Sherlock didn’t say anything when he saw the black-framed glasses in Coulson’s hand.
He simply stared.
Coulson, meanwhile, watched him just as carefully.
The instant Sherlock’s pupils contracted, Coulson knew they’d found the right man.
But Sherlock’s continued silence only made him increasingly uneasy.
Seconds passed.
Sherlock kept staring at the glasses without saying a word.
Finally, Coulson gritted his teeth and prepared to sweeten the deal.
What he didn’t know was that Sherlock wasn’t debating whether to refuse.
He was realizing he’d gotten careless.
When he’d made those glasses for John, it had never occurred to him that something so small could easily be lost during a fight.
More importantly, he’d underestimated S.H.I.E.L.D.
Who would’ve thought they’d recover an utterly unremarkable pair of fake glasses—the kind of thing most people wouldn’t bother picking out of a trash can—and somehow trace them all the way back to him?
Apparently government spooks really did have too much time on their hands.
Seeing no reaction from Sherlock, Coulson finally spoke again.
“Mr.
Flamel, let me assure you that this would be strictly a business arrangement.
We have no ulterior intentions toward you.”
Sherlock remained silent.
“If you’re willing to accept the job, I can personally guarantee that as long as you don’t cause another incident on the scale of what happened two weeks ago, no one will bother you again.”
That got Sherlock’s attention.
Coulson continued.
“S.H.I.E.L.D.
can intercept most of the organizations currently investigating you.
We can keep them from tracing anything back here—including other government agencies.”
A faint smile appeared on his face.
“You understand.
Compared to us, they’re the ones who never know when to stop knocking.”
Sherlock said nothing.
Outwardly, his expression barely changed.
Internally?
He was starting to wonder whether the Ancient One had screwed him.
She’d brought the Holy Lance to his house.
And Sherlock, being the hopeless alchemy addict that he was, had completely failed to resist the temptation of analyzing and repairing a divine artifact.
Then the damn thing had lit up half the neighborhood the moment he restored it.
Now S.H.I.E.L.D.
was standing on his doorstep.
The more he thought about it, the more suspicious that bald old woman became.
Meanwhile, Sherlock’s silence was making Coulson increasingly desperate.
Conventional methods had produced almost nothing useful regarding Tony Stark’s disappearance.
That was the entire reason S.H.I.E.L.D.
had started looking toward people with supernatural abilities.
And among the enhanced and supernatural individuals on their radar, Sherlock was practically the poster child for lawful good.
He kept to himself.
Didn’t hurt civilians.
Didn’t commit crimes.
Didn’t seem interested in ruling the world.
By S.H.I.E.L.D.
standards, that practically made him a saint.
Sherlock was just beginning to wonder whether accepting one job in exchange for being left alone might actually be worthwhile when Coulson made a mistake.
A very serious mistake.
“Mr.
Flamel, even if you personally aren’t worried about those people coming after you…”
Coulson’s anxiety made him speak before fully considering his words.
“…the people around you may attract their attention as well.”
His gaze drifted past Sherlock.
Toward a corner of the room. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Doro was peeking out from behind the wall.
Sherlock followed Coulson’s eyes.
He saw Doro.
Something inside him snapped.
His anger went from simmering irritation to volcanic in an instant.
Sherlock turned back toward Coulson.
His voice was quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
“Are you threatening me?”
Coulson’s blood ran cold.
The pressure rolling off Sherlock felt almost physical, like he’d suddenly found himself standing at the edge of an erupting volcano.
One wrong move…
and he had the distinct feeling he’d be burned to ash.
Before Coulson could explain himself, however— another presence locked onto him.
Killing intent.
Pure, concentrated killing intent.
It came down on Coulson like something crawling out of the deepest pit of hell.
Sherlock felt it too.
He glanced toward the source.
John Wick was standing nearby.
Sherlock hadn’t even noticed him arrive.
John wore a perfectly tailored suit.
A pistol rested in his hand.
And his eyes were fixed on Coulson with a look that made the message perfectly clear.
Say the wrong thing.
Make one bad move.
And you’re dead.
Coulson found himself caught between them.
Sherlock’s fury burned in front of him.
John Wick’s killing intent froze his back.
His entire body broke out in goosebumps.
Cold sweat soaked through his shirt.
For several long seconds, Coulson didn’t dare move.
Eventually, face pale, he forced down the fear clawing at his chest and managed to produce something vaguely resembling his usual professional smile.
“Mr.
Flamel, you’ve misunderstood me.”
His voice remained controlled through sheer force of will.
“This isn’t a threat.”
He swallowed.
“I’d prefer to call it cooperation.”
Sherlock said nothing.
“S.H.I.E.L.D.
handles the people disturbing your peaceful life.
In return, you help us locate Tony Stark.”
Coulson could practically feel his teeth trying to chatter.
Sherlock just kept staring at him.
The longer the silence lasted, the worse it became.
Coulson had started seriously considering the possibility that this assignment was about to become his last.
Then Sherlock spoke.
“Fine.”
Coulson blinked.
“I’ll take the deal.”
For perhaps the first time that morning, Coulson was genuinely caught off guard.
Sherlock’s expression remained icy.
Coulson’s eyebrow twitched.
Sherlock pointed at him.
“And this is a one-time deal.”
His voice hardened.
“Don’t bother me again.”
Then he started closing the door.
Halfway through, Sherlock stopped.
He looked Coulson directly in the eye.
“One more thing.”
Coulson waited.
“Don’t forget your promise.”
Bang.
The door slammed shut.
This time, Coulson had absolutely no intention of stopping it.
Nor did he feel any desire to knock again.
The instant the door closed, the crushing pressure weighing on him disappeared.
Coulson stood outside Sherlock’s house and drew several deep breaths.
Only then did his mind circle back to Sherlock’s words.
That bald bastard?
For some reason, Nick Fury’s gleaming bald head immediately appeared in his imagination.
The corner of Coulson’s mouth twitched upward.
He glanced back at Sherlock’s house.
Then toward the spot where John Wick had been standing.
The assassin had already disappeared.
Coulson decided not to investigate that particular detail.
He turned around and left the neighborhood as quickly as dignity allowed.
The moment his car cleared the area, Coulson pulled out his phone and reported everything that had happened to Nick Fury at S.H.I.E.L.D.
headquarters in Washington.
Fury listened to the entire account.
Then issued two orders.
“First: whatever Flamel asks for, cooperate as much as possible.”
Coulson nodded.
“Understood.”
“Second…”
Fury paused.
Coulson waited.
“‘Bald bastard’ is now classified at the highest level.”
Coulson’s lips twitched.
“Director—”
The call disconnected.
Fury lowered his phone.
After a moment’s thought, he turned toward the computer in front of him.
He opened S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database.
Sherlock Flamel’s file appeared on the screen.
Fury printed it.
Then he deleted every digital copy and backup he could access.
The printer beside him quietly produced several sheets of paper.
Fury collected them and placed them inside a physical folder.
Across the cover, in bold letters, were two words:
AVENGERS INITIATIVE.
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