Nearly a month passed in the same peaceful rhythm.
During the day, John and Helen had more or less become Doro’s adoptive parents.
They looked after her, played with her, spoiled her rotten, and brought her back to Sherlock’s house in the evening.
Sherlock, meanwhile, regularly wandered next door to steal a meal and trade insults with John.
It had become one of the few ways he actually relaxed when he wasn’t working.
That routine continued until the final few days of the month.
By then, the repair of the Holy Lance of Longinus had entered a critical stage.
Sherlock became so consumed by the work that he didn’t even have time to eat properly, much less remember to bring Doro home at night.
John eventually gave up and simply let her stay over.
Doro had no objections whatsoever.
She adored Helen, after all.
In Doro’s not-particularly-complicated understanding of relationships, Helen was basically “mom.”
As for John…
Doro liked him too.
Mostly.
The problem was that John kept rubbing that horrible beard all over her face.
So while she loved Uncle Wick, she also maintained a healthy degree of caution around him.
Then, on the final day of the month—
Light exploded from Sherlock’s study.
A blinding golden radiance surged outward in waves, passing straight through the walls as though they weren’t even there.
The light carried something with it.
Emotion.
Anyone even slightly sensitive to such things could feel the overwhelming joy pouring from it.
It was like something that had spent years broken and bedridden had suddenly opened its eyes and discovered it was whole again.
John didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed his pistol and charged straight into Sherlock’s house.
Against a supernatural phenomenon like this, a handgun was laughably inadequate.
John knew that.
He went anyway.
That was simply the kind of friendship he and Sherlock had.
They insulted each other constantly.
Profanity was practically a form of punctuation whenever the two of them spoke.
But when something went wrong?
Neither would hesitate.
For Sherlock, John and Helen were the only genuine friends he’d made since arriving in this world.
And for John—a man whose entire life had once revolved around contracts, favors, debts, and blood—Sherlock was the first friend he’d ever had who came with no price attached.
No business.
No leverage.
No hidden agenda.
Just trust returned with trust.
So John kicked open the study door with his pistol raised.
Then stopped dead.
Even for him, the sight was difficult to process.
Golden light rolled across the room in shimmering waves, pouring from the lance as it circled Sherlock in midair.
And Sherlock himself— was floating.
He hovered several feet off the ground, grinning like an idiot while the restored Holy Lance spun around him in obvious excitement.
John stood there with his gun raised.
For once, the legendary assassin had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to shoot.
He lowered the weapon slightly.
“…Sherlock.”
His face went blank.
“Since when the fuck can you fly?”
Only then did Sherlock notice him.
He blinked, took in John’s gun and expression, and understood the situation almost immediately.
Sherlock reached out.
The Holy Lance flew neatly into his hand.
Its exuberant golden glow faded, and Sherlock slowly descended until his feet touched the floor.
Unlike John’s baffled expression, Sherlock looked positively devious.
The second John saw that fox-like grin, every instinct he’d developed over years of knowing Sherlock began screaming.
Danger.
Not actual danger.
Sherlock had thought of something funny.
John narrowed his eyes.
Nothing good had ever followed that expression.
Sherlock spread his arms.
“Ah, my dear child.”
John’s eye twitched.
“Would you also like to soar through the heavens?”
“You motherf—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Sherlock casually tossed the Holy Lance toward his back.
John’s assassin instincts reacted instantly.
Even knowing Sherlock wouldn’t actually hurt him, his body moved on reflex, twisting to intercept the incoming weapon.
Except the spear never struck him.
It changed direction in midair.
Without anyone touching it, the lance swept neatly around John and stopped behind him.
Then gravity disappeared.
John’s feet left the floor.
“…What the hell?”
He slowly rose into the air.
John Wick was many things.
A highly trained assassin.
An expert marksman.
A master of close-quarters combat.
A man capable of turning almost anything within reach into a weapon.
What his extensive professional training had not included was a course titled:
What to Do When Your Asshole Alchemist Neighbor Switches Off Gravity.
So for the moment, John Wick was reduced to what he technically was.
A very well-trained ordinary human.
A very well-trained ordinary human currently flailing helplessly in midair.
Sherlock doubled over laughing.
John looked like a cat that had been thrown into a swimming pool.
His arms swept around in search of something to grab.
His legs kicked uselessly.
His body slowly rotated.
Sherlock laughed so hard he nearly lost the ability to breathe.
Strangely enough, John didn’t curse him out this time.
Once the initial confusion passed, curiosity took over.
He experimentally moved his arms.
Shifted his weight.
Adjusted his posture.
A grin appeared.
This was new.
Even John Wick hadn’t experienced zero gravity before.
By the time Helen arrived carrying Doro, he’d already adapted enough to propel himself around Sherlock’s study like an astronaut aboard a space station.
Helen stepped through the doorway.
She stared.
John floated past the ceiling.
Her jaw nearly hit the floor.
Doro, on the other hand, immediately began struggling in Helen’s arms.
“Doro!
Doro!”
Helen put her down.
Doro’s tiny legs hit the floor running.
She raced straight toward Sherlock, grabbed his pant leg, and looked up at him with enormous pleading eyes.
“Human!”
Sherlock looked down.
“Doro wants to play too!”
She pointed frantically upward.
“Doro wants to float in the sky!”
Sherlock’s resistance lasted approximately zero seconds.
“Of course you do.”
“What—”
He dropped.
Fortunately, only the last few inches.
At the same time, Doro floated upward.
Her entire face lit up.
“DORO!”
Four soft, chubby little limbs began windmilling wildly through the air.
Doro had absolutely no idea how flying worked.
She did not care.
She was having the time of her life.
John stood back up and watched her.
Helen smiled.
Sherlock folded his arms.
For a moment, all three simply watched the bizarre little creature spinning happily through the air while the Holy Lance floated behind her.
Warm smiles gradually appeared on their faces.
It was Helen who finally remembered the part where a supernatural explosion had just terrified the entire neighborhood.
“Sherlock.”
“Hm?”
“What exactly happened just now?”
She gestured toward the walls.
“The whole neighborhood saw that light.
You scared everyone half to death.”
Sherlock’s smile turned awkward.
He scratched his head.
“Yeah…
I honestly didn’t expect it to make that much of a scene.”
He pointed toward the lance floating behind Doro.
“I just finished repairing the Holy Lance of Longinus.”
Helen froze.
Her eyes widened.
Slowly, she turned toward the weapon.
“…The what?”
Sherlock blinked.
“The Holy Lance of Longinus.”
Helen stared at him.
Then at the lance.
Then back at him.
“Longinus.”
“Yes?”
“And you said Holy Lance.”
“…Yes?”
Her expression became increasingly alarmed.
“Sherlock.”
She pointed at the spear.
“Please tell me that thing isn’t the thing I think it is.”
Sherlock opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then looked at the ancient divine artifact floating serenely in the middle of his study.
For the first time since repairing it, he seemed to realize there might be certain…
historical implications attached to the name.
He scratched his cheek.
“Uh…”
A pause.
“Probably?”
Helen’s stare intensified.
Sherlock immediately backpedaled.
“I mean, maybe?”
Another pause.
“Possibly?”
He looked at the lance again.
“…Hopefully not?”
Keep reading.