Exotic Matter
"John, can you stop doing that?" asked Sherlock, rolling his eyes.
"What? Enjoying all of this?"
Stephen burst out laughing, and with a determined air, he crossed the entrance of the Avengers' facility, crossed it, and walked into the hall where Stark, Steve, Clint, and Natasha were looking at a location hologram.
"You found him!" shouted Clint in excitement.
"No, he is not Everett," replied Stephen.
Clint opened his mouth to reply, but his gaze fell on Sherlock, then back to Stephen and back to the detective.
"What on earth...?"
"Great. Great. He has a brother. Great," ironized Stark, raising an eyebrow.
"He is not Everett, and he is not my brother." Stephen was pointing alternately at them with his head, "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Doctor Watson will be filling in for Everett if necessary.
"Great. A doctor. How helpful" the sarcasm of Tony's tone made Sherlock step forward, but John stopped him with a gesture.
"I am an army doctor, which means I could break every bone in your body while naming them," replied as he approached Tony.
"With that jumper, I doubt it very much."
"Look, you idiot, stop talking to him like this because of that stupid superiority complex to compensate for the feeling of being worth less than your father..."
"Sherlock!" John reproached him.
Tony turned to Sherlock slowly, clenching his fist, ready to activate the Bleeding Edge armor's fist and reduce that insolent know-it-all to ashes in an instant. He stepped forward.
"What did you say?" he hissed, threatening.
"I hate to repeat myself. You heard me the first time. I'm just warning you... Oh!" Sherlock, who was staring at Tony, smirked and turned to Stephen, "It's not superiority complex, he is…"
"Sherlock, that's enough," John cut him off, anticipating that the detective would say something that would make a bit not good far out of hand. And he wasn't wrong, because Tony, watching the detective's gaze, turned red and stepped back. "I don't need you to defend me," grunted the doctor.
"Too many egos for too little space," sighed Steve, looking inquisitively at Sherlock, wondering what he had seen in Stark that had made the self-centered billionaire give up, something no one had ever done before. He looked down as the detective fixed his eyes on him, with the feeling that he was being scanned alive.
Natasha nodded. She smiled and approached Sherlock, amused by the resemblance to Stephen.
"Natasha Romanoff," she said, reaching out her hand, smiling seductively, "a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock, please," replied the detective, shaking her hand. John narrowed his eyes, looking at the Russian spy.
"John Watson," said vehemently, standing between Natasha and the detective, with the clear intention of marking his territory, which made her smile mockingly.
"Nice to meet you. Surprising resemblance to Ross. You are as bad-tempered as him."
"This will end badly," Clint whispered to Steve, who bit his lips with a smile.
He looked at Stark, who remained, for once, in the background and approached John.
"Thank you for coming to help us," he said, shaking his hand.
The doctor's face, serious after the encounter with Stark, relaxed.
"I can't believe it," he smiled, "I am shaking Captain America's hand.
"Steve, please," he said, imitating Sherlock. John chuckled. "So, you were in the army?"
"Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan," answered John, making the military salute in the English way.
"Captain Steven Rogers, World War II" making it in the American way.
Both chuckled, and Tony rolled his eyes. That looked like an alumni meeting. Natasha came up to him.
"Don't worry; it's only for a few days until Ross shows up again."
"I don't give a shit if he shows up," snarled Tony.
Natasha looked at him in surprise. Stark cleared his throat, and she frowned. What made Tony so insecure?
"I mean, I don't see why they have to be here. We are the Avengers, for God's sake, we can manage perfectly well without the replicants".
Natasha laughed, watching as Clint had joined Steve and cheered on the detective and doctor. To be more precise, only the doctor was chatting away with them, because the detective was merely nodding when he felt they were talking about him. His gaze went from scrutinizing his interlocutors to walking around the room as if he were making a mental map of it.
"Well, I think we could cut the social crap and move on to..." Stark started.
"Sherlock Holmes!" Peter's cry, behind the door that had just opened on his left, startled everyone.
The teenager ran to the detective, staring at him with the same excitement John showed when he met the Avengers. He turned to John.
"Dr. Watson! Wow! I am an absolute fan of your blog. That's so cool! I love the way you write. It's fascinating! And the best part is the unsolved cases!"
John threw a smug look at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes, looking surprised at the teenager, who, standing in front of him, slightly opened his arms.
"Tell me what you can guess about me."
"Peter..." Tony reconvened. That would not end well.
"No, no, really! I have always wanted to do that. Come on. Tell me what you see. Deduce me."
The detective turned to the teenager, who was looking at him expectantly. Tony stepped forward. He didn't want Peter to be hurt.
Sherlock read in the teenager's eyes the suffering when he lost his parents, the years of crying for them, the loneliness, the rejection by others, the feeling of being different – and adolescence so similar to his own. He also read the admiration and devotion to Tony, the pride of belonging to the Avengers, of feeling that he had finally found his place.
