A/N: Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Rating may change as the story goes on.

Going about unmasking oneself to the general public was not going to prove to be an easy chore for a man who seemed to be back from the other side, and that sort of phenomenon was bound to enliven the newspapers with unwelcome gossip for months to come.

Lurching up and into the sight of crowds of bored people, those who had been deranged enough to believe and those ignorant enough not to, had to be quite the show. A show, Mr. Holmes knew, that had to out-do the performance that was his apparent death.

Media would be abuzz with poor, far-fetched guesses and people who thought his acting was good enough that perhaps he had other-worldly connections that allowed him to cheat the reaper. Baffled, they would all be asking the same question. How did he do it?

Sherlock supposed the attention was somewhat nice, though laid on a bit too heavily for his tastes. He preferred the quiet admirers who gawked at his genius feats in person over the ones who sought to second-hand sow one good quote for the upcoming headlines of their magazines and television shows. He had grown tired over three years and did not look forward to this surge of publicity he was doomed to inspire, and regardless of all that, there was one particular man who needed to be told before all else. If his loyal doctor would somehow be made knowing from some newspaper headline, well, that just would not do.

He had preoccupied himself for three years, and that was all that there was to be said for that period of his life. He'd solved cases on newspaper reports alone, connecting the dots of headlines he'd caught glimpses of through the window of a café or on the street in the hands of some man. He itched for recognition, though time and safety took priority over his impulsive cravings to be known as the man to put another behind bars or shame some otherwise stranger's name.

Mycroft, the only one to know of his well-being throughout those three years, had rather generously opened the door to his office for all of Sherlock's nervous pacing and unruly back-and-fourth banter with himself. Unfortunately, he never did like to spend too much time in one place, much less inside Mycroft's stuffy office. He felt quite like a caged animal, walking and muttering about, sweeping his hand along the tacky curtains of the window to longingly stare at the world that awaited him.

"In hiding for three years, only to sit by the open window," Mycroft mused, watching his brother's distress while in the safety of his own comfort. "I understand that you are growing restless, though surely three years couldn't have made you that much dimmer."

"Hush," Sherlock flatly interrupted him, eyes briefly shut, brows knit close and tense. "I need to think. Mind palace. Busy yourself, pay me no more mind."

In front of a long mirror stood the world's one and only consulting detective, fleshy and pale but vibrant and very much still living. He was as tall, dark-haired and dashing as he was three years prior. He stared at himself a long while before he began to speak, still tugging at parts of his clothing to make them straight.

He must get this right, he must. Utmost importance, he thought. His mind palace made quick work of conjuring up a dapper-looking John in front of him.

Sherlock's nimble fingers toyed with his cuff links absentmindedly as he stared ahead, brazen eyes of hazel blue showing self-assurance that went against his idle fidgeting. "John," he started, and then that name hung in the silent air like a botched line by an actor. He began again, higher in pitch this time.

Mycroft stared unashamedly from behind, watching his reflection, too, as if it were the television.

"John," and he was more pleased with the sound, so he let the other words roll off his tongue too. "How you've changed, and by that I mean you're quite the same." He let his lips quirk up at the ends in a curt smile, small and poorly crafted, like some routine done so many times that it began to lack.

He let his lips drop once more, prompt and dissatisfied and with a sense of passive finality and displeasure. He was a playwright acting through a beautifully written scene that absolutely could not be acted upon.

No measure of talent could do the sincerity of such a frank sentiment justice, much less in the carefully chosen words of a genius of his unthinkable and rather unmatched caliber. No one could hold a candle to him. John only stared from within his mind palace, a weak freeze-frame with hard, wet eyes.

"I've not seen you this nervous in quite a while," Mycroft spoke behind him again and Sherlock didn't flinch at the deep, nostalgic sound of his voice.

Mr. Holmes only hummed in response, quite disinterested.

Mycroft pressed onwards. "Rather odd for you, is it not?"

"Odd," parroted Sherlock, his jaw tense as the word squeezed through his teeth.

