The brownstone door closed behind me, and I stood on the sidewalk in the Manhattan afternoon, processing what had just happened.
I'd admitted it. Not everything — not the transmigration, not the show, not the particular impossibility of being a person from another world — but enough. I'd told Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson that I knew things before they happened, and they'd let me walk out alive.
More than that. They'd let me walk out as a partner.
Vex materialized beside me as I turned toward the subway. "That could have gone worse."
"It could have gone a lot worse."
"They know something impossible is happening with you. They don't understand it. They've chosen to accept that." She studied my face. "You're trembling."
I looked at my hands. She was right. The adrenaline from the confrontation was catching up with me — hours of tension finally releasing now that the immediate danger had passed.
"I was prepared for them to cut me off," I said. "Or worse. I wasn't prepared for acceptance."
"It wasn't unconditional."
"No. Sherlock made that clear." I remembered his final words: I'm still going to figure out who you really are. "He's going to keep investigating. He can't help it — it's who he is."
"But he's investigating while working with you. That's different from investigating as an enemy."
"Is it different enough?"
Vex didn't answer. Some questions didn't have answers yet.
---
The subway ride back to Brooklyn gave me time to think.
I'd survived the confrontation, but the dynamics had fundamentally shifted. Sherlock and Joan now knew I had foreknowledge — actual, impossible knowledge of events before they occurred. They'd accepted that without understanding it, which meant they'd accepted a mystery they couldn't solve.
That was dangerous in its own way. Unsolved mysteries drew Sherlock like flames drew moths. He would keep probing, keep testing, keep looking for the explanation that made sense. Eventually, he might find something that pointed toward the truth.
Or he might construct a theory that was wrong but convincing enough to act on. Government operative. Time traveler. Psychic with unusual abilities. All of them close enough to be dangerous, all of them far enough from transmigration to create new problems.
I needed to be careful. More careful than I'd been.
The watch in my pocket ticked steadily — still working normally, still mysterious, still connected to whatever had brought me here in the first place. I'd been Cash Dalton for nearly five months now. The identity felt real in ways it hadn't at the beginning. The relationships, the skills, the particular texture of this life — all of it had become mine.
But underneath, I was still something else. Something that couldn't be explained.
---
My phone buzzed as I climbed the stairs to my room at Mrs. Petrova's.
Joan Watson. Text message: Can we talk? Not about the investigation. Just... talk.
I stared at the message for a long moment. Joan had been the quieter presence in the confrontation — watching, evaluating, letting Sherlock take the lead in the questioning. But her assessment mattered as much as his. Maybe more.
Coffee shop on Atlantic. Thirty minutes.
I'll be there.
---
Joan was already seated when I arrived — corner table, clear sightlines to the door, the positioning of someone who'd learned awareness from years of working with Sherlock. She had a cup of tea in front of her, untouched, steam still rising.
"Thank you for coming," she said as I sat down.
"Thank you for asking."
A waitress appeared. I ordered coffee — black, strong, the kind that helped with processing difficult conversations. When she left, Joan and I sat in silence for a moment, neither quite sure how to begin.
"I've been thinking," Joan said finally, "about what you said in the brownstone. About knowing things you can't explain."
"And?"
"And I realized something." She met my eyes directly. "I don't trust what I don't understand. That's been true my whole life — I became a surgeon because medicine made sense, I became a sober companion because addiction had patterns I could recognize, I partnered with Sherlock because his methods, while unusual, follow a logic I can learn."
"You want logic. I can't give you that."
"No, you can't. And that should bother me more than it does." She took a sip of her tea, organizing her thoughts. "But here's the thing: I do trust what you've done with whatever you know. Every time you've used that... ability... it's been to help. To prevent harm. To solve cases. I've watched you for months now. Whatever you are, you're trying to be good."
The words landed with unexpected weight. Joan's acceptance wasn't the same as Sherlock's — it wasn't the intellectual tolerance of someone who couldn't solve a puzzle but could set it aside. It was something deeper. Moral acceptance. Trust based on actions rather than explanations.
"That means something," I said. "More than you know."
"It should mean something. I don't give trust easily, especially to people who are hiding things." She smiled slightly. "And you're definitely hiding things. I've built an entire file on how manufactured your background is."
"Sherlock showed me."
"Then you know I've been watching you as carefully as he has." She leaned forward. "But watching you has shown me something important: you're not a threat. Whatever impossible thing you are, whatever you're hiding about who you really were before Cash Dalton existed — you're not here to hurt people."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because you've had dozens of opportunities to hurt us, and you haven't taken any of them. Because you asked Sherlock for help on the Reeves case when you could have tried to handle it alone. Because when you warn us about things, you're trying to protect us, not manipulate us." She paused. "And because you look at me right now like someone who desperately wants to be believed."
I didn't have an answer for that. She was right — I did want to be believed. I wanted someone to see through the layers of deception and find the person underneath, the one who was trying to navigate an impossible situation without becoming a monster.
"The mystery of you is going to drive Sherlock crazy," Joan said. "He can't let it go — it's not in his nature. But I can tell him to focus on what matters: whether you're a threat or an ally. And from everything I've seen, you're an ally."
"Even though you don't understand why?"
"Especially because I don't understand why. You could be using your abilities for anything — profit, power, revenge. Instead, you're using them to help." She finished her tea. "That's a choice. Choices matter more than explanations."
We sat in silence for a moment, two people who understood each other a little better than they had an hour ago.
"I should tell you something," I said finally. "There's something coming. Something connected to Sherlock's past. I can't tell you specifics — partly because I don't know the exact timeline anymore, partly because some things have to play out — but be ready. Watch out for him."
Joan's expression sharpened. "What kind of something?"
"The kind that reminds him why he's afraid of trusting people."
She processed this, adding it to whatever file she maintained about me and my impossible knowledge.
"I'll watch out for him. We both will." She stood to leave, then paused. "Cash? Whatever you are — thank you for being on our side."
She walked out into the Brooklyn afternoon, leaving me alone with my coffee and the particular weight of being trusted by someone who knew I was hiding everything important.
Some secrets survived not by hiding but by being too strange to pursue.
For now, that was enough.
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