The detective smirked. John prepared to cut him off, worried about what might come out of his mouth.
"The Avengers can be proud to have you. You're a precious member of the group. And Stark is very proud of you and admires you, though he will never tell you that."
It seemed for a moment that Peter was going to burst with pride. He turned to Tony, who looked at Sherlock gratefully for a second and got his pride back by looking at Peter.
"Don't believe a word this tinhorn detective tells you. Don't let it go to your head".
Peter chuckled.
The door through which Peter had appeared opened again, and Bruce Banner appeared, ignoring those assembled, and headed for Strange.
"We have a problem. Remember the spatial-temporal coordinates you asked me to lookup? There is indeed an anomaly."
Stephen pressed his lips.
"Shit."
"You asked him to look up space-time coordinates?" Tony raised his eyes to his hairline, shocked, "You?"
"I was afraid there was an anomaly, but I couldn't look for it."
"Please. You control time. All you had to do was wind back that green stone and..." Tony replied.
"It's not that simple," replied Strange, annoyed.
"Why?" asked Steve, frowning, worried, "You control time."
"I said I couldn't!" cried Stephen.
He closed his eyes and pursed his lips.
"I made a mistake, okay? Is that what you wanted to know? I made a mistake by..." he looked sideways at Sherlock, who frowned in concern. So that's what had gone wrong. "I made a mistake in changing a timeline. Even if I control the time, I cannot correct a mistake I made myself."
"A mistake?" asked Tony, Bruce, and Steve, alarmed. A Supreme Sorcerer's mistake sounded dangerous.
"Yes, I was... distracted."
"Oh, great. The magician was distracted," snarled Tony, "what was the matter, were your balloons pricked?"
Stephen tilted his head.
"Stop comparing me to a carnival magician!" roared Strange "this is very serious!"
"He's right, Tony, this is very serious. He created an anomaly," supported Bruce.
"What the hell is an anomaly?" Clint asked.
"The timeline Stephen broke should have been closed in a parallel universe. But before it was closed, something escaped from it."
"How could that happen? How could you make a mistake like that?" Bruce was amazed.
"I... I was so eager to help someone; I wasn't as cautious as I should have been."
"Perfect," Natasha grumbled. "Well, it's not that bad. You've always said that jumps to another universe are limited in time, and whatever jumps is attracted by its original universe."
"Unless what has jumped from one universe to another, it jumps to a different one, realizing that it can travel between them. Then it can move at will," replied Bruce, and Stephen nodded.
"That's what kidnapped Everett," intervened Sherlock.
"Well, that's easy. Return it to its universe, and Everett will be back," decided Steve.
"Sure," supported Tony. "You just have to do that circular thing you do with your hand, create a portal, and kick it back to its world."
"I can't do that. As Bruce says, he became aware that he can travel between different universes. Once he realized that, he leaves no trace when he goes from one universe to another," he sighed. "It's not about going back to a particular time in the past. That would be easy. It's about going back to the birth of an anomaly in the space-time continuum and ..."
"You can't do it if you're the one who created it.." apostilled Tony.
"Brilliant, brilliant!" Steve grumbled.
"Leave him alone," intervened Sherlock, "There's no point in looking for blame. You have to look for solutions."
Stephen looked at him, gratefully. He was mortified by what happened, so much he began to doubt his ability to be the Sorcerer Supreme.
"No," Stephen stared at Sherlock after the detective barked the monosyllable, "You are the Sorcerer Supreme. But you're also human. You made a mistake, and who doesn't? I'm sure all these jumping jacks have a few to their credit too."
"Sherlock..." John reconvened.
"No, Batman's right," said Tony. "Whatever happens, it's done. Now we have to fix it. Bruce, what have you got?"
"Since Stephen can't create the portal, we could do it artificially, I mean, without magic or time control."
"Okay, that sounds easy."
"Yeah, but it's not. The portals Stephen opens are held in place by magic, a mighty force that can even counter gravity. We don't have that force, and the portals we open between our universe and the anomalies are not stable. Sooner or later, they close."
"What does that mean?" Natasha asked.
"That we could go, but not come back if the portal closed. We would be trapped in that universe forever. Even worse, if the opening were to fall apart as we crossed it, it would tear us to pieces, and I assure you it would not be an enjoyable death.
"And there's no way to keep it?"
Bruce shook his head.
"Try incorporating antimatter," Tony suggested.
"Antimatter?" asked Clint as an echo.
"Yes, dark matter. It's what generates the balance of forces in the universe. Perhaps, coupled with the matter, it would combat gravity's force and give stability to the portal.
"Sure! Why didn't I think of that?"