"Yes," came the smooth response. "Feelings, in general, generally not your forté."

"I am odd, everything I am and do is odd. I'd imagine you knew this best, brother, and that there is nothing an odd man can do that should be deemed odd for his character." Sherlock tugged with two long fingers at his tie in an attempt to straighten it, hardly invested in their conversation.

"On the contrary," began Mycroft, his tongue sharp and tone leisure, buttery and precise. "I find that an odd man doing things utterly too ordinary is quite odd."

Utterly too ordinary, thinks Sherlock, as if he is some great machine and the inner-workings of his mind are that of some incredible, superhuman brain not to be harnessed or even understood by the mortal mind. Mycroft's words walked the thin line of insult and compliment. His lips were tight.

Rubbish.

Sherlock made a sudden bee-line for the violin case rested on the cushion of the chair in front of Mycroft's desk, opening it in a business-like fashion. He had apparently begun to pout, for he purposefully did not respond or bother to meet his brother's eyes.

Mycroft saw this. "Please, you know what I mean," he assured him with little worry, twisting the handle of his umbrella against his dense carpet in a fidget.

"I do. I know you're tense because you're worried I'll fluster or upset him. I can assure you that John can handle himself quite fine more often than not." His violin rested upon his shoulder, his chin resting expertly on its perch as he let the bow glide across the strings.

Mycroft's patience was briefly tested from this comment, and that was somewhat audible in his tone. "No, Sherlock." He said, delicately, as if being particularly mindful of how he sounded while purposefully allowing his words to bite. "I'm worried you'll do that to yourself."

Sherlock's music haulted.

For a moment or two, the brothers were silent, Mycroft awaiting a reply and Sherlock hardly feeling hurried to give one to him. He didn't quite know what to say, and he never was one for feeling at a loss for words. He was more choosy with his silence, hand-picking times he preferred to be seen as aloof rather than unknowledgeable.

"You're beginning to sound like mother." He said the word like some grand title, the music beginning once more and taking on an unfriendly pace, as if attempting to chase out his brother's incessant nagging. His pacing and the songs he chose always spoke volumes of his mood and thoughts, even as his face did not.

Mycroft's head gave a tilt, as if feeling he had received an undue compliment where an insult belonged. "Good, then I must be making sense."

Sherlock was mildly irritated with his brother's mannerisms. "Will you stop that? Honestly, flagging me down for a talking-to like I'm a child."

"If you would stop acting like one."

"I was under the impression that both of us fully understood that this day would come. Only now that it is here do you seem bothered by it." Sherlock's brows eased and knit with the softening and hardening rhythm of his violin, his brain more dedicated to another matter entirely. "Would I look completely ridiculous in glasses?"

A winded sigh left Mycroft's lips. "I usually figure you are too set in your ways to be swayed by the words of your dearest brother. I only thought I would be doing you a kindness now by speaking my mind before it is too late, lest you do something awful or ridiculous." He drawled the last words as if they were horrid notions.

Awful? Ridiculous? No, he would not dream of doing or being such a thing during this last-minute rekindling between him and his doctor. He'd be pointed, quick-witted and oh-so-clever. He'd be just how John had remembered him. He'd fit his old friend's assumptions to a tall and proud "T."

"Sometime soon, is it? Or do you not know?" Inquired Mycroft, inspecting something underneath his nails nonchalantly.

"I'm unprepared. I'll need a disguise. Time." Sherlock bit the last word, ignoring the possibility of unveiling himself when the opportunity was not ripe enough to fall from the tree. "Until then, I'll stay out of the eye of the public. I'll know when the right moment presents itself." His arms dropped and along with them, the music stopped. Bustling with the aid his music had inspired, his thoughts had been flowing for long enough and now was time to begin on his plans.

Mycroft's lips pursed thoughtfully. "And if you're discovered before then?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he'd sprouted a third head. No direct response was given. "I need to tend to a few errands out and about. I won't be long." He popped open the clasps to his violin case, retrieving a cake of rosin and delicately, with a loving hand, pleasuring his bow's cord with its flank.

