By the time John returned inside, Helen was already seated at the dining table with Doro in her arms, feeding her slices of orange.
Her every movement was gentle, as though Doro truly were her daughter.
Bathed in the morning sunlight, she seemed to radiate the warm, almost sacred tenderness of a mother caring for her child.
Even the normally restless Doro had settled down beneath that affection.
She swung her soft little legs while patiently waiting for each slice, smiling sweetly despite the orange juice smeared all around her mouth.
The sight made John’s heart ache with tenderness for what must have been the thousandth time.
His gaze softened as it moved between Helen and Doro.
Sherlock had managed to save Helen from her illness, but the treatment had left her unable to have children.
Doro’s arrival had given John and Helen something they had long believed they would never experience, which was the main reason they adored her so much.
After feeding Doro an entire orange, Helen gently wiped her mouth and placed her in John’s arms.
Then she fixed her husband with the fierce look of a mother hen guarding her chick.
“Keep an eye on Doro while I make lunch, and don’t forget to bring Sherlock over.
That brat is probably buried in that ridiculous alchemy of his again.
No wonder Doro wandered off by herself.” Even the legendary Baba Yaga knew better than to challenge Helen when she used that tone.
John obediently held Doro and nodded.
Satisfied with his answer, Helen smiled and headed toward the kitchen.
John carried Doro into the living room, where the two of them spent the rest of the morning playing.
Doro might have been tiny and looked like a doodle brought to life, but her speed and agility were genuinely exceptional.
John had discovered that long ago.
Even in a simple game of dodgeball, he could draw on every skill he had developed as an assassin and still fail to land a single hit with the beanbag.
Perhaps Doro had inherited too much of Sherlock’s personality, because whenever she won, the smug little look she gave him never failed to get under John’s skin.
Even then, he would only curse Sherlock internally for being a terrible influence.
He could never bring himself to show Doro the slightest hint of irritation.
That did not mean he had learned nothing from his defeats, though.
These days, John avoided playing anything with Doro that depended on speed or stamina.
After spending the morning watching television together, he noticed it was nearly lunchtime and carried her back toward Sherlock’s house.
Once inside, John followed Doro’s directions to the study.
The moment he opened the door, he stopped dead.
He had known Sherlock was working on something, but the scene before him was still breathtaking.
The magnificent lance floated silently in the center of the room, surrounded by layers of transmutation arrays and multicolored runes.
Sherlock’s mechanical left arm had fully unfolded into an array of alchemical instruments.
More than a dozen slender mechanical appendages moved around the lance like flexible tentacles, and every time one of them touched the weapon, a dazzling flash erupted as the runes and arrays across its surface shifted into new configurations.
Sherlock himself seemed completely unaffected by the blinding light or the countless symbols floating around the weapon.
His enormous alchemical grimoire lay open before him, its pages turning on their own.
He searched through the text while using his right hand and the tools extending from his left arm to construct new arrays and inscribe them directly into the lance.
“No matter how many times I see it, your alchemy is still incredible,” John murmured.
The words seemed to break Sherlock’s concentration.
Sparks burst from the lance, and every glowing rune and transmutation array vanished at once.
The weapon slowly descended until it came to rest on the desk.
John flinched at the sudden change and looked at Sherlock apologetically.
“Sorry.
Did I distract you?” Hearing his voice, Sherlock finally tore his analytical gaze away from the lance and looked toward the doorway.
The moment he saw John holding Doro, he understood what had happened.
He closed the grimoire, rose from his chair, and said, “It’s fine.
That had nothing to do with you.
Repairing a divine artifact is difficult, and failures are inevitable.
Thanks for looking after Doro, my dear Johnny Wick.” The first half of his response had been perfectly normal.
Then Sherlock had added that last part with the most aggravating grin imaginable, instantly wiping the guilt from John’s face and replacing it with clenched teeth.
“Sherlock Flamel!
For the last damn time, my name is John Wick—not Johnny fucking Wick!” Sherlock showed no fear whatsoever.
His obnoxious grin only widened.
“Of course, Johnny Wick.
I understand, Johnny Wick.
Was there anything else, Johnny Wick?” After enduring the deliberate provocation for several seconds, John finally punched Sherlock lightly in the shoulder.
“Son of a bitch.” He then looked down at Doro, and his entire expression softened as his voice climbed into an embarrassingly sweet register.
“Come on, Doro.
Let’s go eat something delicious and leave your unreliable third-rate father behind.” With that, he carried Doro out of the room without looking back.
Sherlock watched the absurd tenderness on John’s face and rubbed his arms in disgust, trying to smooth down goosebumps that did not exist.
He raised a proud middle finger at John’s retreating back, then immediately followed him out.
After years of friendship, Sherlock understood John and Helen well enough to know what John had meant without needing a direct invitation.
So despite John never actually asking him to come, Sherlock shamelessly followed them home to enjoy Helen’s cooking.
Years earlier, Sherlock had once made the couple a meal of traditional home cooking.
Helen had fallen completely in love with the cuisine and devoted herself to learning it.
By now, she had long surpassed Sherlock and become a genuinely exceptional cook.
Ever since then, Sherlock had approached every opportunity to mooch a meal from them with tremendous enthusiasm.
After all, the bland food they had served before was practically inedible.