Charlotte Holmes.
Once Russell realized he was living in a parallel-world London, it wasn't as if he'd never thought about making a pilgrimage to 221B Baker Street.
But in this world there was no Arthur Conan Doyle, and no globally famous detective novels.
And by the same logic, there was no Holmes at 221B—so Russell naturally assumed there wouldn't be any Moriarty either.
The only thing that did exist was Mrs. Hudson, renting out spare rooms.
And so he'd been taken on as a tenant and moved in without much fuss.
Yet now, a living, breathing Holmes—one who even happened to be female in this world—was sitting right beside him.
Which meant…
Did that also mean there was a real…?
The moment the thought surfaced, a chill ran down Russell's spine. But he dismissed it almost immediately.
If there really were a Moriarty, then there was no way his little stunt—the name, the calling card, the nightly "performances"—would have escaped that person's notice.
And yet, to this day, Russell had never received a single point of malice from "Moriarty."
That alone was telling.
Either the criminal professor didn't care about petty theatrics like his—
Or this London simply didn't have a Moriarty at all.
Either possibility was, frankly, not bad news.
If it was the first, the criminal professor would probably be delighted to have someone else drawing attention.
If it was the second…
Even better.
Russell nodded to himself, as if the gesture alone could nail the conclusion in place.
For the rest of the ceremony, Charlotte didn't speak to him again. But Russell found his curiosity waking up.
He wanted to know what this great detective thought of "Moriarty."
Of course, he meant the gentleman thief—his Moriarty.
So he cleared his throat, leaned forward slightly, and lowered his voice into the confidential tone of someone sharing gossip.
"Miss Holmes, since you're so good at deduction—what do you think about that… Moriarty who's been all over the papers lately?"
Charlotte's gray-blue eyes finally shifted away from the ornate carvings in the ceiling. She glanced at him.
"A show-off with an excessive need for attention," she said flatly.
"Lestrade keeps asking me to catch him, but I've no interest in arresting a performance artist."
Perfect.
Russell exhaled silently in relief.
If she wasn't interested, that was ideal. If she ever became interested, that would be trouble.
·
·
The long, mind-numbing opening ceremony finally ended amid the principal's dry coughing.
The students rose as if pardoned from prison, and the hall instantly filled with noise.
"See you around, new neighbor," Charlotte said as she stood. She gave him a casual wave. The hem of her oversized trench coat cut a clean arc through the air, and she disappeared into the crowd without looking back.
Russell remained seated, waiting until most of the people had cleared out before rising at his own unhurried pace.
Now what?
Back to Baker Street—or should he return the item first?
He mapped out his next moves.
Mary Morstan should still be on campus. That made it a good time to return what he'd taken.
But his thief's outfit was back at Baker Street. If he went home first, there was a decent chance he'd run into Charlotte.
Annoying.
While he was brainstorming, a soft voice sounded beside him.
"Hello, Mr. Watson."
Russell stopped instinctively and turned—meeting those Aegean-blue eyes.
Mary Morstan.
"Hello, Miss Morstan," Russell replied with a polite, professional smile. "Can I help you with something?"
"I was just curious," Mary said, her gaze resting on him for a brief moment.
"Anyone Charlotte Holmes chooses to speak to isn't likely to be ordinary."
"Charlotte Holmes…" Russell arched an eyebrow, half acting and half genuinely puzzled. "Is she famous?"
"Today was the first time I've seen her. She's also my new neighbor."
He'd lived in this London for over a decade and had never heard a whisper of anything Holmes-related.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have assumed the world simply lacked a Charlotte Holmes.
But Mary's tone made it clear the name was not unfamiliar to her.
"It seems you don't pay much attention to London's upper circles—or the academic world," Mary said with a faint smile.
"She's Mycroft Holmes's sister. The man who can sit in an office and still command the entire intelligence web of the British Empire.
"And Charlotte herself—before she ever enrolled at Imperial College—had already assisted Scotland Yard as a consulting detective on more than a dozen cold cases.
"Of course, she never takes credit, and she dislikes having her name appear in public. So it's normal that you wouldn't know."
That made sense.
Russell's expression cleared.
"No wonder she spotted me trying to escape the lecture," he said with a half-joking shrug.
"Looks like life on Baker Street won't be boring."
Mary seemed slightly surprised by how lightly he took it—then, more than that, she studied him.
"You don't seem afraid of her," she said softly, her tone unreadable.
"Why would I be?" Russell countered, wearing a face of uncomplicated sincerity.
"She's my neighbor, not my creditor. Besides, I'm a law-abiding, well-behaved student. What would I have to fear from a detective?"
"She is a high-functioning sociopath," Mary reminded him.
"I don't like reducing a person to a label," Russell said.
"And from our brief conversation just now, I didn't get the impression she was someone I needed to keep at a special distance."
That careful, watertight answer seemed to please Mary.
The curve of her mouth softened—less formal now, less like polite distance.
"That's fair," she nodded. "Miss Holmes is interested only in criminals and puzzles. As for ordinary people… she likely doesn't even have the patience to remember their names."
The implication was obvious.
She remembered you, which means you aren't ordinary.
Russell caught the concealed compliment, but only smiled without commenting.
Mary, with equal tact, didn't push the point. She took two steps forward, falling into pace beside him, and together they merged into the flow of students leaving the hall.
A brief silence settled between them, layered over the background chatter around them.
Russell was considering how to end the conversation naturally, make his exit, and proceed with his plan to return the stolen brooch.
But Mary broke the silence first.
"By the way, Mr. Watson," she said, her voice lowered as if it were mere casual conversation, "what do you think about the gentleman thief Moriarty who's been causing such a sensation lately?"
-------
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