After the Holy Lance of Longinus went berserk upon being fully restored, Sherlock’s life gradually returned to normal.
As for the massive commotion it had caused?
This was America.
More specifically, this was America in the Marvel universe.
People moved on fast.
The mysterious golden light that had terrified the entire neighborhood dominated conversations for a few days, then vanished from public attention almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Within a week, nobody cared anymore.
Of course, that only applied to ordinary people.
Sherlock and John had access to information channels that were decidedly less ordinary, and they both knew the incident hadn’t truly been forgotten.
Far from it.
Various organizations had absolutely taken notice.
Sherlock just wasn’t particularly worried.
There was a reason he lived in this neighborhood.
The people around here were wealthy, influential, connected, dangerous, or some delightful combination of all four.
Anyone thinking about poking around would have to consider whether investigating Sherlock was worth accidentally stepping on half a dozen political, corporate, or criminal land mines.
For most people, the answer was no.
So Sherlock happily went back to enjoying his peaceful routine.
Sometimes he’d take out the enormous Ford Raptor he’d never been able to afford in his previous life and drag Doro, John, and Helen along on a giant supermarket run.
Other times, they’d drive around the area for no reason except that they could.
It was exactly the kind of life Sherlock wanted.
Quiet.
Comfortable.
Wealthy.
And, most importantly, hero-free.
Another week passed.
By then, even the more serious attention surrounding the Longinus incident had begun fading.
Sherlock figured that was the end of it.
Naturally, that was when trouble found him anyway.
One morning, Sherlock woke up at his usual leisurely pace.
He prepared breakfast for Doro, peeled an orange for her as a snack, then sat down with a sandwich of his own.
The television was running in the background.
Every news channel seemed to be covering the same story.
Tony Stark Missing in the Middle East.
Sherlock chewed thoughtfully while watching the reports scroll across the screen.
Tony’s disappearance had hammered Stark Industries’ stock price.
Which raised a very important question.
Should he buy the dip?
He was already rich.
But there was no such thing as being too rich.
Sherlock had just started calculating how much he could reasonably invest without attracting unnecessary attention when—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang.
His chewing stopped.
Sherlock slowly turned toward the front door.
His expression sharpened.
Trouble.
That was the first thought that crossed his mind.
Because normal visitors didn’t ring his doorbell.
John certainly didn’t.
That bastard usually just opened the door and walked in like he owned the place.
Which meant the person outside was almost certainly a stranger.
And in Sherlock’s experience, strangers in America could usually be summarized with one word.
Problems.
With profound reluctance, he got up and walked to the entrance.
He opened the door.
Standing outside was a man in a black suit wearing a polite, professional smile.
He looked refined.
Calm.
Friendly.
Sherlock squinted.
Balding?
Well, not technically.
His hairline was merely…
ambitious.
The sunlight reflecting off his forehead just made the situation look more serious than it really was.
Sherlock had never met the man before.
He still recognized him instantly.
Phil Coulson.
The unofficial tutorial NPC of the Marvel universe.
If Marvel had a starter village, Coulson was the guy waiting beside the gate with an exclamation mark floating over his head.
Sherlock recognized him immediately.
Naturally, he pretended otherwise.
His posture remained guarded as he blocked the doorway.
“Hello?”
He gave Coulson a suspicious look.
“Can I help you?”
Coulson didn’t seem remotely bothered by the cold reception.
If anything, he looked like a man who had been greeted this way thousands of times.
Still smiling, he reached into his jacket and produced an identification card.
“Mr.
Sherlock Flamel.
Good morning.”
He briefly displayed the credentials.
“My name is Phil Coulson.”
Sherlock didn’t move aside.
Didn’t invite him in.
Didn’t even pretend to consider it.
“Hello, Mr.
Coulson.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
“What do you want?”
That made two separate opportunities for Sherlock to invite him inside.
Coulson received neither.
Sherlock’s impatience wasn’t subtle either.
If anything, every part of his expression said:
State your business and leave.
Coulson simply ignored it.
“I assume you’ve seen the news regarding Tony Stark’s disappearance.”
Sherlock said nothing.
Coulson continued.
“We at S.H.I.E.L.D.
would like to hire you to assist in rescuing him.”
He paused.
“May I call you Sherlock?”
Sherlock gave a small nod.
“Thank you.”
Coulson resumed in the same professional tone.
“We’d like to contract your services to help recover Tony Stark.”
His smile turned slightly wry.
“America—and frankly, the world—would be worse off without a genius like Tony Stark.”
A beat.
“Even if the genius in question is occasionally an enormous pain in the ass.”
It was a decent joke.
Sherlock didn’t smile.
Instead, he looked genuinely confused.
Then mildly mocking.
“First of all, I have no idea what this Homeland-something-Security-something agency of yours even is.”
Coulson’s smile remained perfectly intact.
“Second, I’m an ordinary civilian.”
Sherlock spread his hands. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“I can’t rescue Tony Stark.”
He leaned slightly closer.
“And third?”
His expression flattened.
“Even if I were some elite super-agent capable of saving him…”
Sherlock shrugged.
“I still wouldn’t go.”
Coulson’s eyes narrowed by the smallest fraction.
Sherlock continued.
“I have no interest in rescuing Tony Stark.”
He pointed toward the driveway.
“So please stop bothering me and let me enjoy my peaceful life.”
Then he started closing the door.
Coulson reacted immediately.
One hand shot out and caught it.
The door stopped.
Sherlock’s expression changed.
The annoyance disappeared.
So did the sarcasm.
His eyes turned cold.
Very cold.
Coulson felt it instantly.
Despite the pleasant smile still plastered across his face, a chill crawled down his back.
For one brief moment, he had the distinct impression that he’d put his hand into the cage of a sleeping tiger.
And woken it up.
Coulson swallowed discreetly.
Then forced himself to continue.
“Mr.
Flamel, please.”
He maintained the professional tone through sheer experience.
“S.H.I.E.L.D.
is a government organization.”
His gaze remained steady.
“And we know you’re more than capable of helping.”
Sherlock said nothing.
Coulson reached into his coat again.
This time, what he removed wasn’t an ID card.
It was a pair of glasses.
Or rather, a simple black frame.
There weren’t even any lenses.
They looked cheap.
Ordinary.
The sort of thing nobody would bother picking up if they saw it lying in a trash can.
Sherlock’s pupils contracted.
Just slightly.
But Coulson saw it.
Because Sherlock knew those glasses.
He had made them.
Years ago.
For John Wick.
Back when John had been preparing to complete the Continental’s infamous impossible task and finally retire from the assassin world.
Sherlock had crafted an entire collection of alchemical tools to help him survive.
This particular item had been one of them.
Clark’s Glasses.
Sherlock stared at the black frame in Coulson’s hand.
And for the first time since opening the door…
he stopped pretending this conversation wasn’t worth his attention.
Add it to your Collection so you never miss a new chapter.
Add to Collection.
Send your Power Stones.
Keep reading.