ice-cold glass he could picture the two girls waiting for him in front of the fireplace.
He pushed open the heavy oak door on the ground floor. Mrs Hudson was already fast asleep. Russell lightened his tread and stepped onto the wooden staircase that still creaked faintly no matter how many times it had been trodden.
Reaching the second-floor door, he drew a deep breath and placed his hand on the slightly tarnished brass doorknob.
A soft click.
The door swung slowly open. The pure warmth of the burning fireplace mingled with the fragrance of fine tea, instantly filling the room and driving away the residual chill from his body. On the sofa two figures sat close together, apparently having fallen asleep after the long wait.
Russell let out a quiet sigh of relief and moved even more carefully. He closed the door behind him, then glanced at the empty teacups on the table and the fireplace. The fire had already grown quite weak; no one had added wood for some time.
Very good. This was not acting.
He nodded silently to himself and turned toward the bedroom to fetch a blanket. He had no intention of waking Charlotte and Mary. Feeling a little guilty, he decided to let them rest on the sofa for the night.
Was there anything that could not be settled tomorrow?
Just as Russell bent to pick up the bedding, his nose suddenly twitched. The scent of white camellias drifted around him.
Then a cool, well-proportioned hand suddenly appeared from below and firmly seized his wrist.
"Body temperature normal, pulse stable." The fabric of the coat was completely dry to the touch. There was no fishy smell of the Thames at all—only a faint trace of gunpowder…
Charlotte spoke while her nose twitched almost imperceptibly. After a slight tremor her long lashes finally opened.
"Even December snow could not completely mask the scent of the Cuban cigars kept exclusively in Mycroft's study."
Russell sighed and left his wrist in her grasp.
"Acting is meaningless."
"Mr Russell, the opening statement of your self-criticism was far too formal. And who started this in the first place?"
From the side another languid voice slowly rose.
"I was betting whether you would sneak in through the front door or climb in through the window like a real thief. In the end you chose the somewhat dignified method."
The girl stepped barefoot onto the warm carpet, hooked the hem of Russell's coat with her fingertips, and drew him a fraction closer.
"But that does not cancel the debt you incurred by leaving us behind at the crime scene and running off to play the lone hero."
Completely blocked by the two formidable opponents on either side, Russell could only abandon any feeble resistance.
"Yes, I confess. I went to Belville Street and met Mr Holmes. While there I had a glass of cognac at his walnut desk."
Russell kept his wrist in Charlotte's grip and offered a reassuring smile.
Mary watched with great interest as Russell calmly bluffed his way through. She slowly released the hem of the coat, then lightly rested her wrist on his shoulder and gently stroked the soft cashmere of the collar with her fingertips. The delicate fragrance of white-camellia flowers blended with tea quietly filled the small space and mercilessly enveloped Russell's breathing.
"Debts cannot be repaid with words, Mr Russell."
Mary tilted her head slightly. Her long golden hair spilled over one shoulder; the tips brushed Russell's cheek and tickled faintly. Her voice was soft, yet it carried the sweet, irresistible timbre that only those who hold power possess.
"You not only frightened this proud detective—you made her worry about you in that terrible weather."
Mary's emerald eyes curved slightly. Her gaze travelled down the straight bridge of Russell's nose and finally settled on his lips, which were a little dry from the journey.
"You lost my precious Mr Moriarty…"
She leaned even closer; her warm breath almost touched his ear.
"So shouldn't they repay the debt they owe me—with interest—over the next many years?"
The moment the words left their mouths both girls reached out at the same time, applied a little force to his arms, and pushed Russell down onto the bed.
In the instant gravity vanished Russell made no instinctive defensive move. He simply yielded to the two not-especially-strong thrusts and sank into the soft mattress.
Charlotte still did not loosen her hold on his wrist. Kneeling on one knee at the edge of the bed, she used her higher position to press the mattress down. Her cool hair fell beside Russell's cheek; in the dim light her ash-blue eyes shone with a hunter's gleam.
"Mr Russell, your pulse is accelerating."
Charlotte's gaze slowly travelled down the line of his neck.
"The pride you take in remaining calm and composed does not seem to have combined well with the composure of a man about to jump from a building when confronted with two bills at once."
Before Russell could offer any defence, the mattress on the opposite side began to sink slightly. Mary calmly unbuttoned the collar of her deep-green cloak and let the expensive coat slide soundlessly onto the carpet. She bent down, rested one hand against Russell's ear, and with the other deftly undid the buttons of his cashmere coat.
The delicate scent of white camellias mixed with the smoky black tea unique to Baker Street completely filled this small private space. Outside the window the wind and snow had long since stopped, yet inside this unspoken stalemate the temperature continued to rise steadily.
"Moriarty was the most cunning criminal in the British Empire."
Mary's slender fingers slipped inside the open coat and, through the slightly cool shirt, lightly traced the position of his heart. Feeling the genuine, powerful heartbeat beneath, a flash of relief appeared in the girl's emerald-green eyes, followed immediately by an even purer possessiveness.
"In order to prevent that self-centred swindler from once again vanishing and escaping, I believe stricter physical restraint measures are required."
