(Author's Note: Yes, more classical music allusions for each chapter. They're too fun to resist! Post-"Reichenbach," save the cliffhanger shots, which will figure in. Canonical in characterization, but will travel a different path than "The Empty House," as I'm not interested in directly rewriting Arthur Conan Doyle. You'll know the deliberate twist I'm taking soon enough. This will be less metaphorical than The Devil's Trill, because that level of metaphor would be hard to sustain for multiple thousands of words. Multiple third person limited perspectives; it should be clear enough who's the viewpoint character in each chapter. I hope it's enjoyable!)


1: Pastorale

"You'll get off at New Street Station."

"You'll have to give me some money."

Like every other time he had talked with his brother, this wasn't a human conversation. It was a singlestick match. Even now, glancing down, Sherlock could see how tensely Mycroft held the umbrella, as if he might lash out with the caned portion. They never had come to blows as adults, but Sherlock had never been able to disregard the possibility.

"Of course," Mycroft said flatly. "Money." There was disdain in each of the words, but Sherlock was uncertain why. Was it for the unwanted encumbrance of cash or for the perhaps equally undesired younger brother who was supposed to be dead? At times, the civil servant was a mystery even to him.

His nerves were shot. He was tense, fraying at the edges, ready to snap at everyone who crossed his path, and now Mycroft had just told him to head out of London and lay low for a while. Ridiculous. Birmingham held as little appeal for him as living off his brother's largesse, but he could see few other options.

"You were almost outplayed, you know," Mycroft chided him. "You didn't know that Moriarty had the code. You only guessed it."

Sherlock could hear the starchiness of his own voice. "I deduced it through inductive reasoning."

"You guessed it." Mycroft's mouth formed a silent 'Ah' before he added, "You didn't know about Moriarty's assassins, either. How could you not know?"

Sherlock took a step back, edging uncomfortably against one of the poles that dotted Farringdon Station. That pole would have been bright yellow in the daytime, but now everything was the same dusky, muted coloration. He should have met Moriarty in the dark, where everything from the roof of St. Bart's to the ground would have been shadowed more appropriately for a so-called magic trick. Molly Hooper's work could have been even more compelling. Even now, he couldn't be sure if John had been convinced by the body.

He half-hoped John hadn't been convinced by it, though. It would be nice to think that the doctor had enough faith in him to believe that he was still alive. Still, John was a pragmatist, a realist. He'd likely believe what he had seen, rather than leap to the nearly impossible yet valid conclusion. From the way he'd reacted in St. Bart's when Sherlock had refused to help Mrs. Hudson, John had lost some trust in him, and he doubted that trust could be entirely regained.

"Sherlock, I'm talking to you."

He jerked his head up towards Mycroft, feigning only the slightest interest. "Mm."

"Money's not an issue. You know that. But I will ask that you behave yourself like a civilized member of society. Don't roll your eyes at me."

"I wasn't going to do that."

"And don't lie." Mycroft's voice was strangely fond. It was disturbing.

Even as his older brother's hand stretched out for his arm, Sherlock had to fight an urge to draw away from the moment of physical contact.

Perhaps it was an effort at familial companionship, but it didn't ring entirely true. They never had been true companions; they'd always been rivals. And now, the one person he could think of as a companion believed he was dead. There was something curious in that, perhaps even sad, and the same realization seemed to spur Mycroft to add, "You'll get out of this cleanly, and things will be back to normal soon enough. I'll see to it, if you can't."

Anger boiled in him, forced him into scorching sarcasm. "Thank you, dear brother. I quite appreciate your assistance, and want to say that "

But whatever he supposedly wanted to say, just like what he really wanted to say, went unspoken. Mycroft turned his back on him and started to walk away, tossing offhandedly over his shoulder, "The train's coming. Didn't you notice?"

It had only been slight, momentary negligence. Insignificant. But, as the train pulled in on its way to Euston Station, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was losing his touch. He didn't even discover the cigarettes Mycroft had slipped him until a good few seconds into the voyage. He couldn't smoke in the Underground, though, and so even the cigarettes felt like a taunt from his brother: I'm giving you a gift that I know you won't be able to use for a good hour or two. Enjoy when you finally can.

When he transferred to the railway line at Euston, he made sure to toss the unopened carton of cigarettes into the closest rubbish bin. In case his brother was watching him on CCTV, Sherlock wasn't about to give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing that he had won the round.


The ugliness of New Street Station always surprised him. Its boxy Sixties architecture felt antiseptic and far, far too clean. There was no life to the place, and as Sherlock stepped from the train, he felt almost ghostlike amidst the sparseness and coldness of the place. Drawing his long coat closer to him, he ducked his head down, threading through the crowd until he reached the outside.

Birmingham was just as flooded with cheap lighting as London had been; he squinted past the lights into the darkness, leaning against the concrete wall. He knew where he was supposed to go. Mycroft had given him a slip of paper with the address of his lodgings and, infuriatingly, had wrapped it around a good dozen fifty-pound notes. "Enough to get you through a week or two. I'll wire the rest," his brother had said.

The red notes would have looked even better if Sherlock would have set fire to them with his cigarette lighter, but practicality won out over spite. He couldn't use credit cards; he was supposed to be dead, and credit activity would have been a contrary indication. So bills from his brother would have to suffice for the time being. Tucking the bills back into his coat, he unrolled the paper, expecting a housing address. Instead, he found a single number, 67, and three words: "Castle Vale Library."

"I'm supposed to kip in a public library?" he muttered. But there were worse places to be than surrounded by books. Digging up some change from his pockets so the driver of the approaching 67 bus wouldn't look at him strangely for the fifty-quid note, he stepped aboard the bus, fighting the urge to give the driver a once-over. He'd been fooled twice by lunatics at the wheel of public transport; he had no desire to walk right into a third encounter.

