Sherlock’s outburst was easy enough to understand.
Before being transported to this world, he had been an ordinary man, and even after gaining supernatural powers, all he wanted was to enjoy a comfortable, peaceful life.
The Ancient One’s meaning, however, had been painfully clear: whatever happened in the future, Sherlock would somehow be involved.
How was that even possible?
He had been in this world for five full years, and despite possessing extraordinary abilities, he had never once felt the urge to put on a costume and run around dispensing justice like a superhero.
His first instinct was to dismiss the Ancient One’s cryptic warning altogether, but the Time Stone in her possession made that difficult.
She had seen enough of the future that Sherlock could not simply assume she was talking nonsense.
As far as he could remember, his only connections to the Avengers were the Ancient One—Marvel’s most famous bald mystic—and his late parents, who had once held senior positions at Stark Industries.
Even that connection was tenuous at best.
His parents had worked there during the chaotic transition following Howard Stark’s death, when Tony had only just taken control of the corporate giant.
Sherlock seriously doubted they had ever known Tony personally.
He doubted even more that the billionaire playboy currently appearing on television beside a different swimsuit model every week would remember the child of two former employees who had died in a plane crash during a business trip, no matter how much that elderly couple had doted on their long-awaited son.
Sherlock spent several minutes cursing the spot where the Ancient One’s portal had vanished, but when the golden sparks showed no sign of returning, the performance quickly lost its appeal.
He clicked his tongue, sighed, and turned his attention back to the Holy Lance of Longinus.
After all, the Ancient One had explicitly said that if he could repair it, he could keep it.
Compared to saving the world as a superhero, Sherlock much preferred his current life: hiding away in his home, drinking coffee, studying alchemy, and examining ancient artifacts in peace like some reclusive heir with more money than sense.
The profession might be called “superhero,” but Sherlock saw it for what it really was—a highly prestigious, overworked public servant whose main responsibility was taking the blame whenever anything went wrong.
He had absolutely no interest in it.
As for the Snap that would shake the entire universe in the not-so-distant future?
There were plenty of taller people around to hold up the sky if it started falling.
What did any of that have to do with a humble little alchemist like him?
Besides, Sherlock did not believe the Infinity Stones could simply turn him to dust.
At that thought, his hand unconsciously rose to his left eye.
Only Sherlock knew that beneath the artificial eye rested a blood-red stone—the foundation of his confidence that he could survive in the dangerously unpredictable Marvel universe.
The Philosopher’s Stone, the highest achievement of alchemy: an artifact capable of disregarding the normal laws of equivalent exchange and granting virtually any wish.
More importantly, Sherlock’s Philosopher’s Stone could be used without consuming its power.
It had appeared alongside the alchemical grimoire when he first arrived in this world.
Even if fate truly existed, Sherlock was confident that he could use the hidden stone and his alchemy to tear that supposed destiny apart with his own hands.
No one was going to disturb his peaceful life.
No one!
Having vented his frustration, Sherlock cheerfully began a more thorough alchemical examination of the divine artifact before him.
The deeper he looked, the more impressed he became by Kamar-Taj’s collection.
Despite being called the Holy Lance of Longinus, the weapon was less a spear than an exceptionally powerful magical staff.
Yes, a staff—the same general kind of tool wielded by wizards, not unlike the one Gandalf had once used to cast his famous illumination spell.
Unlike Gandalf’s staff, however, which often seemed most useful as a blunt weapon, the lance before him possessed both overwhelming mystical potential and formidable offensive power of its own.
Its most fundamental ability could best be described as amplification, or perhaps refinement.
Alchemy provided the simplest example.
Ordinarily, performing alchemy required a transmutation circle.
An alchemist who had passed through the Gate and witnessed Truth could simplify that circle by using the body itself to complete the array.
That was the principle behind the familiar motion of clapping both hands together in Fullmetal Alchemist.
The joined hands formed the simplest possible transmutation circle.
The Holy Lance of Longinus could simplify the process even further.
It reduced the circle to a single point.
In practical terms, Sherlock would only need to touch something with the lance to activate alchemy directly, eliminating even the need to bring his hands together.
And that was not all.
Based on Sherlock’s current understanding and the surviving inscriptions along the shaft, the artifact might even have been capable of performing transmutations at a distance when pushed to its full potential.
That ability alone was more than enough to justify its status as a divine artifact.
Its other functions—following its owner, levitating, flying, forming a bond with its wielder, and returning when summoned—seemed almost ordinary by comparison.
Of course, these were merely Sherlock’s deductions based on the damaged runes still visible along the weapon.
In its current state, the only function the Holy Lance retained was its ability to float.
“So this thing is basically a heavily upgraded, spear-shaped version of Doctor Strange’s Cloak of Levitation?” Sherlock gazed at the lance with undisguised delight.
For a moment, he even wondered whether accepting such an artifact from the Ancient One was a little shameless.
The thought lasted less than a second.
To an alchemist, the weapon’s appeal was simply too great to resist.
“Fine.
I’ll consider it payment for all the times she borrowed Doro so she could cuddle her.” Having convinced himself with an excuse that contained absolutely no sincerity whatsoever, Sherlock brushed his right hand across his left arm.
The limb, which had appeared completely indistinguishable from ordinary flesh, split apart in an instant.
Panels opened along its surface as the artificial arm unfolded into a complex array of tools, blades, clamps, needles, and instruments.
It looked like something Rick Sanchez might have designed during an especially productive afternoon.
Rick’s arm would have relied entirely on science and machinery, however.
Sherlock’s was a genuine alchemical creation, and every instrument concealed within it had been designed for some specific branch of alchemy.
With the predatory grin of a man who had just spotted the most beautiful woman in the room, Sherlock advanced on the Holy Lance of Longinus.
No matter what it took, he was going to restore this artifact to its former glory.