He ran to the lab. The others followed silently. He pressed several keys on a panel, and a simulation of the portal appeared floating between them.
"This is what we had until now. This is our universe," pointed to a greenish vertical strip, "This is where the singularity occurred. We've calculated this by taking into account where Everett disappeared. If we use only matter to connect them..."
A crater was created in each of the strips that were getting deeper and deeper, until connecting both universes by a kind of tunnel. The simulation advanced in time, and when the chronometer marked three hours, the tunnel broke in two.
"We're dead," announced Bruce. "But if we add antimatter to the model..." Bruce pressed a few keys, incorporating it into the mathematical model. The tunnel between the two vertical plants was generated again, and the counter started up again. One hour, two, three, four, five, and it was stable. Everyone was staring at the model. Tony and Bruce smiled. They had it.
"Is something wrong with Mr. Holmes?" Peter whispered to John. The doctor turned and saw Sherlock sitting in a high chair, eyes closed, fingers stapled under his chin.
"He is okay. He is in his Mind Palace."
"Oh, the Mind Palace!" the teenager wondered, "So he goes inside it?"
"If I told you..."
"I think we got it," announced Bruce. The clock struck ten hours, and the portal was still intact.
"You are a genius, Bruce," Steve praised, slapping him on the back.
"It won't work," Sherlock's deep voice echoed from the back of the room.
"What are you saying, idiot?" We are seeing it with our own eyes," replied Tony.
"No, what you are seeing is a model based on the hypothesis that both matter and antimatter remain constant. That's why it remains in time, but in the universe..."
"They don't hold steady," whispered Bruce, impressed and defeated. Sherlock was right.
John opened his eyes wide looking at the detective. If he didn't even know that the Earth revolved around the Sun, how could he possibly know what was going on with matter and antimatter?"
"Don't look so surprised. It's your fault, with all those documentaries you make me watch," he grunted.
"Documentaries?" snapped Clint. "With all due respect, it takes more than a documentary to do what Bruce does."
"His knowledge goes beyond documentaries, even if he doesn't want to admit it," John said.
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.
"Anyway, it's not that hard to do what he does," replied Sherlock, pointing at Bruce.
Bruce tilted his head and pressed his lips together, annoyed, looking dangerously at the detective, a greenish glow illuminating his eyes.
"Sherlock, don't piss him off," warned John.
"Yes, Batman, you don't want to meet his green friend."
The detective looked at John, inquisitive.
"I'll explain to you later, but don't. piss. him. off, for God's sake."
"Well, if you're so smart, go ahead," Bruce grumbled, turning off the model that floated before them.
Sherlock stood in front of the dashboard.
"Yes, let's see what you can do. It takes a genius to handle this." Tony scoffed.
The detective stared at the panel for several minutes. He closed his eyes, gathering more information from his mental palace. He remained like this for five minutes until, as if waking up, he pressed several keys, triggering the projection. He glanced mockingly at Tony.
"A genius, exactly" he looked at John, who smiled, delighted.
"What's your solution, Sherlock?"
"We have matter and antimatter, as Ben said."
"Bruce," snarled the scientist.
"Whatever. We need to stabilize them, and for that, we need extraordinary matter."
Bruce looked at him with his eyes wide open.
"Sure! How could we not have thought of that," he looked at Tony and frowned, "Why didn't you think of that? You are a genius."
"Beginner's luck," grunted the billionaire.
"What is the exotic matter?" asked Peter, curious.
"Exotic matter has a negative mass. We, the Earth, and everything else in the universe has positive mass, that's why it's attracted by gravity," explained Bruce.
"But exotic matter, having negative mass, repels it, as if it were an anti-gravity," continued Sherlock.
"A compelling anti-gravity force, capable of exerting a great deal of pressure on space-time, more pressure than there would be at the core of a neutron star," continued Tony, "and that will keep the passageway between universes open."
"And will it be stable?" Steve asked.
"As long as we want," replied Bruce, pointing to the simulator's counter, which was already past twenty-four hours.
"Brilliant," mused John, and the others chuckled as they watched Sherlock and Tony swell up like a turkey.
"What Stark needed," mused Steve, and Natasha and Clint laughed, the billionaire ostensibly ignored them.
"Well, time to go to where Ross disappeared."
**********
"You didn't have to kill him," groaned Everett, looking at the man's lifeless body who Homest just shot in the forehead to take his car away from him. "Just with showing him the gun, he would have given it to you. You can't go around killing people."
Holmes didn't reply, opened the passenger door and pushed Everett inside, who, with his hands tied behind his back, fell like a bundle on the seat. As the other man circled to enter the other door, he continued to try to free himself. Ross grunted to himself in frustration. He had not even managed to loosen the bonds.
