The brownstone felt different this time.
The chaos was the same — papers everywhere, experiments in progress, the particular disorder of a mind that never stopped working. But the atmosphere had shifted. Joan Watson stood in the kitchen doorway instead of sitting at the table. Sherlock's posture was too casual, too deliberately relaxed.
This wasn't a consultation. This was an interrogation.
"Dalton." Sherlock gestured toward a chair that had been positioned facing the center of the room. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Your message said it was urgent."
"Everything is urgent. I specified this case because it requires your particular expertise." He picked up a file from the coffee table — another shipping company case, by the look of it. "But first, I had some questions about our previous collaboration."
I sat in the chair and kept my expression neutral. The Basic Deduction skill was firing automatically, reading the room, cataloging details I couldn't ignore. Joan's coffee cup was full — she hadn't drunk any of it. Sherlock's tea was cold — he'd been waiting longer than he'd wanted me to know. The file on the table was a prop, not the real subject of this meeting.
"Ask," I said.
"Sebastian Moran." Sherlock settled into the armchair across from me, his eyes never leaving my face. "You knew his name before the police released it. I've confirmed this through multiple sources. When Detective Bell mentioned the name during our first meeting, you showed no surprise. You already knew."
"I have contacts who—"
"Your contacts wouldn't have provided that information." Sherlock cut me off with the particular efficiency of someone who'd anticipated my response. "Moran's involvement in local criminal enterprises wasn't known to NYPD, wasn't discussed in underworld circles you could access, and wasn't available through any conventional intelligence network. Yet you knew."
The accusation landed with precision. He'd done his homework. He'd verified what I couldn't explain.
"My sources are comprehensive," I said carefully. "They're not criminal, they're not police. They're... a network I've built over years of work in security consulting."
"London has no record of your security consulting work. I've checked."
"London has no record of many things that actually happened."
"Perhaps." Sherlock leaned forward. "But here's what troubles me, Mr. Dalton. You arrived in New York with no verifiable history, built a reputation in spaces that normally take years to penetrate, and demonstrated knowledge of people and events that you shouldn't have access to. You knew about Moran. You knew about shipping routes that weren't public. You knew about the Dampier case before it was assigned to me."
The last observation hit like a physical blow. He'd connected my early anonymous tips to the pattern he was now investigating.
"I don't know what you're implying," I said.
"I'm not implying anything. I'm observing." Sherlock's eyes were sharp, relentless. "You're operating with information that shouldn't exist. The question is whether that information comes from a source you're protecting, or from somewhere more... unusual."
The word hung in the air between us. Unusual. He was fishing, testing whether I'd react to implications I shouldn't understand.
"Everyone has sources they protect," I said. "That's not unusual. It's professional."
"For a security consultant, yes. But you're not really a security consultant, are you?" Sherlock stood up and walked to the window, his back to me. "You're something else. Something that doesn't fit any category I'm familiar with. And I'm familiar with many categories."
Joan spoke for the first time, her voice careful and measured. "What Sherlock is trying to say is that he doesn't understand you. That's rare. And when he doesn't understand something, he doesn't rest until he does."
"I'm not a threat to you," I said, directing the words at both of them. "Whatever you think I'm hiding, it's not something that endangers you or your work."
"That's not what concerns me." Sherlock turned back to face me. "What concerns me is that you know things you shouldn't know, and you use that knowledge to influence events in ways that benefit people you've chosen to help. The pattern suggests forethought. Planning. An agenda."
"Everyone has an agenda."
"Not like yours." He walked toward me, stopping close enough that I had to look up to meet his eyes. "I will figure you out, Mr. Dalton. I always do. The question is whether you'll tell me voluntarily, or whether I'll have to deduce it myself."
I stood up, forcing him to step back. "Some things can't be deduced. Some things can only be trusted."
"I don't trust easily."
"Neither do I." I moved toward the door, aware of Joan watching my exit. "But if you're asking whether I'm an enemy, the answer is no. I'm many things you don't understand, but I'm not a threat to you or the people you care about. That's all I can offer."
Sherlock walked me to the door, his expression unreadable. When I stepped onto the brownstone's front steps, he spoke one final time.
"I will figure you out, Mr. Dalton. I always do."
Joan appeared in the window as I walked away, her coffee cup still untouched, her eyes tracking my departure with the careful attention of someone who was learning to see what her partner saw.
The interrogation was over. But the investigation had only begun.
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