"You can change color at any time to adapt to your surroundings.
One moment you're hiding in the bush, the next—without a care—you're out in the open, perched on the most conspicuous tree trunk, tongue sticking out."
Mary unhurriedly laid bare the very essence of Russell.
"Miss Morstan's analogy is...truly…colorful." Russell laughed, deciding to continue playing the fool. "A compliment, I take it?"
Mary finally scooped a bite of tiramisu onto her silver spoon and slipped it into her mouth. The smooth cream and bittersweet cocoa melted delicately on her tongue. She narrowed her eyes, as if enjoying the taste.
After a moment, she set down her spoon, dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and looked at Russell again.
"By the way, Mr. Watson."
"Yes?"
"Didn't I mention in the auditorium yesterday that Moriarty stole my brooch the night before last?"
Mary brought up the topic unexpectedly, and Russell nodded after a brief pause.
"Yes, you did. What happened?"
"He returned it," Mary replied softly. "He went directly to my place, and he returned what he stole."
"....."
A moment of silence hung in the air.
Russell looked up, trying to read something from Mary's blue eyes, but he couldn't. Those eyes were deep—like an abyss that not even light could reach.
"Situations like that—aren't they rather common?"
After a long pause, Russell finally spoke.
"That thief's done this before, hasn't he? Stealing someone's things and then returning them?"
"Really...? Still, I always feel like he's provoking me specifically," Mary said quietly.
"You said the same yesterday," Russell stated, poker-faced.
"No—this time is different." Mary shook her head to correct him. "Yesterday's answer was just a guess, but today I'm certain."
"Why?"
"The night before last, when he came to steal, there was nothing extra—he just did what he came for. After I caught him, he escaped in a way I don't even understand, and somehow managed to steal my brooch in the process.
Up until then, I took his actions to mean that a thief never leaves empty-handed."
"But last night was different."
Mary's fingertips unconsciously traced faint shapes on her glass.
Her gaze pierced Russell as if replaying her memories of last night—seeing things only she could see.
"Last night, he came back—but this time, he was...bolder."
Russell scooped up some tiramisu, using the sweetness to mask his pounding heart.
"How bold?"
He pretended idle curiosity.
"He didn't go to the cash room—he came straight to my bedroom."
Mary spoke in a low voice, as if it couldn't possibly concern herself.
"He slipped in through the window and tried to steal my lipstick."
"After I caught him, he not only refused to return it—he said some...very unpleasant things."
"For example?" Russell raised his brows.
"For example—"
Mary mimicked his voice from the previous night, lowering her tone and adopting a teasing, insincere style:
"Someone who can handle every social situation perfectly."
"Shhh—"
Russell gasped, eyes wide with indignation.
"That is outrageously filthy talk!"
"That's not all," Mary said, dissatisfied, "he said a lot of mean things and even scribbled graffiti on some paper with my lipstick."
"Why is Moriarty so evil?" Russell said, feigning outrage. "People like this should be dragged out and drowned in the Thames!"
"Agreed," Mary nodded lightly, satisfied with Russell's response.
"He even tried to spin it as if women are always generous, trying to guilt me out of being angry."
"What a scumbag!"
Russell slapped the table. It was a tiny movement, but his attitude was very clear.
"What I hate most in life is people who take advantage of women's kindness!"
Then, realizing he'd overdone it, he paused and quickly adopted a look of sincere sympathy for the victim.
"So...Miss Morstan, are you alright?" he asked carefully.
"No, consider it good luck in disguise." Mary shook her head.
"It seemed like he only came last night to provoke me—but it wasn't enough to justify any real physical retaliation.
If he'd really tried to hurt me...I'm not sure what I'd do."
Yes, yes. Keep going with your act.
As if she'd never been the invincible swordsman the night before.
Russell listened calmly, even offering sympathetic noises.
Mary studied him; a faint glimmer flashed in her blue eyes—amusement, perhaps.
The more she recalled the night before, the more peculiar she found Russell's emotional arc:
shock, then anger, then sympathy and relief. Every response fell perfectly into place—just like the sincere, caring man he pretended to be.
Perfect.
Yet, Mary herself couldn't explain precisely why she suspected Russell was the phantom thief, Moriarty.
Maybe it was intuition; maybe there were other reasons.
In any case, there was no harm watching how things played out.
She remembered every detail of last night's fight:
Every dodge was precise as if anticipated, but his counters, footwork and balance were full of the awkwardness of someone untrained.
These two qualities shouldn't exist in the same person.
She glanced over at Russell again.
The oversized uniform still couldn't hide his slightly thin frame, his posture was lazy, his eating habits lacked a noble's grace, and his eyes—though clear—always carried an air of foolishness...
No matter how she looked, she couldn't connect him to the man who danced on the knife's edge, uttering daring insults.
Their manner, skills, and speech...they were two utterly different people.
Was she overthinking it?
Or was he simply that good of an actor?
If he was truly that talented, he ought to make a name for himself at the Royal Opera House, not hide as a burglar on Baker Street.
Mary left the thought there, picking up her spoon to quietly savor the tiramisu.
Delicate, just slightly bitter, with lingering sweetness to the aftertaste.
She suddenly thought the man in front of her was just like this dessert.
Simple and harmless on the surface, but when she tried to probe deeper, there was always another elusive layer like cocoa powder, sweet and bitter in an irresistible mix—yet it was impossible to truly grasp the full flavor.
"What's wrong?" Russell noticed her silence and asked carefully. "Don't you like the dessert?"
"No," Mary shook her head, looking up to give a gentle smile—one devoid of suspicion or probing, restored to the polite distance she'd shown the first time they'd met.
"It was delicious. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Watson."
She reclaimed the initiative in the conversation, quietly banishing her dangerous doubts.
After all, try to force connections, and you just fall into paranoid traps.
Logically, she couldn't equate the two figures. For now, she'd just treat him as...an interesting person.
At the very least, this way, Mary Morstan's university days wouldn't be quite so boring.
…