Disclaimer: Rather unfortunately, I don't own any of the ideas from Harry Potter or Sherlock. I would consider myself a great deal wittier if I did.

Chapter 1: Samsara

Shutting his eyes tight, he curled up against the sensory overload, a cry worming its way out of his throat. Slowly, though, his body adjusted, and when he opened his eyes, he found that he was lying up against a rubbish bin in the middle of a dirty, abandoned alley. Pedestrians were passing him on either side. He quietly shivered from the cold.

Warily, he pushed himself upright, the simple motion taxing him far more than he was used to. This younger body was weak, malnourished. He'd have to change that.

Carefully, he scanned his surroundings. He was between two brick buildings with mold plastered to the bases. The bin he was leaning against, a big, blocky thing made of metal with green paint peeling off, had 'SH' spray-painted in concrete grey across each surface. Looking around, he found a series of other bins lining the walls, each with a different message spray-painted across it. "ANPAR!" one advertised in bright red. "Llena FILR" another read in a faded green.

He walked further into the alley and away from the main street, carefully picking his way through a series of torn trash bags, rotten food bits and scrap metal slipping out onto the cobblestone.

"Let me guess," he said calmly, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. "I'm dead, and so you're going to send me to heaven – only the twist is that my personal heaven is actually a backwards world full of serial killers for me to catch."

"No," said Sara. "Well – yes, but not quite in the way you mean it."

"It's a magical place," said Sam. "And I mean that quite literally. I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself."

"Magical, yes." Sherlock snorted. "Next, you'll tell me I've been summoned by the gods to go on some kind of world-saving quest."

He was in Glasgow, if the accents were anything to go by, and they usually were. Still, it never paid to make assumptions, so he tugged on the shirt of a passing pedestrian.

"Alright, big man?" he greeted in his best Glaswegian accent. "Can yeh tell me where I am?"

"Lost, are yeh?" the pedestrian said. "Don' worry, wee man. Yer a little ways north o' Castlemilk."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, before casually continuing on his way.

Definitely Glasgow, then.

"A Quest? Oh, heavens, no!" Sam laughed. "At least, not the Quest-with-a-capital-Q that you're probably thinking of, where the hero is tasked by the Goddess of Light to slay the Dragon of Darkness and restore peace to Middle Earth."

"So it's a quest-with-a-lowercase-q, where the hero is tasked by the farmer next door to kill the wolf of livestock-eating and restore peace to the middle pigpen?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"Well, not that either," acquiesced Sara. "But no, I'm afraid you aren't quite being reborn to prevent the apocalypse. In fact, as long as you don't go out of your way to screw up the natural order of things, everything should be fine."

He was not strictly supposed to be on the train, of course, but then it seemed security officers were mostly incompetent idiots in every universe. Sneaking past them was practically child's play.

The man in front of him, an oil worker (unrefined rod wax on burn, mild tans on forearms but not hands or wrists) with a young daughter (homemade bracelet on left arm) who lived near London (return address on handwritten letters stuffing bag), presumably with his ex-wife or one-time mistress (no ring despite child), was reading the paper. Leaning over to get a better look at it, Sherlock saw that the year was 1990. That would make John roughly nine years old.

Except according to one of the articles, the current prime minister was a man named Arnold Thane Bryson, and Sherlock most certainly did not recognize him. Perhaps this universe had different inhabitants, then, and John did not even exist.

A pity. He would have very much looked forward to befriending the man once more.

"So then what am I doing here, hm?" Sherlock demanded impatiently. "Why not just send me to your banal afterlife where we all dance around with angels and other equally improbable delusions."

"Because, Sherlock," said Sara, "The afterlife is boring."

"And frustrating," added Sam, "especially for us. Imagine watching Lestrade and his underlings fail to properly solve an obvious case over the course of a week while you watched, disembodied and helpless to intervene. Then, imagine events to that effect repeating on loop for the rest of eternity."

"In an infinite number of universes."

"And you have no choice but to watch all of them."

"My condolences," said Sherlock sincerely.

London was much harder to navigate this time around. Most of the places were virtually identical to those of his childhood, but there was always the odd street corner that didn't quite lead where he expected it to, or else a famous landmark that had apparently gone missing. Still, at least most of the streets he remembered still showed up on the maps.

He caught the attention of a passing cab and slid into the backseat. Before the cabbie could question the presence of a nine-year-old in his vehicle, Sherlock announced in a clear voice, "221 Baker Street."

"So then you want my rebirth to provide you with a semblance of entertainment?"

"After a fashion, yes. You'll also probably enjoy this version of the afterlife more than, as you put it, our 'banal afterlife where we all dance around with angels and other equally improbable delusions.'" Sam smiled at him. "Any other questions?"

Sherlock stared up at his old home and wondered momentarily if, perhaps, Mrs. Hudson was inside. But then he recalled – if she did indeed exist in this bizarro world he'd dropped into, she would still be living in Florida with her soon-to-be-murderer husband.

She had passed on decades ago in his mind, so the details came back slowly.

That window, there, was the one the CIA agent had mysteriously fallen out of multiple times, and looking through at an angle he could see the wall he'd once shot out of sheer boredom. The kitchen where he'd conducted his chemistry experiments, he knew, was further in, and above it was John's old bedroom – before he'd moved in with Mary, anyway. Next to that was his own old bedroom. And yet…

Sherlock turned on his heels and stalked away. Without Mrs. Hudson, it was no longer home.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Where, precisely, are you going to send me?"

"Well now, child," said Sara, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "What would be the fun in telling you?"

Through the window, he saw people dressed in robes and pointy hats that easily would have drawn stares on the street. Instead, though, it seemed that the passersby considered the 'Leaky Cauldron' downright mundane. Their gazes slid past it smoothly, as if greased, and they continued on their way completely oblivious to the costumed patrons inside. It was quite mysterious indeed.

Finally feeling the rising thrum of excitement and curiosity deep in his chest, Sherlock opened the door.

A/N: Trying out a Sherlock/HP crossover. I wasn't sure at first whether to use the BBC version or the classic books, but in the end I decided that it would be far too difficult for late 19th century Sherlock to quickly adjust to a relatively modern setting.

As an American, I do not actually speak Glaswegian. I did a ridiculous amount of research to pin down the accent for a three-line exchange, but I'm still not sure I have it right. If any Glaswegians just so happen to be passing by, please let me know if I should change anything.

The same, of course, goes for normal Britpicking.

Title is tenuous for now. Not particularly creative, but workable. If anybody has a better idea, please suggest it.

Updates will probably come once every two weeks to a month or so.