"I can't believe you're actually an exorcist." Everett was visibly excited during the drive back.
"What did you use on that bat just now? Magic?"
"Obviously." Strange nodded.
"Exorcists aren't a secret. I don't believe the CIA doesn't know about us. And as for magic-haven't you already seen plenty of that back in '12?"
Everett shrugged. He couldn't refute that.
In truth, whether it was the CIA or the former S.H.I.E.L.D., they had known about exorcists for a long time.
They just hadn't believed in them.
Back then, most exorcists had terrible attitudes toward official agencies, and the agencies themselves were firm believers in science. They neither interfered with nor endorsed them.
Faith-related matters were always troublesome. Once you got involved, things spiraled quickly.
No matter the era, charlatans were everywhere. As a result, the authorities usually turned a blind eye, treating exorcists as little more than fraudsters.
But now, almost no one doubted their existence.
Magicians had already appeared. At that point, calling exorcists fake made no sense.
Of course, that didn't mean the problem was solved.
In fact, it got worse.
With magic suddenly becoming public, countless con artists jumped out, disguising themselves as all sorts of "professionals." Exorcists were no exception.
Real or fake was harder than ever to tell.
"I just didn't expect to meet a real one." Everett grinned, unfazed by Strange's calm tone. "Four years ago, when magicians first showed up, we tried to hire an exorcist for a case. Turned out we got scammed."
"Scammers are everywhere." Strange nodded. "There's no easy way to tell."
"I once read a record. Back in '91, your higher-ups invited an exorcist to investigate the death of a powerful tycoon."
"And then?" Everett asked.
"Your attitude offended them. So they chose not to tell you the truth." Strange spoke evenly. "That man was murdered. In the end, it was ruled a natural death caused by a car accident."
"...That's rough."
"Yes. That's why it's best to keep some reverence for everything."
Strange said it without the slightest embarrassment.
Even though he'd only been involved for less than three months.
But now, he wasn't "Stephen Strange."
He was "Sherlock Holmes."
And he would play that role properly.
Besides, after dealing with that damned bat demon, Strange could clearly feel it.
He wasn't ordinary anymore.
Everett had found a shotgun in the manor.
It did nothing.
Faced with no alternatives, Strange relied on memory alone-basic spell structures, combined with Noah's teachings on magical execution.
He forced together a simplified version of Confringo.
Crude.
Imperfect.
Yet the result was undeniable.
The bat demon that shrugged off bullets had its entire skeletal structure shattered by magic.
That single moment stunned both Everett and Wittich Letus.
The outcome was equally shocking.
Although Wittich Letus had lost his son, the real murderer was found.
That alone met his expectations.
After returning to Baker Street, they finally rested.
They had just met and immediately jumped into a case. The pace had been absurd.
They hadn't even had time to properly get to know each other.
The following days made up for it.
Surprisingly, the two worked together with frightening compatibility.
It was as if their false identities enhanced something.
Rather than "a halfling challenging a dragon," it felt exactly like Sherlock and Watson.
Strange, with little else to occupy him, also helped Everett recover his injured leg as much as possible.
That only made Everett even more grateful.
After several quiet days, the door to 221B Baker Street was knocked on again.
"Go on." Strange poured himself a cup of milk tea, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the woman before him. "Before that, introductions. I'm Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And that's my assistant, John Watson."
"Hello." The woman accepted the tea from Watson, took a sip, then spoke. "My name is Ellie Cormia. I'm here to ask for your help. This concerns a close friend of mine."
"Oh?" Strange looked interested. "What happened to her?"
"I suspect..." Ellie swallowed. "I suspect she's dead. I haven't been able to contact her for a long time. And lately, I've been having nightmares. Very bad ones. It feels like they're warning me something terrible has happened."
Strange looked at her carefully.
Inexplicable.
That was the word that came to mind.
Her friend was missing, yet she didn't go to the police.
She came here instead.
More than that, she relied on nightmares as evidence.
Did she think she herself was a magician?
Suppressing a sigh, Strange said calmly, "Ms. Cormia, I suggest you contact the police first."
"No." She rejected it instantly. "I tried. It didn't work. The police investigated her home and concluded she was just 'missing.' And more importantly-"
"More importantly?"
"We live next door. The night before she disappeared, I heard a wolf howl. After that, the nightmares started."
A wolf.
Nightmares.
Strange stroked his chin.
If she wasn't lying, then this wasn't something the police could handle.
A wolf howl paired with a woman's disappearance strongly suggested a werewolf.
But that raised another question.
Why would a feral werewolf appear in London?
The Ministry of Magic's headquarters was here.
Strange couldn't make sense of it.
Which meant one thing.
They needed to investigate.
Even if she was lying, it was better than ignoring a potential threat.
Strange stood up.
"I understand, Ms. Cormia. Let's go take a look."
"Really?" She froze, then quickly brightened. "That's wonderful. I heard this is the best exorcist agency in London."
Strange smiled.
He didn't respond.
He called Watson, prepared their things, and they took a taxi.
Strange deliberately didn't ride with Cormia.
He knew his roommate would have questions.
And some things couldn't be discussed in front of her.
"Missing friend. Wolf howl." Everett shook his head. "Don't tell me it's a werewolf. Sherlock, should I prep silver bullets?"
"If you want." Strange replied casually. "Silver does have a restraining effect on vampires and werewolves."
"But it won't kill them. These things don't rely on magic."
"Still better than nothing." Everett shrugged. "But seriously-do you think it's really a werewolf?"
"I don't know." Strange glanced at him. "Until we reach the scene, no one does. An exorcist doesn't make judgments without confirming anomalies."
Just like a doctor.
The thought surfaced naturally.
Before his accident, he had once saved a patient declared beyond help by extracting a bullet from their brain.
No matter the situation, assumptions were forbidden.
Diagnosis came first.
That was his principle then.
And it was still his principle now.
"Alright." Everett nodded. "Didn't expect my life after getting fired to be this interesting. But that woman earlier-she seemed odd."
"Oh?" Strange looked at him. "In what way?"
"She was hiding something." Everett hesitated. "When she mentioned the wolf howl, her attention drifted. And when she talked about nightmares, she held back. Like she still remembers what she saw."
"Interesting." Strange smiled faintly.
"People rarely remember dreams clearly."
"Which means," he continued calmly, "she lied."
"Or," Everett added quietly, "she can't tell whether it was a dream-or something she actually experienced."
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