Completely cornered and surrounded on both sides, Russell rested his tense back against the mattress below and calmly met the two girls' stern gazes.
"May I hire a lawyer?"
"Considering the seriousness of the crimes you have committed, you are not entitled to legal counsel."
"That is truly harsh."
"This is what you brought upon yourself, Russell."
Charlotte accurately seized his necktie with her free hand and pulled him up with overwhelming force. In the dim light their noses almost touched; they could clearly feel each other's breath mingling.
"By the way, tonight's payment is interest only."
"And the rest?"
Russell pressed his forehead lightly against Charlotte's and asked gently.
"The rest is, of course—"
Mary turned her face sideways; her soft breath brushed Russell's earlobe, sending a shiver down his spine. She delivered the final verdict in a tone that admitted no argument.
"From this moment on, and for the whole of your future."
The girl spoke quietly, then turned her face a little. The three of them were close enough for their faces to touch, breathing one another's air.
"I hereby declare that the judgement takes effect from this very instant."
The moment the words left her mouth Mary leaned forward without hesitation and sealed Russell's resistance with a gentle yet irresistible kiss. Her lips, carrying youthful radiance and a faint floral fragrance, pressed precisely against his still-parted mouth; a trace of cognac lingered on them. It was not a fierce plunder, but rather like the exclusive wax seal of the Morstan family being slowly and carefully stamped upon a precious private contract.
Russell caught his breath. He felt Mary's arms tighten a little around his neck—an awkward, slightly clumsy yet determined assertion of dominance that spread through the warm, dim bedroom where their lips met.
Just as Russell instinctively began to respond, a rebellious voice came from the other side.
Charlotte suddenly withdrew the hand that still firmly held his necktie. The force, laden with warning and punishment, made Russell tilt his head slightly, turning his gaze away from the emerald-green eyes right beside him and into the stormy ash-blue sea.
"Before hearing all of the prosecution's arguments, it would be better not to try to obtain a reduced sentence by cooperating with the other judge."
Charlotte's voice was a little husky because she was so close.
The eyes that usually shone with rational light were now veiled in a shimmering, watery glow. The girl lifted her chin slightly and blew her warm breath unhesitatingly across Russell's cheek.
"In a long-term judgement that requires the joint work of two people, I believe the most fundamental principle is the fair allocation of attention."
As she spoke she reached out with her free hand and let her fingertips slide along the collar of Russell's shirt; the slightly cool touch landed exactly on his collarbone.
On the left side the elegance of white camellias; on the right the cool clarity of smoky black tea.
The deep-black cashmere coat dyed in the characteristic colour of the thief finally could no longer withstand their pulling and slipped completely off, falling with a dull sound onto the carpet beside the bed.
This also meant that at this moment Moriarty's identity had been completely stripped away.
Two young women of considerable influence in London now displayed perfect coordination and had firmly confined the once-arrogant Moriarty within their own territory.
Mary deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding past Russell's lips in a slow, deliberate kiss.
The soft heat of her mouth sent a warm pulse of pleasure through him. He answered in kind, tongue meeting hers, tasting the faint floral sweetness that clung to her. A quiet satisfaction settled in his chest as he felt her body press closer, soft breasts against his chest through the remaining layers of cloth.
Charlotte did not wait. She finished unbuttoning his shirt with precise, efficient movements and pushed the fabric open, exposing the hard planes of his torso. Her cool fingers traced down his sternum, then lower, until they reached the waistband of his trousers. She unfastened them without ceremony and drew the fabric down together with his underclothes.
Russell's cock sprang free—already thick and fully hard, the head flushed and glistening at the tip.
Charlotte's ash-blue eyes darkened with clear intent. She leaned down and took him into her mouth in one smooth motion, lips sealing around the shaft as she sank lower.
The sudden wet heat made Russell's hips twitch. A deep, rolling satisfaction spread through his lower body as her tongue worked along the underside, careful and thorough. She sucked with focused intensity, the cool detective now completely absorbed in the task of taking him deeper.
Mary broke the kiss only long enough to shrug off her own cloak and the dress beneath it.
The white camellia scent grew stronger as bare skin was revealed—slender waist, soft breasts tipped with pale pink nipples, and the smooth, already damp folds between her thighs. She straddled Russell's waist just above Charlotte's head, then leaned down again and claimed his mouth in another lingering kiss.
Their tongues slid together wetly while Charlotte continued to suck him with steady, deliberate strokes.
Russell's free hand rose to cup one of Mary's breasts, thumb brushing the stiff nipple. She moaned softly into his mouth, the sound vibrating against his lips and sending another wave of pleasure through him.
The dual sensation—Mary's warm tongue and Charlotte's tight, skilled mouth—built a heavy, grounded satisfaction low in his gut.
Charlotte eventually released him with a wet sound. She rose onto her knees, stripped away the last of her own clothing with the same efficient calm she applied to everything else, and positioned herself over his cock. The tip pressed against her entrance. She sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch. Her inner walls clenched tightly around the thick intrusion; a sharp, high breath escaped her as the stretch filled her completely. Pleasure bloomed deep inside her—thick, overwhelming, and deeply satisfying.
