By the time John came back inside, Helen was already sitting at the dining table with Doro in her arms, feeding her orange slices one by one.
Her movements were unbelievably gentle.
She handled Doro like she really was her daughter, and beneath the sunlight spilling through the windows, Helen practically radiated motherly warmth.
Even Doro, normally incapable of sitting still for more than a few seconds, had gone completely docile.
Her soft little legs swung beneath her while she waited obediently for the next slice.
Orange juice covered the corners of her mouth.
She looked ridiculously pleased with herself.
John stopped in the doorway.
His expression softened.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen this scene.
It still hit him every time.
Sherlock had saved Helen when she’d fallen ill.
But even the Philosopher’s Stone hadn’t been able to preserve everything.
Helen had survived.
The price was that she could no longer have children.
Neither she nor John blamed Sherlock for that—not for a second.
Without him, Helen wouldn’t even be alive.
But the loss had still left a quiet hole in their lives.
Then Doro appeared.
Somehow, the bizarre little creature filled that empty space almost perfectly.
That was the real reason John and Helen doted on her so much.
After feeding Doro an entire orange, Helen carefully wiped the juice from her face.
Then she stood and deposited the little creature into John’s arms.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Watch Doro.
I’m going to start lunch.”
John straightened automatically.
“And don’t forget to bring Sherlock over when it’s ready.
That brat is probably buried in that ridiculous alchemy of his again.
That’s obviously why Doro ended up wandering over here.”
John Wick—legendary assassin, nightmare of the underworld, Baba Yaga himself—responded to the threat in the only sensible way.
He nodded.
“Got it.”
Helen smiled in satisfaction and headed toward the kitchen.
John carried Doro into the living room.
A few moments later, the two of them were already playing.
Despite Doro’s tiny size and frankly ridiculous anatomy, one fact was undeniable.
She was fast.
Extremely fast.
John had discovered that very early on.
Take dodgeball, for example.
He could bring every ounce of experience he’d accumulated as one of the world’s deadliest killers…
and still fail to hit Doro even once with a beanbag.
She’d dodge everything.
Every.
Single.
Throw.
Worse, Sherlock’s influence had clearly rubbed off on her.
Whenever Doro won, she’d look at John with an expression that somehow radiated smugness despite the fact that she barely had enough facial structure to pull it off.
It irritated him on a spiritual level.
Naturally, John never took that irritation out on Doro.
He simply cursed Sherlock internally for corrupting an innocent creature.
Repeatedly.
That said, the losses did eventually have consequences.
Namely, John had stopped playing anything remotely athletic with her.
His pride could only survive so much abuse.
So the two of them spent the rest of the morning watching television instead.
By lunchtime, John checked the time and finally stood.
“All right, little troublemaker.
Time to go collect your useless father.”
“Doro!”
With Doro tucked under one arm, he crossed over to Sherlock’s house.
The door wasn’t locked against him.
It rarely was.
Following Doro’s directions, John headed straight for the study.
And the moment he opened the door— he stopped.
Even though he’d seen Sherlock perform alchemy countless times before, the sight still stole the words from his mouth.
The Holy Lance of Longinus floated horizontally in the center of the room.
It looked almost impossibly beautiful.
Complex transmutation arrays and multicolored runes covered the weapon, appearing and disappearing across its surface like layers of living code.
Sherlock’s left arm was no longer pretending to be human.
The mechanical limb had unfolded completely into a collection of specialized alchemical instruments.
More than a dozen narrow articulated arms extended from it like metallic tentacles, each moving with surgical precision.
Every time one touched the lance—
Flash.
Brilliant light erupted.
The runes shifted.
The arrays changed.
Some vanished.
Others formed in their place.
Sherlock himself didn’t seem bothered by the glare at all.
His enormous alchemy grimoire hovered open in front of him, pages flipping by themselves while he searched through one section after another.
His right hand moved constantly.
Gestures.
Symbols.
Transmutation patterns.
Every completed sequence was fed directly into the lance through the machinery of his left arm.
John stared.
No matter how many times he witnessed Sherlock’s work…
“I don’t think this is ever going to stop being incredible.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Sherlock’s hand paused.
A shower of sparks exploded from the lance.
Then— everything collapsed.
The glowing arrays vanished.
The runes disappeared.
The Holy Lance slowly descended onto the desk.
John winced.
“…Sorry.
Did I screw that up?”
For several seconds, Sherlock kept staring at the lance.
Then he finally looked toward the door.
He saw John.
He saw Doro.
And immediately understood why they were there.
Sherlock closed the grimoire.
“No.
Wasn’t you.”
He rose from his chair.
“Repairing a divine artifact is ridiculously complicated.
Failure’s normal.”
Then his expression changed.
A malicious little smile appeared.
“Still, thanks for babysitting Doro…”
He paused.
“…my dear Zhao Wick.”
John’s guilt disappeared instantly.
His face tightened.
“Sherlock Flamel.”
His voice dropped dangerously.
“I am telling you this one more goddamn time.”
Sherlock’s grin widened.
“My name is John Wick.”
John pointed at himself.
“Even if you translate it into Chinese, it is still John Wick.”
His eye twitched.
“Not fucking Zhao Wick.”
Sherlock nodded seriously.
“Of course, Zhao Wick.”
John stared at him.
“I understand completely, Zhao Wick.”
A vein appeared on John’s forehead.
“Anything else, Zhao Wick?”
Silence.
John took a long breath.
Then punched Sherlock in the shoulder.
“Son of a bitch.”
The instant he looked down at Doro, however, his entire demeanor changed.
His expression softened.
His voice rose several pitches.
“Come on, little Doro.
Let’s go eat something delicious.”
He cuddled her closer.
“We’re ignoring your unreliable third-rate dad.”
Then he turned and walked away without looking back.
Sherlock watched him leave.
His entire body shuddered.
“Ugh.”
He vigorously rubbed at the goosebumps that weren’t actually there.
Seeing John Wick use that voice around Doro was deeply disturbing.
Sherlock raised one hand.
And gave John’s retreating back a heartfelt middle finger.
Then immediately followed him.
He’d known John and Helen too long to misunderstand what this was about.
John hadn’t explicitly invited him to lunch.
He didn’t need to.
So Sherlock shamelessly followed along to enjoy Helen’s cooking.
There were some opportunities a man simply couldn’t afford to miss.
Especially because Helen had become terrifyingly good at Chinese food.
Years ago, Sherlock had cooked a simple Chinese home-style meal for the couple.
Helen had fallen in love with it.
Then she’d started learning.
And learning.
And learning.
At this point, her cooking had long since surpassed Sherlock’s.
A native Chinese transmigrator had somehow been defeated at his own cuisine by an American woman.
Sherlock had accepted the humiliation.
Gladly.
Because it meant free food.
Ever since Helen became genuinely good at Chinese cooking, Sherlock’s enthusiasm for mooching meals next door had risen dramatically.
After all…
he’d suffered through enough bland white-people food for one lifetime.
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