After the Holy Lance of Longinus went berserk upon being restored, Sherlock’s life gradually settled back into its usual peaceful rhythm.
As for the commotion it had caused, in a country as chaotic and desensitized as the United States, it barely lasted a week.
Within a few days, the event went from being the only thing anyone could talk about to yesterday’s forgotten headline.
Of course, for people like Sherlock and John, whose sources of information were very different from those of the average civilian, the matter was nowhere near over.
Sherlock was not particularly worried.
The neighborhood he lived in was exclusive enough that anyone with questionable intentions would think twice before setting foot inside it.
So he returned to his comfortable routine.
Every now and then, he would take out the enormous ‘Ford Raptor’ he could never have afforded in his previous life, pile Doro and the Wicks inside, and head out for a massive grocery run or a leisurely drive around the area.
…
Another week passed in the blink of an eye, and the incident involving the Holy Lance finally faded from public attention.
Ordinary people had already forgotten about it, while the organizations watching from the shadows gradually began losing interest as well.
Sherlock assumed his life would continue peacefully.
Unfortunately, trouble had followed the trail all the way to his front door.
That morning, Sherlock woke naturally, prepared breakfast for Doro, and peeled her an orange for a snack.
He was eating a sandwich while watching the news repeat reports of Tony Stark’s disappearance in the Middle East.
At the same time, he was seriously considering buying Stark Industries stock while the price was down and making his already absurd fortune even larger.
Then the doorbell rang.
The moment he heard it, Sherlock’s gaze sharpened.
The reason was simple: a ringing doorbell usually meant trouble.
Only strangers bothered with formalities like that.
A shameless friend like John would simply open the door and stroll inside as though he owned the place.
And in Sherlock’s experience, strangers arriving unannounced almost always meant problems.
With extreme reluctance, he walked to the entrance and opened the door.
Standing outside was a man in a black suit wearing a refined, pleasant smile.
He was also balding.
Well, perhaps “balding” was a little harsh.
His hairline was merely high enough that the sunlight reflecting off his forehead created a misleading impression.
Sherlock had never met the man before, but he recognized him immediately.
Phil Coulson—the unofficial tutorial guide of the Marvel Universe.
Although Sherlock identified him at once, he gave no sign of it.
He remained visibly guarded and looked at Coulson with polite suspicion.
“Hello.
What can I do for you?” Coulson showed no surprise at Sherlock’s distrust.
He had clearly grown accustomed to this sort of reception.
Maintaining his mild, professional smile, he took out an identification card and held it up.
“Mr.
Sherlock Flamel, my name is Phil Coulson.” Sherlock did not move aside.
He remained planted in the doorway, deliberately blocking Coulson’s view into the house.
“Nice to meet you, Coulson.
What exactly do you want?” It was the second time he had asked, and his impatience was now impossible to miss.
There was no invitation for him to come inside, only growing suspicion.
Coulson remained perfectly calm, as though he had failed to notice Sherlock’s hostility altogether.
“I assume you’ve seen the reports about Tony Stark’s disappearance.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
would like to hire you, Mr Flamel—may I call you that?” Sherlock gave a small nod.
Coulson continued, “We would like your help extracting Tony.
The world can ill afford to lose a mind like his, even if the man himself can occasionally be rather exhausting.” It was a mild joke, but Sherlock did not smile.
Instead, he stared at Coulson with open disbelief and a trace of mockery.
“First, I have no idea what this alphabet-soup homeland-security agency of yours is supposed to be.
Second, I’m an ordinary civilian, so I’m clearly not qualified to rescue Tony Stark.
And finally, even if I were some elite operative capable of saving him, I still wouldn’t go.
Please leave me alone and stop interfering with my peaceful life.” Sherlock immediately tried to close the door.
Coulson reacted faster.
As though he had dealt with this exact situation countless times before, he placed one hand against the door and stopped it from moving.
That was enough to make Sherlock genuinely angry.
The casual indifference disappeared from his eyes, replaced by a cold stare aimed directly at Coulson.
Coulson still wore the same warm, courteous smile, but a chill ran through him all the same.
Under Sherlock’s gaze, he felt as though a tiger had quietly fixed its attention on him.
He swallowed without showing it and forced himself to continue.
“I’m afraid you’re being too modest.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
is a government agency, and we are well aware that you possess the necessary capabilities.” As he spoke, Coulson reached into his coat and produced an ordinary-looking pair of thick black frames.
There were not even any lenses in them.
They looked so plain and cheap that no sane person would have considered buying them.
The moment Sherlock saw them, however, his pupils contracted.
He knew those glasses.
He had made them himself.
They were an alchemical artifact called Clark’s Glasses, created years earlier to help John Wick complete the supposedly impossible task required to earn his freedom from the Continental.