Russell felt the same: the silken heat of her cunt gripping him perfectly, a quiet possessiveness settling in his chest.
Mary watched for a moment, then shifted forward until her wet folds hovered above Russell's face. He did not need instruction. He lifted his head and licked into her, tongue sliding through the slick folds and circling her clit. Mary's thighs trembled; she braced one hand against the headboard and the other against his shoulder as pleasure sparked through her.
Russell's tongue worked steadily, tasting her, while Charlotte began to ride him in earnest—rising and falling in a controlled rhythm that made wet, filthy sounds fill the quiet bedroom.
Every downward stroke of Charlotte's hips dragged against sensitive places inside her, sending fresh pulses of satisfaction up her spine. She leaned forward, one hand braced on Russell's chest.
Charlotte's normally composed expression had softened into open pleasure.
Russell's free hand found Mary's hip and guided her lower so he could suck her clit more firmly. She came first—thighs tightening around his head, a soft, broken cry escaping as clear fluid slicked his chin.
The release left her trembling and softly glowing with satisfaction.
Charlotte's rhythm grew less controlled.
Russell thrust upward to meet her, driving deeper.
The tight, rhythmic clench of her cunt around his cock pushed him closer. When she climaxed, her walls pulsed hard around him, milking his length in waves of pure pleasure.
The sensation dragged a low groan from Russell's throat; he held her hips and kept thrusting through it until her body softened above him.
He flipped their positions without fully withdrawing.
Charlotte ended on her back, legs spread wide.
Russell drove into her again with long, deep strokes while Mary knelt beside them. Mary leaned down and captured Russell's mouth in another hungry kiss, one hand stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.
The wet slide of her tongue against his, sent thick, rolling satisfaction through his entire body.
He pulled out of Charlotte only long enough to guide Mary onto her hands and knees. He entered her from behind in one smooth thrust.
Mary's back arched; a low moan of pleasure spilled from her as he filled her completely.
Russell fucked her with steady, powerful strokes, one hand reaching around to rub her swollen clit. Charlotte moved close, turned Russell's face toward her, and kissed him deeply—tongue sliding against his while he continued to thrust into Mary.
Mary came with a sharp cry, her cunt clamping down hard around him. The rhythmic pulsing pushed Russell over the edge. He buried himself to the root and flooded her with thick ropes of cum, a heavy, grounding satisfaction rolling through him with every pulse.
When he finally withdrew, a white trickle immediately leaked from her and ran down the inside of her thigh.
He was still hard.
Charlotte pulled him back down, spread her legs, and guided him inside her again.
This time the pace was slower, deeper. They kissed continuously—long, wet kisses that swallowed each other's breaths—while he fucked her. Mary recovered enough to kneel beside them, one hand stroking Russell's back.
Russell came a second time deep inside Charlotte, the warm flood of his release triggering another orgasm in her. Her cunt squeezed him tightly as pleasure and satisfaction washed through both of them.
When the three of them finally stilled, the only sounds left in the room were soft breathing and the faint crackle of the dying fire downstairs. Russell lay on his back, one arm around each of the girls.
Mary's golden hair spilled across his chest; Charlotte's cooler body pressed against his other side. Both were marked with the faint red prints of his hands, lips swollen from kissing, bodies soft and thoroughly used.
Outside, the snow remained silent on Baker Street.
Inside, the debt of interest had been collected in full—and the principal would continue for the whole of their future.
…
Morning.
The first winter sunlight pierced the morning mist drifting over the Thames, passed over the roofs of London that the snow had made especially bright, and finally entered the room through the frost-covered windowpanes of 221B Baker Street.
Russell slowly awoke in a warm embrace. He opened his eyes gradually. After a momentary blank, the absurd, decadent and terrifying memories of the previous night surged over him like a tidal wave.
The bed beside him was empty; only faint traces and scattered scraps of fabric remained on the blankets. Yet between the pillows the rich fragrance of white-camellia flowers and smoked black tea still lingered.
Russell propped himself up with one hand on the disordered bed, and at that moment a strange, indescribable pain shot through his waist and abdomen. Even the legendary Moriarty, faced with two girls of extraordinary talent and perfect coordination, had ultimately been defeated in both physical strength and reason.
He could not help giving a bitter smile. He grabbed the clean shirt hanging on the back of the chair, put it on, and pushed open the bedroom door.
The living room was completely different from the heavy atmosphere of the previous night. The old walnut furniture, illuminated by the winter morning sun, was edged with dazzling gold. The fireplace burned brightly; the logs crackled cheerfully. In the corner by the window a fir tree about waist-high had suddenly appeared, its branches decorated with silver ribbons and delicate glass baubles that reflected the filtered sunlight. The smell of nitrates and tobacco that always lingered on Baker Street had vanished; from Mrs Hudson's kitchen downstairs drifted a rich, sweet aroma of cinnamon, baked apples and butter.
Today was Christmas.
"Ah, it seems Big Ben has finally begun to strike."
