While Coulson was still wondering what kind of demands a supernatural individual like Sherlock might make of S.H.I.E.L.D., Sherlock himself was already on a plane bound for the Middle East.
More than thirty hours later, the group finally touched down at a military base in the desert.
Helen looked around with open curiosity.
Sherlock and John barely reacted.
There wasn’t anything particularly strange about the arrangement.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
had been brought in to help find Tony Stark, while the military had been the ones responsible for him when he disappeared.
In practical terms, that meant the military had asked S.H.I.E.L.D.
for assistance.
The Continental, meanwhile, routinely served politicians, senior officials, wealthy businessmen, and people whose names opened doors that stayed firmly shut for everyone else.
Between S.H.I.E.L.D., the military, and the Continental’s connections, getting their flight cleared to land directly at a military base wasn’t especially difficult.
Doro understood none of this.
From her perspective, they’d simply arrived somewhere full of humans dressed in matching ugly yellow-brown clothes…
and a whole bunch of enormous metal toys.
“Doro…”
Her head swiveled back and forth.
So many new things.
The military’s attitude toward S.H.I.E.L.D.’s “outside help” was considerably more complicated.
On one hand, they didn’t want S.H.I.E.L.D.
sticking its nose into military business.
On the other…
Tony Stark was missing.
And despite everything they’d thrown at the problem, they still had almost no useful intelligence.
Pride only went so far when one of America’s most important weapons manufacturers had vanished in hostile territory.
Which left James Rhodes in a particularly unpleasant mood as he waited beside the runway.
Then the aircraft door opened.
Sherlock walked out first.
Rhodey’s complicated expression instantly hardened into anger.
He looked young.
Way too young.
For one ugly moment, Rhodes genuinely wondered whether S.H.I.E.L.D.
was mocking them.
Tony’s life was on the line, and they’d sent over some kid?
Was this supposed to be their idea of taking the situation seriously?
Then something climbed onto Sherlock’s shoulder.
Rhodes stared.
Pink hair.
Chibi anime head.
White jelly body.
Four stubby limbs.
A creature that looked less like an animal and more like someone had dragged a doodle out of a cartoon and dropped it into reality.
Doro blinked at him.
“Doro?”
Rhodes’ anger vanished almost immediately.
He wasn’t just some random officer.
As one of the Air Force’s higher-ranking figures, he’d been exposed to enough classified material to know the world contained things ordinary civilians never heard about.
Enhanced people.
Supernatural phenomena.
Individuals who looked human but absolutely weren’t ordinary.
And Doro’s existence practically screamed that Sherlock wasn’t just some random teenager.
Nobody brought a living anime mascot into a military base unless something deeply abnormal was going on.
Rhodes reassessed Sherlock immediately.
Whatever doubts remained, he kept them to himself.
He led the four of them into the operations room and gave Sherlock a concise briefing on everything the military had gathered so far.
Which wasn’t much.
When he finished, Sherlock asked for a satellite map of the region.
Rhodes handed one over.
Sherlock took it, glanced through the available intelligence, and left with John, Helen, and Doro almost immediately.
No dramatic planning session.
No request for soldiers.
Just—
Give me the map.
Thanks.
Bye.
Rhodes naturally wanted to know what exactly they planned to do.
He wasn’t the only one.
Doro drew attention everywhere she went.
Against an endless backdrop of sand, military vehicles, armed soldiers, and brutal desert heat, her bright anime-cartoon appearance was impossible to ignore.
Sherlock noticed every stare.
Normally, he might have tried to keep a lower profile.
This time, he didn’t bother.
The entire point of accepting this job was to make people notice him.
So Sherlock found an open patch of ground.
Then he brought his hands together in front of his chest.
Clap.
He pulled them apart.
A long spear appeared between them in a burst of radiant light.
The Holy Lance of Longinus floated silently in midair, wrapped in a soft, sacred glow.
Nearby soldiers stopped and stared.
But the reaction wasn’t quite as dramatic as Sherlock would’ve liked.
A floating spear?
Cool.
The light effects were impressive too.
But professional stage magicians could make objects float.
And this was the Marvel universe.
America alone had already accumulated enough rumors, legends, monsters, enhanced humans, bizarre military experiments, and inexplicable incidents that a shiny levitating spear didn’t exactly shatter anyone’s worldview.
Sherlock knew that.
Which was why he had no intention of stopping there.
John looked at him.
Helen looked at him.
Both wore expressions of barely concealed amusement.
Sherlock’s eye twitched.
They knew exactly what he was doing.
He’d started putting on a show.
Now he had no choice but to commit to it.
Fine.
If he was going to show off, he was going to do it properly.
Sherlock grabbed the floating lance with one hand.
He gave it a casual sweep.
Brilliant light erupted.
Everyone nearby instinctively narrowed their eyes.
And when the glare faded— a massive Ford Raptor was sitting in the middle of the military base.
Silence.
Then came several sharp breaths.
That got them.
Sherlock kept his expression perfectly calm.
As if pulling an entire pickup truck out of thin air was something he did every Tuesday.
He casually flicked the Holy Lance aside.
It vanished in another flash.
Without acknowledging the stunned soldiers behind him, Sherlock walked straight to the Raptor and climbed into the passenger seat.
John and Helen exchanged a look.
Then both smiled.
Not normal smiles.
The kind of smiles shared by two people who knew exactly how a magic trick worked and were enjoying watching everyone else lose their minds over it.
John climbed behind the wheel.
Helen settled into the back with Doro.
Because Sherlock’s magnificent display had indeed fooled everyone who didn’t know how his abilities worked.
Anyone who did know?
They’d understand immediately.
The blinding light from the Holy Lance had been misdirection. Find the original chapter at g.com.
While everyone was staring at the pretty magical effects, Sherlock had frantically pulled out one of his homemade space capsules and thrown it onto the ground.
That was where the Raptor had actually come from.
Magic?
Technically, no.
Shameless stagecraft backed by alchemy?
Absolutely.
The four of them drove off before anyone could ask too many questions.
The wildly out-of-place Raptor roared straight toward the base exit.
Only after they were well beyond the gates did Sherlock finally let his carefully composed expression collapse.
He exhaled.
Then practically melted into the passenger seat.
John glanced at him.
The sight was so ridiculous that he almost laughed.
He caught Helen’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
Helen smiled and gently shook her head.
John decided to spare Sherlock’s dignity.
For now.
Sherlock unfolded the satellite map and began searching for the valley where Tony might be held.
After a while, John spoke.
“We should stop at the local Continental first.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up.
He stared at him.
“The local what?”
John kept his eyes on the road.
“The Continental.”
Sherlock looked out at the endless desert.
Then back at John.
“There’s a Continental Hotel here?”
His disbelief intensified.
“In an active war zone?”
John nodded with complete seriousness.
“Yes.”
Sherlock waited for the punchline.
None came.
“This branch operates under war-zone rules,” John continued.
“But for us, it should still be a good place to use as a base.”
Sherlock frowned.
That was new.
He knew the basic Continental rules.
No conducting business on hotel grounds.
No killing under its roof.
Break the rules, suffer catastrophic consequences.
Simple enough.
But he’d never heard anything about separate war-zone rules.
Curiosity immediately replaced his disbelief.
“Old Zhao.”
John’s forehead twitched.
Sherlock ignored it.
“What the hell are ‘war-zone rules’?”
He leaned toward him.
“I thought fighting inside the Continental was forbidden.
Since when do they have different rules depending on where the hotel is?”
A vein visibly appeared on John’s forehead.
He took a slow breath.
Then, despite the name Sherlock had once again inflicted upon him, he began explaining how the Continental actually worked.
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