Three fixer jobs in two days.
I threw myself back into work with a deliberateness that bordered on desperation. Every job completed was proof that the Moran situation hadn't broken me. Every successful negotiation demonstrated that I was still operational, still useful, still the person I'd been building myself into.
The work was almost comforting in its familiarity. A business partner dispute in Bushwick — I mediated a buyout that left both parties satisfied and my pocket $400 heavier. A document problem for a restaurant owner in Crown Heights — Dmitri, still shaken but functional, provided clean papers within twenty-four hours. A surveillance job in Park Slope — Vex mapped a cheating husband's movements with the particular efficiency of someone who'd done this for centuries.
Normal operations. Routine complications. The kind of problems I could solve without existential risk.
"Moran's baseline monitoring continues," Vex reported on the morning of day fifty-four. "Two operatives rotating through our usual routes. They're not trying to hide — they want us to know we're being watched."
"Reminder that the truce has conditions."
"Is that what you think, or what Moran wants you to think?"
"Does it matter? Either way, we operate within parameters." I finished the coffee Mrs. Petrova had grudgingly provided — her attitude had thawed slightly since I'd returned from the warehouse meeting, apparently grateful that whatever trouble I'd been in hadn't spilled over onto her property. "Anything from Sherlock's end?"
"Nothing unusual. He's working cases. Joan Watson is settling into the partnership." Vex hopped onto my desk, her green eyes catching the morning light. "Speaking of which, you received something."
She nudged a small envelope toward me. No postmark. No return address. Just my name, written in precise handwriting I'd learned to recognize from Vex's surveillance reports.
Sherlock Holmes.
Inside was a single sheet of cream paper: Case involving shipping company. Your expertise may be relevant. 11 AM, brownstone. — S
I stared at the note longer than I should have. First time Sherlock had reached out directly. Not a coincidental meeting at a crime scene, not an exchange facilitated by police presence. A genuine invitation.
"This changes things," I said.
"It changes the dynamic. You've been a curiosity to him. Now you're a resource he's choosing to consult."
"Or a puzzle he's trying to solve by getting closer."
"Or both." Vex's expression suggested she found my anxiety amusing. "Go. See what he wants. The worst that happens is he reads something in your behavior that raises questions."
"That's a significant worst case."
"You've been raising questions since you arrived in this city. One more won't break you."
---
The brownstone at 11 AM was exactly as I'd imagined from Vex's reports, and entirely different in person.
The building itself was unremarkable — brownstone facade, slightly worn steps, the particular aging of a structure that had seen decades of occupants. But the interior was chaos organized by an alien intelligence. Papers everywhere. Locked boxes. A collection of objects that suggested experiments in progress, investigations ongoing, a mind that never stopped working.
Sherlock met me at the door, his expression suggesting he'd been awake for longer than was wise.
"Dalton. You came."
"You invited me."
"I invite many people. Most don't show." He turned and walked into the building without checking if I followed. "The case involves a shipping company with connections to organized crime. Their accountant was murdered last week. The police believe it was a robbery gone wrong. I believe the police are idiots."
I followed him into what appeared to be a living room, though the term seemed inadequate. Every surface was covered with files, photographs, physical evidence that shouldn't have been outside police custody.
"Why call me?"
"Because you have connections I don't." Sherlock settled into an armchair that had seen better decades. "Your fixer work brings you into contact with people who operate in spaces between legality. The shipping company has such connections. I need to understand them."
"You could ask the police."
"The police don't know what I know. And they wouldn't tell me even if they did." He gestured at a stack of files on the coffee table. "The company is Meridian Shipping. The accountant was Peter Chen. His death wasn't random. Someone was cleaning house."
I scanned the files with the Basic Deduction skill that had become second nature. Shipping manifests. Financial records. Photographs of crime scene evidence. My mind cataloged patterns automatically, connections forming without conscious effort.
"Chen found something," I said. "In the books. Something he wasn't supposed to find."
"Obviously. The question is what, and who needed him silenced."
"You want me to ask around? See if anyone's heard of Meridian having problems?"
"I want you to do what you do." Sherlock's eyes were sharp, assessing. "Solve problems. Find information. Exercise whatever skills allow you to know things you shouldn't know."
The phrase landed with uncomfortable precision. Things you shouldn't know. Was he testing me? Or was this just Sherlock being Sherlock — direct to the point of offense, unconcerned with social niceties?
"I'll see what I can find," I said.
"I expect you will." He stood, apparently dismissing me. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
"I've been considering starting beekeeping." He watched my face carefully. "Rooftop hives, potentially. Something about the process appeals to me — the mathematical precision of the colony, the subtle communication through movement and chemistry."
My pause was a fraction too long. I knew about the beekeeping — it was one of Sherlock's canon hobbies, something he'd developed during his recovery. But he hadn't made it public in New York yet. He shouldn't have mentioned it to a casual acquaintance.
He was testing me. Testing whether I reacted to information I shouldn't have.
"Sounds peaceful," I said, recovering. "The city has too much concrete. Living things help."
"They do." Sherlock's expression gave nothing away, but something shifted in his posture. He'd noted my reaction. Filed it away for future analysis. "I'll be in touch about the Meridian case."
I left the brownstone with the uncomfortable certainty that I'd just given Sherlock another data point in whatever profile he was building.
Vex materialized beside me as I walked toward the subway.
"You smiled during that meeting," she observed. "First genuine smile I've seen from you in days."
"He's interesting. Challenging." The words felt inadequate. "Everyone else I deal with, I can predict. Sherlock... he surprises me."
"Is that why you keep going back?"
"That's why I can't stay away."
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