As Sherlock Holmes stood at the open airplane hatch, his face contorted with rage, the wind howling against the exposed skin not covered by his goggles, Solomon had long since left Baker Street. His tarot reading and case-solving technique had been so precise that even the stubborn Holmes had no choice but to acknowledge the power of magic. Using the clues provided by the cards, combined with the immense reach of the internet, Solomon had uncovered details not even mentioned in the case files—secrets known only to those closest to the deceased. Financial and political entanglements were laid bare as clearly as ink on white paper. What had once seemed like a supernatural mystery now read like a dull academic thesis under the spellcaster's analysis. If MI5 and MI6 still couldn't arrest someone with this level of intelligence, then it only proved that from WWII to the Cold War and up until now, the British intelligence community remained just as "talented" as ever.
That the tarot had replaced Sherlock Holmes's deductive reasoning left the detective deeply displeased. He still refused to incorporate such an unstable element as magic into his logical framework. Solomon didn't mind. Holmes had already scheduled a future visit—one that would gradually broaden his horizons and force him to realize just how precarious the survival of the human race truly was. His sense of social responsibility and insatiable curiosity would drive him forward, until he eventually fell into the web Solomon had laid out. This was a game played in the open, a gentleman's gambit, unlike the recruitment of Stephen Strange, which had relied on intrigue. Even if Holmes came to recognize it, he wouldn't be able to escape.
Solomon had won—and so Holmes made his jump without a parachute.
Watson had pleaded with his flatmate not to do something so insane, but after witnessing Solomon's capabilities firsthand, Holmes was convinced the tarot reading was merely a demonstration. The portal—that was the true card up the sorcerer's sleeve. Holmes also believed that Solomon hadn't lied during their first meeting. Since the mage had dared to propose such a bet, it meant he couldn't allow Holmes to die. And for that reason, Holmes was willing to stake his life.
"Do I look unhappy, Watson?" he shouted over the roaring wind. "I'm glad there are still so many unsolved mysteries in the world… and I'm glad I met you. I'm glad we became friends!"
"You don't need to say your final words, Holmes!" Watson screamed, clutching desperately at the detective's coat. He couldn't fathom how the plane had even taken off, or how they'd bypassed security, but those weren't things a military doctor needed to dwell on. Simply keeping hold of Holmes was taking every ounce of his strength. "Don't be stupid! That man was clearly messing with you!"
"See you soon!"
Watson didn't even have time to react before Holmes pried open his clenched hand and leapt. The military doctor shrieked and frantically searched the plane for a parachute, grabbing one and diving after his friend without goggles or an altimeter. Only once he began fumbling for the deployment cord did his training begin to kick in. He could do nothing but watch Holmes's silhouette plummet under gravity's pull, utterly unreachable.
Watson screamed his name in the open sky, unaware he was edging dangerously close to the critical altitude for parachute deployment. Relying on eyesight and old instincts, he finally opened the chute. Once he landed, his legs trembling from impact, he dragged himself toward the spot where Holmes had fallen—each step a prayer, each breath filled with dread.
But the scene he feared never materialized.
Instead of a mangled corpse, he found Sherlock Holmes sprawled on the grass, weakly smiling, his voice hoarse from laughing.
Relief gave way to uncontrollable rage.
"You're insane!" Watson yelled, pointing at his own head. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. His head was spinning, limbs cold, nose tingling. It was like molten lead had been poured into his tear ducts and instantly cooled, weighing him down. He couldn't even remember how he'd gotten there a minute ago. "I knew it! I knew you didn't value your own life! You're fucking crazy, Sherlock Holmes! I'm done with you! I never should've cared!"
"I'm fine. I floated down… like a feather," Holmes said, eyes closed, limbs splayed, grinning from ear to ear. "I never do anything unless I'm certain. I knew he wouldn't let me die. But thanks for caring."
"No! I don't care!" Watson deflated like a popped balloon, waving him off. "Whatever. I'm done. I'm calling Mary to come pick me up. You can find your own way back. Tell Mrs. Hudson I'm not coming home for dinner."
"Give Mary my regards."
"Don't even think about it!"
"Miss Morstan, this is a gift from the Immortal City," said Solomon, dressed in a black mourning suit as he knocked on the apartment door.
Faced with a stranger who knew her real name, Mary Morstan's first reaction was to feign ignorance—until she saw the folder wrapped in brown paper in his hands.
"I know an unannounced visit is terribly rude," Solomon said, "but if I'd sent this by post, I was concerned you'd think someone was trying to threaten you."
"I can assure you," he continued, "from this moment on, no one—neither S.H.I.E.L.D. nor HYDRA—will know who you once were. MI5, MI6, and the CIA won't have a clue either. Because this is the last file on your past. All traces of you have been erased from the internet, and even the person whose name you borrowed—every record of her has been deleted. You can take this secret to your grave. No one will ever use it against you."
"Who are you?" Mary asked calmly. Her elite training kicked in with perfect precision. She subtly stepped back, using the door to shield her hand as it reached for the gun behind her.
Solomon knew exactly where the muzzle was pointed—through the door, aimed at his chest. But he'd already cast protection spells before arriving. As long as the spell remained active, bullets weren't a concern. Still, he'd dispelled the spell that caused bullet ricochet, retaining only kinetic nullification, metal softening, and layered magical shielding—just in case she fired and the bullet bounced back.
"Let's just say I'm a friend of Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes," he shrugged. "Which is why I'm here to guarantee your safety."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Apologies, ma'am," Solomon replied. "I absolutely do not want Dr. Watson to know I came here. All nearby cameras have been temporarily disabled. No one will detect our conversation—no cell phone, no bank surveillance. Oh, and if Mycroft Holmes comes knocking... trust me, every one of his threats is empty. There's no evidence of your past. Feel free to mock him for me—tell him my name is Solomon Damonet."
"Who's Mycroft Holmes?"
"Don't worry about the CIA. They think you're dead. That's information we pulled directly from their own database," Solomon smiled but still didn't answer. "Goodbye, ma'am. This will be the last time you ever see me."
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