Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

And with that, the whole mess was finally over.

What had started as a simple domestic argument had somehow spiraled into an investigation of Captain America’s questionable romantic ethics, accusations of infidelity, an alarming amount of family gossip, and a brief period during which Steve Rogers had genuinely looked ready to lie down and accept death.

Fortunately, it had ended happily.

"Congratulations," Evenson said, clapping as he walked over to the still-embracing Steve and Peggy. "You two finally worked things out. See? I told you. Secrets only make things worse. Couples just need to sit down, talk honestly, and most problems can be solved."

"Oh, and here."

Evenson reached into his bag and produced a bottle of expensive-looking red wine.

He handed it to Steve with an expression of shameless pride.

He’d posted a picture of the bottle on social media when he’d arrived. Neither Steve nor Peggy had even liked the post.

Now that their marital crisis was over, Evenson finally had an opportunity to show off properly.

Look at it. Admire it. Be jealous.

"Oh. Thanks."

Steve accepted the bottle without hesitation.

Then he took Peggy’s hand and smiled.

"Perfect. I was actually planning to make us a candlelit dinner tonight."

"Tonight?"

Evenson planted his hands on his hips, grinning.

"This is a pretty nice bottle, you know. I’d recommend saving it for the wedding."

"That won’t be necessary."

Peggy smiled happily.

"I have a family wine cellar back home in England. There are more than enough good bottles stored there to serve at the wedding."

"Oh."

Evenson’s smile froze.

"Right. Of course."

He rubbed his nose awkwardly.

"Well, I’ll be going, then."

Inside, he was seething.

Oh, you want to show off, do you?

Fine.

On your wedding day, I’m bringing a plastic barrel and taking half your wine home.

He muttered under his breath as he walked out onto the street.

Once outside, he pulled out a cigar he’d acquired through some convenient arrangement with the universe, bit off the end, and lit it.

He glanced back at Steve’s house.

All you know how to do is cuddle.

I leave and you don’t even come out to see me off. You don’t ask how I’m getting home.

Fine.

Enjoy your candlelit dinner.

Just don’t burn the house down.

Unfortunately, Evenson really was a long way from home.

Driving wouldn’t have been a problem, but walking was another matter entirely.

There was nobody at home, and he hadn’t finished setting up the demonic teleportation array. He couldn’t simply open a portal and return.

Nor could he exactly summon a Dreadsteed in the middle of New York and ride it down the street.

So he considered walking.

Then immediately rejected the idea.

Absolutely not.

What was he now?

The shadowy owner of Umbrella Corporation.

A man theoretically worth hundreds of billions of dollars.

A specially appointed S.H.I.E.L.D. consultant.

Someone of status.

He couldn’t possibly walk home.

It would be embarrassing.

Evenson gritted his teeth.

Fine.

He’d splurge.

He’d take a cab.

It was actually a historic occasion.

This was the first time in his entire life he’d ever hailed a taxi.

Before becoming wealthy, he’d relied on buses, crowded subway trains, and bicycles.

Later, he’d acquired his own vehicle, and unlike most cars, his ride didn’t burn gasoline or pollute the atmosphere.

That had finally changed the way he traveled.

But today, he was going old-school.

"Hey, buddy. Want to split a cab?"

"No?"

"Ma’am, want to share a ride?"

"Hey, miss..."

Evenson stopped.

"Actually, you look important. Never mind."

He wasn’t being cheap.

He was being financially responsible.

There was a difference.

He’d always believed in living within his means. Even if he technically had a fortune worth hundreds of billions, that fortune was mostly theoretical at the moment. He still had no idea when he’d actually be able to access all of it.

Saving money where possible was simply common sense.

Unfortunately, after ten minutes of asking around, he still hadn’t found a single person willing to split the fare.

Some were headed in completely different directions.

Others refused to share a vehicle with strangers.

Evenson was just about to give up and pay for the entire cab himself when a sharp whistle cut through the street noise.

He turned.

A tall, thin man stood at the curb, repeatedly blowing a whistle while raising one hand to hail a taxi.

Beside him stood a well-dressed Asian woman who carried herself with effortless composure.

Judging by the way they interacted, she was probably his friend.

The woman watched her companion continue whistling at passing taxis.

She took two steps away from him.

"Sherlock, I’ve told you before. You don’t need to whistle to hail a taxi."

Evenson stared.

Then he hesitated.

Should he ask them to share a ride?

The tall man looked slightly unhinged.

Possibly clinically so.

But that wasn’t necessarily a disadvantage.

If he really was crazy, maybe Evenson could talk him into paying the entire fare.

Worth a shot.

Evenson walked over and politely addressed them.

"Excuse me. Getting a taxi seems to be a little difficult right now. Would you two be interested in sharing one?"

The tall man spun around with almost theatrical speed.

His expression was intensely self-satisfied.

"No. I don’t share taxis."

Before Evenson could respond, the woman smiled politely.

"Where are you going?"

"Sixth District."

"Perfect. That’s where we’re headed."

She smiled again.

"Works for me."

"Watson."

The man’s tone made it clear he wasn’t pleased.

"What?"

Watson frowned at him.

"The crime scene is in the Sixth District. We’re going there anyway."

Sherlock said nothing.

Apparently, that settled it.

Evenson raised an eyebrow.

Crime scene?

Before he could ask anything else, a taxi pulled up beside them.

Evenson immediately opened the front passenger door and climbed in.

Sherlock stared at him.

Then rolled his eyes.

With no other option, he and Watson climbed into the back.

Once the cab pulled away, Evenson gave the driver his address.

Then curiosity finally got the better of him.

He turned around to face the back seat.

"You mentioned a crime scene. What exactly do you two do?"

The phrase immediately caught his attention.

Crime scene was usually the sort of terminology used by police.

Yet neither of them looked like police officers.

Sherlock was dressed oddly enough to stand out, and he wore a commemorative medal on his chest.

More importantly, there was something strange about his physical condition.

Something Evenson recognized.

Unfortunately, he recognized it very well.

He’d spent enough time around certain women to know the signs.

The man’s body language, complexion, and overall condition suggested a history of drug abuse.

A former addict, at the very least.

The NYPD probably wasn’t exactly known for welcoming active drug addicts into its ranks.

"NYPD."

Sherlock finally answered.

"I’m a consulting detective."

His eyes remained fixed on Evenson through the rearview mirror.

Sharp.

Alert.

Studying every detail.

"New York Police Department..."

Evenson nodded to himself.

"So you’re a consultant."

He turned back around.

"That’s actually pretty interesting. I’ve dealt with the NYPD before."

Watson immediately leaned forward with interest.

"You’ve worked with the NYPD?"

"No."

Evenson paused.

That wasn’t exactly the right way to phrase it.

"I..."

He grimaced.

"I’ve provided them with work."

Silence filled the cab.

Watson stared.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly in the rearview mirror.

Evenson smiled innocently.

Well, technically, he hadn’t lied.