The moment that abrupt, faintly teasing voice sounded, Mycroft's fingers paused mid-page.
The flames in the fireplace flickered, throwing his gold-rimmed spectacles into alternating light and shadow—and hiding the razor-thin flash of surprise that crossed his eyes.
He didn't turn around immediately. He didn't show a hint of panic.
The man known as "the walking British government" simply slipped a bookmark into the page he'd been reading.
Then, unhurriedly, he closed the book and laid it flat on the desk.
The entire sequence was calm and composed, as though the greeting behind him hadn't come from an uninvited intruder at all—only a butler asking whether he'd like his tea refreshed.
"Good evening," he finally said, his voice steady and without ripples.
"Mr. Moriarty."
Mycroft rotated his high-back chair, facing the figure in the shadows.
The gentleman thief leaned soundlessly against the tall window, as if he'd been there from the beginning—melded into the darkness of the study.
A tailored black overcoat. A white mask made even paler by the firelight.
"You don't look very surprised," Russell's voice carried amused edge as he stepped forward into the light, openly revealing himself.
"My conscience is clear," Mycroft said with a small smile, hands interlaced over his abdomen. "Why would I be flustered?"
He regarded the masked man with unhidden appraisal.
"Besides, I'm curious what gave you the confidence to appear in my study so… comfortably. You should know the security on this street is considerably tighter than those so-called mansions in Kensington."
"And I'm curious what gave you the confidence to think a few constables with batons and some half-blind hounds could stop me," Russell shot back.
He pulled a velvet armchair over and sat down opposite Mycroft with casual ease.
Mycroft's gaze rested on him for a moment, sharp and measuring.
"Interesting," he said at last—an assessment that might as well have come from Charlotte herself.
"Then, Mr. Moriarty—why visit me at this hour?
"If you're here for scandal, I suggest you give up now. And if you're here for money… I do have a few paintings in the corridor. Take them if you like. Just remember to return them."
"Relax. I'm not here to take anything," Russell said lightly. "On the contrary—I've come to deliver a gift."
He slid a hand into the inside pocket of his coat.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, though his posture remained relaxed.
Russell withdrew a stack of yellowed letters—the ones he'd lifted from Phineas Black's club—and tossed them onto the mahogany desk as if they were nothing at all.
"These are…?" Mycroft glanced at the papers but didn't reach for them.
"A gift," Russell repeated, smiling without explanation. "Honestly, I assumed you'd be working overtime."
"Overtime is proof of inefficiency," Mycroft said. "I don't work overtime."
"Is that so." Russell inclined his head. "I like that philosophy. Though I'd thought someone as busy as you doesn't really have an 'off' time."
He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back into the chair.
Mycroft ignored the teasing and kept looking at the letters.
"If it's a gift, I'm allowed to open it, yes?"
His long fingers touched the edge of the stack—still not turning a page.
"Of course," Russell said. "But before you do, I recommend you prepare yourself."
"Prepare myself?" Mycroft frowned. "For what?"
"For overtime."
Mycroft's frown deepened. "You're certain I'll be working overtime?"
"Then let's wager," Russell said, chuckling.
"On what?"
"If you read those and can still set them aside—leave everything until tomorrow—then I lose."
His voice stayed calm.
"And the price of my loss is simple: I remove this mask with my own hands. In front of you."
Mycroft's interest stirred. He leaned forward slightly. "And if I lose?"
"If you lose, it's easy." Russell's masked mouth curled. "You've read the newspapers, haven't you, Mr. Holmes?"
"You mean the grand 'performance' teaser? I have. Nice handwriting. Trained?"
"Thank you. A little."
"Back to the point."
"If you lose, there's no real penalty. You'll simply do what you ought to do." Russell's tone turned almost playful. "My only request is that you cooperate—more precisely, cooperate with my teaser."
"Cooperate with your teaser…" Mycroft repeated, amused. "That's a rather unequal wager, Mr. Moriarty.
"You gamble everything—your identity, your mystery, your freedom. I gamble only a principle I'm already accustomed to… and one quiet evening."
His smile deepened, like a man enjoying a well-staged play.
"Tell me—what makes you so confident that a small pile of paper will make me abandon my principles and lose willingly?
"If you're only looking for a graceful step toward self-exposure, you needn't trouble yourself."
"Because it's worth the price," Russell said easily.
He mirrored Mycroft's posture, elbows on the armrests, fingers interlaced.
"And I don't think I'll lose."
Mycroft said nothing.
He studied the white mask, as if trying to pierce through it to the eyes smiling behind.
"A decent provocation," he said at last.
He pulled the stack closer.
"I accept."
"A wise choice," Russell said, nodding.
Mycroft lifted the top letter.
"Then allow me to see… this gift capable of prying open the British Empire."
The study fell into a brief hush—only the crackle of the fire and the soft rasp of paper turning.
Mycroft read quickly. At first, his expression held a chess player's calm appraisal.
Then, slowly, that composure was replaced by something heavier—grave, tightening seriousness.
The smile vanished.
Russell sat quietly across from him, not making a sound.
He watched—unhurried, satisfied—as the embodiment of government went from mild interest to storm clouds gathering behind his eyes.
At last, Mycroft turned the final page and set the documents back on the desk.
He didn't speak immediately. He stared at the stack as if it weren't paper at all, but a sealed box of calamities.
"Well," Russell said, breaking the silence at just the right moment. "Looks like I won."
"…Yes." Mycroft lifted his head. The amusement was gone, replaced by an ocean-deep gravity.
"You did. Mr. Moriarty."
....
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