Hearing the sound of the bedroom door opening, Mary, who had been sitting on the single sofa by the window, set down her bone-china teacup. The girl wore a light beige dress of soft colour; her long golden hair was casually tied back with a deep-green hairband. Bathed in the morning sun, she rested both hands on her knees, a mischievous smile in her emerald eyes.
"If I were you, I would not stand so straight on a morning when I am tired."
Russell reluctantly adjusted his shirt collar and walked toward the fireplace.
"That is entirely thanks to the two judges."
Just then Charlotte came up from downstairs. She looked to be in a good mood today and held the morning newspaper in her hand.
"Look at this."
Charlotte said, then slapped the newspaper against Russell's chest.
"Mycroft's imagination for covering up the truth is far richer than that of the third-rate serial novelists on Fleet Street who make a living by writing."
Russell bent down and picked up the paper. The front page of The Times was almost completely covered in bold black ink.
[Horror Story at the Savoy Hotel: The Phantom Thief's Spectacular Exit – Media Magnate Revealed as King of Blackmail; Moriarty Caught in the Middle and Forced to Expose the Truth!]
The entire report perfectly linked Milverton's death with Moriarty's disappearance and completely denied any involvement by Whitehall. There was no unnecessary trial, no scandal, and what surprised Russell most was the final report concerning Moriarty.
No newspaper directly mentioned Moriarty's death; instead they devoted considerable space to describing his heroic and magnificent farewell. Some said he had fled, others that he had broken his own principles; in any case every paper seemed to avoid implicitly the possibility of death as the ending for this mysterious thief. Almost without exception they used the expression "missing," though whether that was meant as a form of mourning or as some kind of hint remained unclear.
Russell could not tell whether this was an idea from Fleet Street or a suggestion from Mycroft. In any case, it laid a good foundation for Moriarty's future comeback—assuming, of course, that he still intended to return to his former profession.
Either way, it was over. Everything had closed on Christmas Eve and reached its climax with the Christmas-morning news reports.
Russell rolled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it without hesitation into the fireplace. The flames instantly seized the paper and wrapped the tongs in a dazzling bright-yellow light.
"From today there is no Moriarty in London, is that right?"
Mary gazed at the rising ash and asked hesitantly.
"Who knows?"
Russell shrugged.
"At least for the present, Moriarty will absolutely not reappear. The only person here now is Russell Watson, student of Imperial College London."
Hearing this, Mary chuckled softly, stood up, and walked over to him carrying a steaming cup of tea.
"Then Merry Christmas, Mr Watson."
Russell took the teacup; warmth travelled from his palm to his heart.
"Merry Christmas, Mary. And Charlotte as well."
"There is no need to rush polite words."
Charlotte snorted, then turned, took a beautifully wrapped deep-blue velvet box from the desk drawer, and handed it to Russell.
"Since you are now merely an ordinary student, as both roommate and employer I have an obligation to grant you a small favour during the holidays."
Russell opened the box in surprise. Inside lay an exquisitely crafted pen with gold fragments inlaid in the nib.
"Now that Moriarty is gone, you can no longer sell gossip for money, can you? Compared with the cheap one you used before, this should make spelling a little faster. Use it to write out every word of the detective stories."
Baker Street does not tolerate freeloaders.
Charlotte turned her face away and pretended to look at the snow outside the window, yet her reddened ears betrayed her true feelings.
Seeing this, Mary refused to be outdone and quietly took a delicate pocket watch from her sleeve. The pure-silver case was engraved with fine vine patterns; when the clasp was pressed, the click of the gears rang clearly through the living room.
"Time must not remain forever imprisoned in the shadows of the past."
Mary slipped the pocket watch into Russell's shirt pocket and lightly tapped his heart with her fingertips.
"This is the new time zone the Morstan family has set for you. Of course Baker Street does not allow freeloaders, but Kensington always welcomes them."
"Mary Morstan!"
Charlotte's eyes widened. "What do you mean by that?!"
Mary set down the bone-china teacup and remained perfectly calm in the face of Charlotte's anger. She settled deeply into the sofa with a leisurely air; her tone carried unmistakable self-righteousness.
"Exactly what it sounds like, Charlotte. Kensington Manor has an entire floor of guest rooms empty… or rather, my room will be quite sufficient. If you drive Russell out of Baker Street, I can hardly just watch him wander the streets, can I?"
The girl blinked, then kissed Russell on the cheek.
"All right—the first kiss of the morning is mine."
"Russell is my assistant! His permanent-resident register clearly states 221B Baker Street!"
Charlotte stood in front of Russell and blocked Mary's almost invisible gaze with her not-particularly-broad shoulders.
"Don't think you can poach our staff with a flashy watch."
Mary rested her chin on her hand; a meaningful light shone in her emerald eyes.
"Oh? I seem to recall that last night, when a certain detective was dividing the spoils, she behaved very generously and appropriately. Why become so stingy the moment morning arrives?"
Charlotte's white cheeks flushed red all the way to her ears. She opened her mouth but could find no words of rebuttal.
"All right, you two—let's call a truce for this holiday."
Russell raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, then took Charlotte's wrist and pulled the irritated detective back onto the sofa.
Just as Charlotte was about to mutter something to save face, Mrs Hudson's voice came from outside the door.
