Mycroft changed the venue.
The text arrived the morning of our scheduled meeting: Circumstances require adjustment. Dinner tonight. La Grenouille, 8 PM. My brother and Ms. Watson will be joining us.
I stared at the message for a long moment, parsing the implications. Mycroft wasn't just rearranging logistics — he was restructuring the entire encounter. A private meeting at Bethesda Fountain would have been assessment. Dinner with Sherlock and Joan present was something else.
Theatre. Performance. A chance to observe how I interacted with his brother in real time.
"He's making it harder for you to control the narrative," Vex observed from her position on my windowsill.
"He's making it harder for everyone to control the narrative. Including himself." I set down my phone. "With Sherlock and Joan present, I can't reveal things to Mycroft that they don't know. But Mycroft also can't ask certain questions without revealing his suspicions to his brother."
"Mutual constraint."
"Or mutual exposure. Depending on how the evening goes."
---
La Grenouille occupied a corner of East 52nd Street — one of the last great French restaurants in Manhattan, the kind of place where power was demonstrated through the casual consumption of absurdly expensive meals. The dining room was all flowers and crystal, soft lighting that made everyone look better than they deserved.
Sherlock was already there when I arrived. Joan sat beside him, her expression carefully neutral. And across the table, occupying the position of host, Mycroft Holmes waited with the particular patience of someone who'd spent decades conducting conversations with hidden agendas.
"Cash," Sherlock said, rising to greet me. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for inviting me." I took my seat, nodding to Joan, then meeting Mycroft's eyes directly. "Mr. Holmes. I believe we had a prior engagement."
"Circumstances required adaptation. I hope you don't mind the venue change." Mycroft's smile was warm and entirely artificial. "I so rarely have the opportunity to dine with my brother. When the scheduling aligned, it seemed wasteful not to combine purposes."
No one at the table believed it was coincidence. Mycroft had orchestrated this meeting specifically to observe me in context — to see how I interacted with Sherlock, to gauge the authenticity of our partnership, to search for tells that might reveal my true nature.
"How thoughtful," I said.
The first course arrived — something involving foie gras that probably cost more than my weekly food budget. I ate carefully, maintaining conversation about neutral topics while Mycroft's attention catalogued every detail. The way I held my fork. The topics I chose to discuss. The moments when my attention drifted toward Sherlock or Joan.
The assessment was constant. The interrogation would come later.
---
It began over the second course.
"I understand you've been quite helpful to my brother's work," Mycroft said, his tone conversational. "Consulting on cases, providing intelligence, offering perspectives that complement his methods."
"We've developed a productive partnership."
"Indeed. Productive enough that Sherlock speaks of you with something approaching respect." Mycroft sipped his wine. "That's unusual for him. He doesn't typically form attachments to people outside a very small circle."
"I've earned that position through demonstrated value."
"Have you?" Mycroft's eyes sharpened slightly. "Tell me about your background, Mr. Dalton. Your file is remarkably thin — almost as if someone constructed it specifically to withstand superficial examination while concealing fundamental gaps."
Sherlock shifted in his seat. "Mycroft—"
"It's a reasonable question," I said, cutting off Sherlock's objection. "I understand your concern. Someone with an unclear history attaches themselves to your brother's work, provides assistance that seems too convenient, develops influence that could be exploited." I met Mycroft's gaze evenly. "You're wondering if I'm a threat."
"I'm wondering many things. Whether you're a threat is merely the most urgent."
"The answer is no. I'm not a threat to Sherlock." I paused, letting the words settle. "I'm something stranger than that. Something your investigation probably hasn't prepared you for."
"Enlighten me."
"I can't. Not because I'm hiding hostile intent, but because the truth doesn't fit into categories you would find acceptable." I took a sip of my own wine. "Your brother has already discovered aspects of what I am. He's chosen to continue our partnership despite the mystery. I suggest you trust his judgment."
Mycroft's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. He was recalculating — filing my response as data, adjusting whatever profile he was building of me.
Across the table, Joan caught my eye. Her slight nod was subtle enough that neither Holmes brother noticed — a moment of solidarity, recognition that she understood what was happening. She'd been subjected to Mycroft's scrutiny before. She was on my side for this, at least.
"He's not your concern, brother." Sherlock's voice was sharp. "He's mine."
Mycroft turned to his brother with the particular patience of someone who'd had this argument many times before. "Everything that affects you is my concern. That's not interference — it's family."
"It's control."
"It's protection. There's a difference, even if you refuse to acknowledge it."
The brothers stared at each other across the table — years of conflict compressed into a moment of silent tension. I watched without intervening, recognizing that this dynamic predated me and would continue long after I was gone.
"I appreciate your concern," I said finally, breaking the silence. "But Sherlock is right. Whatever I am, I'm his responsibility to manage. Not yours."
Mycroft considered this. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"Very well. For now." He raised his glass in a toast. "To productive partnerships. And to the mysteries that make them interesting."
We drank. The evening continued. But Mycroft's assessment never stopped, and his conclusions remained hidden behind those calculating eyes.
---
The dinner ended at 10 PM.
Mycroft's handshake was firm and prolonged — the grip of someone making final measurements. "It was a pleasure to meet you properly, Mr. Dalton. I expect we'll have opportunities to continue our conversation."
"I look forward to it."
I walked out into the Manhattan night, Vex materializing beside me as soon as I turned the corner.
"His conclusions?"
"Uncertain. But that's better than hostile." I loosened my tie, feeling the tension of the evening finally release. "He came looking for a threat. He found something he doesn't understand. People like Mycroft don't destroy what they don't understand — they study it."
"So you've bought time."
"I've bought attention. Whether that's better or worse remains to be seen."
Being interesting to one Holmes was dangerous. To two was potentially fatal.
But I'd survived the dinner. That was enough for tonight.
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