Sinking into a seat at the back of the bus, he leaned back, bracing his lanky frame against the rattling back wall. The vehicle lurched away from the curb, heading northeast. Each passing mile put him further away from London – further away from the ignominy of being ridden out on a rail and believed dead – but it did little to relieve the tension that still crawled through his stomach.

The rest of the ride was spent in fitful thoughts, scattered questions that had no answers. Why was he in bloody Birmingham, of all places? Surely if there was still a threat to his life, he would have been sent further away from London to a remote island somewhere, or some farm amidst the chalk hills of Sussex Downs. There couldn't be, then. If that was the case, though, then why had Mycroft insisted he leave London as soon as the con job was complete?

He almost wished he hadn't kept his brother informed of his plans. He should have told John instead. But it was too late now – all too late. John believed him dead, and Sherlock could not bring himself to disabuse the doctor of the notion. It was too important that he wait out the next few months in anonymity.

As the bus turned the corner onto Reed Square, Sherlock studied the public building as they pulled up alongside. More blocky, boxy architecture. Birmingham's city planners must have hated Victoriana with as equal a passion as the city's architects clearly hated naturalistic design principles. A large glass wall of windows fronted the place, which was apparently in keeping with most modern libraries, open-planned and with no easy hiding places.

He descended from the back of the bus, confronting himself with a handful of homeless. But not his homeless. They stared at him with blank unfamiliarity, and he felt oddly stranded and foreign amidst them.

The Brummie accent and traditional greeting came out as fluidly as he could manage. "All right, mate?" Round and twanging on the long I, short and tight on the long A. It was at least convincing enough for one of the stragglers, a giant of a man, to hold out a hand for cash. The nearly flawless state of his clothes had clearly revealed his class. "Ain't got none," he added, his smile less than heartfelt. But even Anderson and Donovan would have registered the homeless man's glare as disbelieving on the second count.

Despite the lights that flooded onto the pavement through the glass windows, no doubt the library was locked up tight. He didn't dare touch the door, lest he set off an alarm, so he paced the length of the modern building. There was no other way in as far as he could tell. Was this a practical joke on Mycroft's behalf? His brother couldn't possibly beat him twice in a row. He wouldn't stand for that.

Sherlock felt anxious, as jumpy as he'd been at Farringdon Station. He could feel himself twiddling the address slip between his fingers, and he willed himself to stop. Think, he commanded himself, and all physical energy converted itself into mental pursuits. He was dimly aware of standing there with unnerving stillness, and could see the homeless man take a step backwards in unease, but his thoughts readily overtook reality.

He was supposed to get in, and he was supposed to do so without attracting attention. The doors weren't an option but the alleyways were. This was a suburban library; there would be one night watchman, if that. He strolled towards the alleyway to investigate. The sturdy metal steps of a relatively new fire escape greeted him, and he sighed in relief. Easy enough, then, to take an alternate route. Heading through the door would set off an alarm; heading in through a lavatory window would not. By now, he was long past caring how something like that would look.

It had rained earlier that day; the steps were treacherous. He climbed up the slick fire escape carefully, stopping at the first landing. He made short work of kicking in the screen of the fortunately open privacy window and landing in the tiled room he hoped was the gents. The scent of cleaning agents hit him; he nearly coughed, but covered it up before any real noise could escape, and headed out into the main area of the library.

He had to stay clear of the lights. If he was going to stretch out on a sofa somewhere in the place, then he had to do so with a minimum of notice. Mycroft would have an eye on the cameras, but there was no telling what the local police might think of his breaking-and-entering before his brother could clue them in. He had no Lestrade here to clear a path for him.

Hiding in a half-darkened library should not have been the next act for the Reichenbach hero, but what greeted him as he headed from the small alcove that housed the public lavatories was even more of a surprise. He drew himself upright as he strolled into the dazzling glare of bright lights. A footlight and a skylight, and two side spotlights, turned up enough that he couldn't have seen beyond them even if he'd tried.

"Requisitioned these from Thatcher's portrait sessions a few years back?" He let himself smile. Mycroft, ever a Tory, would take umbrage at the sharp comment against the former Prime Minister.

Though he expected to hear a displeased scoff, there was no answer.

Was it Mycroft, then? He let his gaze sweep back, studying shadows out of the corner of his eye. Someone at his left shoulder; the shadows had changed. Someone easily as tall as he, perhaps taller. Bulky. As large as the man outside. Was it the same man? Sherlock couldn't be sure. There was a longer shadowy patch to the side – a rifle. He couldn't be sure of the make without further identifying characteristics, but it had the long barrel of a sharpshooter's weapon. Military issue, no doubt. But he hadn't taken even a quasi-military case since Baskerville. So the sharpshooter couldn't possibly be someone with a personal grudge. As much as Mycroft might dislike him at times, too, he'd never have him shot, Sherlock hoped.

A sudden, wild realization came to him, nearly making him laugh. There had to be less ruinous places to have a potential shootout than a library. All of the books that might be damaged… but then self-preservation took over. Sherlock's voice hardened, bolstering his words even as dread thickened them. "I don't take well to being shot at."

The presence behind him remained silent, moving only slightly. The shadow of the barrel stayed still. The rifleman was not the leader, then; he was someone who wasn't supposed to speak quite yet, if at all.

A lilting, recognizable voice came from beyond the spotlights. "And I don't take well to having to shoot myself."

For a moment, Sherlock could only stare into the overly brilliant spotlights, the whirlwind of thoughts and deductions blanking out amidst the dazzling lights and the sudden illumination. "Oh," he forced out carefully, dispassionately, and waited.