"Russell, if you're awake come down and help me—this chicken is far too big!"
"Coming!"
Russell answered loudly and strode toward the door. He naturally took over Mrs Hudson's role and began handling the whole chicken. Mrs Hudson stepped aside and watched Russell's skilful movements, her eyes shining.
"You truly have talent. In the future why not apply those skills and become a restaurant chef?"
"That depends on whether Charlotte agrees."
Russell smiled.
"By the way, when did you get back? Why didn't I know?"
"When I returned you were asleep, so I came in quietly so as not to wake you."
Russell said.
"Bring me the chilli powder."
"Here you are."
Mrs Hudson took the pepper and was about to hand it to Russell when the old lady suddenly noticed several conspicuous red marks on Russell's neck.
"Ouch!"
Mrs Hudson cried out and almost dropped the pepper pot onto the cutting board. The landlady approached him as cautiously as a squirrel that has found fresh nuts. She narrowed her still-sharp eyes—though they had aged a little—and stared fixedly at the open collar of Russell's shirt, which had been loosened because he was bending over the turkey.
Around the young man's distinct neck and collarbone several red marks of varying shades were evenly distributed. Their shapes were indistinct, and faint tooth marks that had not yet faded remained.
"Russell Watson."
Mrs Hudson lowered her voice, yet the tone was full of irrepressible gossip and shock.
"Did you get into a fight in the snow last night, or…?"
The old lady casually glanced at the ceiling and then stared intently toward the second-floor living room.
"Was that something Charlotte left behind?"
Mrs Hudson's face lit up with surprise and excitement; the wrinkles smoothed out.
"My goodness, Miss Morstan was also up there this morning… Really, young people these days are something else…"
Russell nearly let the boning knife slip. He instinctively straightened his back and quickly fastened the top button of his shirt.
"Mrs Hudson, you are misunderstanding."
Russell cleared his throat twice, trying to assume the seriousness and sincerity expected of an Imperial College London graduate.
"The snow was extremely heavy last night; I may have brushed against some tree branches on the way home."
"Tree branches?"
Mrs Hudson wiped her hands on her apron and rolled her eyes, clearly mocking this lame excuse that would not even fool a three-year-old.
"Those were not tree branches, but white roses with teeth and thorny vetiver vines, weren't they?"
The old lady patted his shoulder lightly in a tone full of the comfort and playful teasing unique to those who have seen everything.
"All right, all right—I'm not one of those incompetent Scotland Yard officers. It's a good thing for a young man to have surplus energy during the holidays. I'll be grateful as long as you don't break my old antique sofa."
Russell remained silent, lowered his head, and forced his attention onto the chicken that was now completely at the mercy of others.
"I'll go buy rosemary and honey."
Using the pretext of buying seasonings, Russell quickly escaped Mrs Hudson's sharp gaze.
By noon a brand-new tablecloth patterned with snowflakes had been spread over the long dining table on the ground floor. When the golden, crispy roast chicken was brought out, an appetising rich aroma filled the air and stirred everyone's appetite. Accompanying it were soft mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding with gravy, and a bottle of superb vintage Bordeaux red wine that Mary had specially brought from the cellar of Kensington Manor.
Charlotte was unusually not wearing her convenient nightgown. She had changed into a well-tailored deep-navy velvet dress that, although without flashy lace decoration, perfectly set off her slender tall figure. Mary was already seated on the opposite side of the table. Two young women of talent sufficient to shake the whole of London in their respective fields stared intently at Russell carving the roast chicken, looking just like ordinary people looking forward to a luxurious holiday lunch.
"By the way, Mary," Mrs Hudson said, looking at Mary as though she had suddenly remembered something, "if you come to Baker Street for Christmas, what happens to the servants at the manor?"
"I gave them the day off."
Mary smiled.
"I told them I would be having lunch and dinner on Baker Street today, and as a token of gratitude I allowed them to use the ingredients in the house to cook their own Christmas feast—on the condition that they clean up afterwards."
"Oh! What a generous mistress!"
Hearing this, Mrs Hudson immediately covered her mouth with a theatrical gesture, approval shining in her eyes.
"If they had an employer like you, the maids and gardeners would surely be smiling in their sleep."
But this also meant that the magnificent Kensington Manor would be completely empty tonight.
The old lady's words clearly carried a probing nuance. Not only Russell, but even Charlotte, who was holding a wine glass, could not help tightening her grip slightly on the stem. Only Mary maintained perfect composure. Her slender, pale fingers held the silver knife and fork. She slowly and carefully placed a crispy, juicy piece of chicken skin in her mouth, chewed and swallowed, then slowly raised her eyes and looked across the long table toward Russell.
"Indeed, it is empty."
The girl's emerald eyes shone with a cunning light under the winter sun.
"But tonight I shall return to Kensington."
"I see."
Mrs Hudson nodded thoughtfully.
"All right, let's end that topic. A toast."
She raised her glass.
"In the past Russell and I spent Christmas just the two of us, but this year it is so lively—we must celebrate properly."
"To this year's liveliness."