Holmes sat down next to him, and from one of his coat pockets, he pulled out a black hood, which put over Everett's head. The CIA agent felt for a moment that he couldn't breathe, the fabric sticking to his nose and mouth every time he inhaled.
"Why?" he simply asked.
"Why do you keep trying to untie yourself when you think I can't see you?" Holmes chuckled when Ross stiffened. Holmes had never been looking when he was trying to get loose, he'd taken good care of it. "Don't look so surprised. It is my business to know what other people do not know.
"Where are we going?"
"Home."
He started the car at full speed. Everett wobbled from side to side in the turns sharpening his ear to identify any familiar sounds that would give him a clue as to where they were going. It was clear that Holmes' only goal was to get him to remember. And if they were in London... He smiled under the hood. Holmes was about to make a mistake. The place they were going would be full of police.
The car stopped with a dry spell, and Ross feared for a moment that Holmes might have read his mind. If he didn't have that ability, he was close. He frowned at the sound—a lock pick. Holmes was trying to force a door.
"Come on," he ordered, taking his arm and pulling on his "steps. Seventeen," he warned, and then continued to pull him, forcing him to stumble up. Ross held his breath. He seemed to be right, he said to himself, as he heard Holmes make another door. One more pull and they crossed over into the place.
"Steps," warned Holmes again, forcing him back up. Another door opened, and Holmes pushed him hard, making him fall, but instead of on the floor, he fell on a mattress. A mattress? A bed.
Holmes took off his hood and stroked his hair, stuck to his forehead by sweat. He acted with a mixture of hardness and sensitivity with him that had him puzzled. As if he felt towards him an infinite fury and great tenderness. Ross almost rendered to the touch. If he closed his eyes, it was almost like... No, no Everett, he told himself. Stop daydreaming. Focus yourself.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"Baker Street"
"This will be the first place where they'll look for me."
"I'm aware of it."
Ross arched an eyebrow, surprised. By now, cops had to know that it was Holmes who was leaving London strewn with bodies. But there was no one there but the two of them.
"Why have you brought me here?"
"When suffering from amnesia, it is important to return to a familiar environment to help the brain remember," Holmes replied. "Does it feel familiar?"
Ross looked around. The room was quite sober. The narrow bed, the dark closet, and a small desk by the window. The only distinguishing feature, a British army mug. He sighed. He had to continue the pantomime to stay alive.
"My army mug," he said, in a shot in the air. But Holmes was too smart to swallow that little bait.
Everett searched his memory. Holmes had said that Watson had fought in Afghanistan. He had been shot. He'd been discharged from the army and returned to London with little more than his army pension. He shouldn't have had a family if he shared a flat.
"The only thing I had when I came back," he mused and saw a strange gleam in Holmes' eyes, full of sadness and anger. Hope, that's what shone. Ross inhaled deeply. He was increasingly fond of this Watson.
******
Greg was crouched over the longshoreman's body, looking for a clue with Anderson that would let them know what had happened. But they had nothing. He swore to himself. When they got stuck, they went to Sherlock. But now, apparently, he had one escaped Sherlock in New York and another in London killing people.
Interestingly, Sherlock was investigating the case of the point-blank killings, the same MO as the case of the body next to him. Three men were killed for no apparent reason and with no connection to each other. One in Hackney, one in Brixton and the next in St James's Park and this last one in Lambeth.
But Sherlock was puzzled by the murders. He certainly didn't behave as if he was the perpetrator. He shook his head. What a stupid thing to do. If anyone knew how to cover up the fact that he was the author of a murder, it would be Sherlock. But he didn't. Greg knew him, and he knew the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath wasn't that. With John, he achieved a stability he hadn't had before. No matter how hard Donovan tried and the cameras proved it, it wasn't Sherlock who did it, he was sure of it, but he would need a third Sherlock to prove it.
Shit.
"Maybe it was a skin," ventured Anderson, taking Lestrade out of his thoughts.
"A skin?"
"Well, I mean, a mask. Someone who would try to frame the freak. There's a lot of people who want to get even with him. If he was convicted of murder and put him in jail, could you imagine what they'd do with him? He wouldn't last ten minutes.
Greg shuddered at the idea. Anderson wasn't usually brilliant, but that was the closest thing they had to an explanation. The quality of the camera footage was terrible. Knowing that it might be easy to impersonate him. But it wasn't just the face: the way he moved, the impassiveness of the face, was the same.
"We will work on that hypothesis for now," he pulled out his phone and dialed "Mycroft?" he asked, unsure. With Sherlock's brother, you never knew. One minute he was affable, and the next, he was looking at you like a hideous bug. "I need to see you" he closed his eyes and blushed. Why had he said that?
It seemed Sherlock's brother was surprised too, because he was silent for a few moments, deciphering the phrase. Finally, he cleared his throat:
"Of course. I'm sending you a car. Five minutes."