"Where on earth to? Have you anywhere more appropriate to go? Surely you cannot be safe elsewhere." Mycroft made a bitter face, mildly irritated and thoroughly placid in tone. "Sherlock, Sherlock. A dead man should not go strolling about town, it's rather rude to those with weak hearts."

"I could not tell you," Sherlock's comment was more of a jab than he may have intended or premeditated. He placed the rosin precisely where it had been.

Mycroft felt successfully singed and, in return, was hugely sarcastic in his response. "Ah, for I am on the quest for sabotage. As has always been my aspirations."

"No one can know. Knowledge is a powerful thing. I cannot take risks when my life is not the only one in danger." He nestled his violin comfortably in its case, smoothing his fingertips over its silky face before snapping it shut with a sharp noise of metal clasps.

"Such fierce responsibility gained in three years. Am I to assume shelter in the arms of the homeless has taught you more than my years of loving guidance?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a quick, uneven smile. "You'd be surprised at what they know. They're wondrous help."

"Not the most trustworthy," chided Mycroft with an air of assertiveness, pompous and ignorant like a teenage girl, though his brother was not easily offended, and his response was equally as pointed. "Liars are not heroes and fibs do not solve cases."

"I am quite serious. Something must be awfully wrong with your head if you deem it suitable to walk undisguised down the street."

"No option. Poor disguises are thoroughly suspicious. I'm nothing more than another false alarm, another inaccurate reported sighting."

"You are a celebrity," drawled Mycroft.

"Right, and as such, the spotlight will be long gone from me. People are fickle and I am no longer their active concern."

Sherlock only walked past him and to the door, violin's case in tow, though when his long fingers wrapped around the cold, brass handle, there was a sense of urgency in the tone of his brother's voice that came as a surprise. "Reconsider, if you would. He's been weathered by the years."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock said, brows knit as he raised a dismissive, flippant hand to quiet the other, body half-turned to Mycroft to deliver the look personally.

"I won't," Mycroft detested as he straightened in his stale chair. "He's a man, not a book to be read. Tell me this, for this is one thing I do not understand," He began, speaking slowly and pursuing Sherlock at the door with only a few small steps toward him. "How are you so sure that you are to be welcome in his life any longer?"

Sherlock halted, his hand still steadied where he held the doorknob.

Hesitation was brief before the door handle twisted and the door was opened. He had no rebuttal to Mycroft's last jab, though he inwardly assured himself that he knew John much more than people tended to give him credit for. He saw no purpose in debating further when he was so utterly and beautifully right.

Sherlock was only dimly aware of the possibility of otherwise. "I won't be long, Mycroft," was all he said before he shut the door behind him.

Child. Still such a child. Mycroft leaned his umbrella by the door and strode around his desk, giving his cellphone a brief glance as it sat black-screened on the top of the table. He smoothed the coat tails of his jacket down his lower back as he took a seat. His lips were flat and tight against his teeth as he listed back in his chair, smoothing out the newspaper in front of him and raising his brows with vague intrigue at where their conversation had ended. Surely, this could not go as Sherlock had hoped and planned. Nonchalantly, he looked at the time on his cellphone and folded his hands atop his newspaper, counting in his mind.

Now was a solo waiting game. He didn't need to play for long.

His cellphone rang. John had called. "I need to talk to you," he said, and Mycroft invited him to come by whenever he wished to with suspicious fluency of rehearsed lines. Plans were arranged for a stop-by that evening, and Mycroft pretended to need to have to fit him in his calendar.

A/N: What a relief to finally be publishing this. If you'd like me to continue this story, which I'd be more than happy to do, please write me a review and tell me so. If there doesn't seem to be any significant interest, I will unfortunately not write for it any further. I've written the second chapter, for the most part.

I'll specify that this story could go anywhere from this point on, though I have a frame-work in my mind; the reader's opinions will be influential on the unfolding. As will be the case for all of my writing, any and all critique is welcome. I'd love to see how far this continuation of the series could go on for.

Much appreciated.