Mary took the glass of fine Bordeaux red wine and smiled. The deep-red liquid in the stemmed glass sparkled with the reflection of the wine.
"Then the doorbell of Baker Street will no longer be rung every day by strange commissions."
Charlotte also raised her glass. She was still as sarcastic as ever, yet the festive joy in her eyes was genuine.
"And for what else… for the future, I suppose."
Russell finally raised his glass.
In the centre of the long dining table the four wine glasses clinked together with a pleasant "ting-ting-ting." That sound seemed to shatter the gloomy atmosphere that had covered London for ten years and completely erase the heavy, blood-stained dark past of Appled and Moriarty from this bright, warm Christmas.
The atmosphere at lunch was more relaxed than it had ever been. After two glasses of red wine Mrs Hudson rubbed her slightly reddened cheeks and returned to her own room on the ground floor to make up for lost sleep. The living room was completely given over to the three young people.
The logs in the fireplace burned vigorously. Russell leaned against the arm of the sofa, toying with the gold-inlaid fountain pen Charlotte had given him that morning. Charlotte unusually did not touch any pungent chemical reagents, nor did she casually fire a gun at the wall. She took up the violin that had long been left untouched (a rare occurrence) and stood casually beside the fir tree decorated with stained-glass baubles. Resting her chin on the violin, she drew the bow across the strings… no longer those abstruse, melancholy pieces, but a light rhythm with a strong Edwardian atmosphere—a waltz.
Mary leaned against the single sofa opposite Russell, holding a volume of sonnets she had somehow found. While Charlotte played, she lightly tapped the edge of the book pages with her fingertips, keeping a gentle rhythm. From time to time she looked up at Russell; a faint smile appeared in her emerald-green eyes, as though the surrounding air were filled with her unadorned gentleness.
"So, Russell."
When Charlotte finished playing she did not put down the violin; instead she pointed the bow at the black-haired young man sitting on the sofa, an unmistakable urging in her ash-blue eyes.
"Now that you have accepted my remuneration, when will you begin writing the 'detective novel'? I do not want the first client of the new year to knock on the door before you have finished describing my entrance scene."
"Even a great detective like Dickens needs inspiration and time. First I must organise those exciting clues in my head."
Russell smiled and slipped the old pen into his breast pocket; at that moment his fingers accidentally brushed the pure-silver pocket watch.
"Besides, I still have not thought of a suitably brilliant opening for a once-in-a-century genius like you."
Mary closed the book of poems and slowly stood up. She adjusted the hem of her light-beige dress, walked over to Russell, and held out her hand.
"Russell, before you start fretting over the opening statement, haven't you forgotten something?"
Russell looked at the pale hand extended toward him and raised one eyebrow. "What have I forgotten?"
"A dance."
Mary tilted her head slightly; her golden hair sparkled in the sunlight.
"Is Baker Street limited only to the relationship of employer and employee? Is there no place for a gentleman to be invited to a ball?"
Charlotte snorted, yet surprisingly did not utter any sarcastic remark. She simply rested the violin on her shoulder again, pressed the bow to the strings, and instantly a still more vigorous and rhythmic waltz prelude filled the living room. Clearly the detective was tacitly approving this small act of theft. In any case, by nightfall the home team would completely reverse the situation.
Faced with this invitation and offer of cooperation, Russell had no reason to refuse. He stood up. The weight of the coat and the smell of gunpowder smoke had long been forgotten. He made a light bow, took Mary's hand, gently drew her slender waist closer with his other hand, and, following Charlotte's piano accompaniment, spun her around on the somewhat crowded Persian carpet of 221B Baker Street.
The winter sun cast long shadows across them. In the living room there floated the soft crackle of burning logs, the beautiful melody of the violin, the faint fragrance of red wine, and the blended scent of white-camellia flowers with a lingering trace of black tea.
Outside the window the snow that had piled up on London's streets gradually began to melt; from afar the bells of St Paul's Cathedral rang out. Happy time slipped through the fingers like sand; before one knew it the sky outside the window had grown completely dark.
From the night sky of London a few snowflakes began to fall once more. The gas lamps on both sides of the street lit one after another; the orange light made the whole of Baker Street look like a fairy-tale world. From a distant street corner the clear, beautiful singing of children could be faintly heard, announcing the arrival of Christmas Eve.
The dinner party closed by tacit agreement. Mrs Hudson carried the last apple pie into the kitchen and came out again, deliberately giving an exaggerated large yawn. The old lady rubbed her shoulders and, in the dignified tone of a senior, ordered them to leave.
"Ah, really—two glasses of red wine and I'm done for. Right now I just want to wrap myself in a thick blanket and crawl into bed."
As she spoke she took Russell's coat from the rack and thrust it into his arms.
"Young people should not waste time with an old woman like me. It is unthinkable that Mary's magnificent Kensington residence should have no fireplace at all on Christmas Eve. Hurry along—you can pick up a carriage at the corner any time."
Having said that, Mrs Hudson gave them no chance to stop her, turned on her heel, entered her bedroom, and firmly locked the door behind her.
Faced with the old lady's extremely skilful assistance, Russell could only offer a bitter smile.
Thirty minutes later a hired four-wheeled carriage quietly stopped in front of the luxurious residence in Kensington. As Mary had said, every servant in the manor had left. Yet the three-storey classical mansion was not plunged into deathly darkness. Before departing, the butler had thoughtfully left gas lamps on the porch and filled the fireplaces of the master bedroom and living room with the finest smokeless coal.
Pushing open the heavily carved door, the scent of pine and herbs mixed with warm air drifted out. With the male and female servants who had once been everywhere now gone, this enormous mansion had become a private fortress belonging solely to the three of them.
"I'll go upstairs and fetch two glasses of wine."
Russell took off his coat, hung it on the brass coat-rack in the entrance hall, and prepared to head for the stairs.
"No—please wait about ten minutes in the ground-floor lobby."
Charlotte, unusually, raised not a single objection as she went up to the second floor. The detective's lips, which she normally preferred to use for sharp retorts, were today tightly pressed together; in the light of the fireplace her white ears were clearly flushed. She followed Mary to the corner of the second-floor corridor and glanced down at Russell.
"Any unauthorised ascent of the stairs is strictly forbidden."
Charlotte declared coldly, while Mary smiled and drew her into the master bedroom. The lock clicked shut and the entire mansion was once again wrapped in silence.
Russell stood in the middle of the hall, listening to the faint crackle of the burning coal in the fireplace.
…
The ten minutes felt endlessly long. When the sound of a door lock clicking open came from the second floor like heavenly music, Russell did not hesitate for an instant; he quickly climbed the stairs on the soft carpet.
The door of the master bedroom was slightly ajar; warm yellow firelight leaked from the crack. He pushed the half-open door. Even the leader of the Imperial Phantom Thieves, who had witnessed countless magnificent scenes, could not help catching his breath the moment he saw what was inside.
No dazzling gas lamps were lit in the bedroom; all the light came from the enormous marble fireplace. Mary and Charlotte stood in front of the luxurious bed covered with a velvet coverlet. They had removed the elaborate long dresses they had worn during the day and no longer wore the stiflingly tight corsets. In their place were two silk nightgowns that almost completely covered their bodies.
Mary wore a white silk dress that recalled the snow falling outside the window, while Charlotte had changed into a black velvet dress that suggested the pitch-black night. The light, smooth fabric clung perfectly to their beautiful figures like ripples spreading across water, perfectly highlighting the graceful curves of the young girls. And around each of their white necks was tied a slender black ribbon.
This ribbon was not only the sole ornament but also the only point of stress in the entire garment. All the silken fabric was gathered at the shoulders and neck, held by this delicate knot alone. It was easy to imagine that a light tug on one end of the ribbon would cause the seemingly magnificent cage to collapse at once and slide onto the carpet.
"Why are you still standing there?"
Mary walked barefoot across the thick Persian carpet. When she took half a step forward the silk fabric swayed gently with her movement. Chin slightly raised, her emerald eyes were filled with the mischievous delight of a successful prank and an unconcealable expectation.
Charlotte stood half a body behind, her slender hands somewhat awkwardly clasped in front of her. Although the ribbon was firmly tied around her long, swan-like neck, the constant sense of danger that her identity might be exposed at any moment made this normally cool-headed detective feel a faint embarrassment.
"Have you looked enough? Or do you intend to keep looking all night?"
Hearing this, Russell could not help chuckling. He advanced step by step on his long legs and reached the two young women in beautiful attire. Mary and Charlotte each raised both hands and placed Russell's hands behind their respective necks. The ribbons his fingertips touched were smooth and silken, still carrying the girls' body heat.
"And then…" both rose on tiptoe at the same time and whispered in his ear.
"It is time to open the presents, Mr Phantom Thief."
…
The next morning, sunlight quietly filtered through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains and cast bright, warm golden streaks across the carpet.
The morning of Boxing Day in London was wrapped in a completely different, gentle atmosphere after the heavy snow. The cobbled roads were no longer paved by carriage wheels. There was no noise, nor the sound of newspaper boys running from street to street.
The whole of Kensington Manor was so quiet that one could almost hear the sound of dust dancing in the sunlight.
Russell awoke with a slight numbness. When he opened his eyes the first thing that met his gaze was the finely carved, snow-white plaster ceiling. Instantly he felt a heavy weight on both arms.
On his right side Mary's long, shining golden hair spread across his chest like a soft net. The girl had almost completely nestled into his arms; even in sleep she unconsciously clutched the collar of Russell's robe. The face that usually radiated dignity and elegance now showed a trace of innocent artlessness; on the white neck and rounded shoulders peeking from the thin blanket remained scattered red marks left by last night's habits.
On the left side showed Charlotte in an entirely different sleeping posture. The famous detective had curled up in a position that would normally make her feel completely insecure, pressing her forehead against Russell's neck. Even while asleep her slender, beautiful right leg boldly straddled Russell's waist as if claiming exclusive ownership. Yet the muscles of that leg still showed signs of mild spasm from overwork, and from time to time uncontrollable tremors occurred.
Just as Russell tried to move the arm that had been pressed until it was slightly numb, that slight movement woke the two girls who had been sleeping lightly beside him.
"Mmm…" Mary reacted first. Her long lashes fluttered several times and she slowly opened her deep-green eyes. The head of the Morstan family, just awakened, still wore a dazed expression. She instinctively tried to sit up, but the moment she applied force to her waist and hips an indescribable pain shot through her whole body. The girl frowned slightly and once again nestled into Russell's arms.
"Good morning, Miss Mary."
Russell lowered his eyes and spoke in a voice that carried the hoarseness and gentleness unique to early morning.
Mary glared at him with a reproachful look. She parted her slightly swollen lips as if about to speak, yet from her throat came only dry, weak breaths. The one-sided domination in the bathroom the previous night had completely exhausted her beautiful voice—once as clear as a nightingale's song. Unable to speak, Mary abandoned verbal communication. She stretched out a painful hand and lightly pinched Russell's waist and abdomen through the blanket—a punishment for the self-indulgent thief.
Charlotte had been right. This man truly was a physical monster.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side, Charlotte had also been awakened by the commotion. Irritated, she raked her slightly curled black hair and rubbed her ash-blue eyes, trying to open them. When the absurd, frenzied and rather shameless scenes of the previous night surged back into her refined mind all at once, the famous detective's white cheeks instantly flushed red. She tried to withdraw her leg from Russell's waist, but from the waist down she had almost no sensation left.
"Russell Watson…" Charlotte's voice was broken and husky, as though it had been roughly filed. She glared at the culprit before her, gritted her teeth, yet could not even form a proper accusation.
"You… stamina monster!"
"I sincerely apologise for my excessive defence last night."
Russell then put an arm around both of their shoulders.
"However, considering that the joint interrogation conducted by the two judges yesterday was far too severe, it is only natural that I should counter-attack a little."
Charlotte exaggeratedly widened her eyes and completely abandoned any attempt to reason with this scoundrel. She once again buried her face in Russell's neck and chose silence in order to distract herself from the terrible muscle pain.
"All right, I'll stop teasing you two."
Russell carefully and cheerfully stretched out his arms and draped the soft feather quilt over their smooth shoulders. He rolled out of bed, grabbed a bathrobe and put it on.
"Since there are no servants, I shall prepare breakfast for you today. Black tea and honey muffins, plus a little lemonade to soothe the throat—will that do?"
Wrapped in the blanket, Mary smiled and nodded gently, her emerald eyes crinkling. Charlotte mumbled indistinctly, "Add more honey, and restrain your troublesome formal attitude."
Russell chuckled, put on his slippers, and left the guest room.
…
Thirty minutes later, when Russell opened the door again carrying a wooden tray laden with a luxurious breakfast, the two girls had already moistened their throats with the warm water he had brought earlier. Their voices were still hoarse, yet at least they could communicate normally. Each of them wore a large morning robe and leaned against the pile of soft pillows stacked at the head of the bed. Sunlight poured onto the pure-white bed; the rich aroma of toasted oatmeal, butter muffins and Ceylon tea filled the air.
Russell placed the tray in the centre of the mattress like a loyal attendant, then sat on the edge of the bed. Mary took the gold-rimmed bone-china teacup and sipped the warm tea. The warm liquid slid down her dry throat and finally restored colour to her composure and complexion. Charlotte Zeppelin casually took a honey-smeared muffin and bit into it. While chewing she let her gaze wander from the windowsill to the Kensington Gardens outside. The bare branches were covered with snow; a few robins hopped about in the snow searching for food.
"By now Mycroft is probably sitting in his Whitehall office, troubled by a mountain of diplomatic protests."
Charlotte suddenly blurted out something unrelated.
"Compared with him, we are living by parasitising other people's labour."
"The running of the British Empire should be left to control-freaks like him."
Mary set down her teacup; satisfaction shone in her emerald eyes.
"The only thing to think about at lunch is whether to have veal in white sauce or butter-grilled fish."
Russell listened to their bickering and silently poured hot tea. There was no longer the threat of Appled, nor the burden of Moriarty. The boring, stifling nights that had seemed endless had been completely washed away by the almost absurd yet unbelievably real joy of the previous night.
"How about a nap after breakfast?"
Russell glanced at the faint shadows under their eyes and said quietly.
"Today there are no cases, no clients, and nothing that would make a headline."
Charlotte, unusually quiet, swallowed the last bite of muffin. She was truly exhausted. The intense pain that seemed to reach the marrow of her bones left her without even the strength to pick up a newspaper. Following Russell's words she slowly slipped under the quilt, revealing her ash-blue eyes only when she looked at him.
"Russell."
Charlotte's voice was still hoarse, yet it carried a seriousness different from usual.
"With that gold-plated old pen, write my detective novel beautifully."
Mary also lay down. She rested her head on Russell's knee; her long golden hair spilled onto the floor.
"And at the end of the story, do not forget to describe the elegant and refined profile of this wonderful Miss Morstan."
The girl smiled and closed her eyes.
Russell quietly gazed at them, a faint smile on his lips.
"Yes. I understand."
[END]
PS: Extra chapters will be posted tomorrow
Thank you for reading this fanfic guys. I luv u <3