Shiroe is in the library for remarkably similar reasons to Mycroft, though he’s dressed in a manner that probably reads a little ridiculous to a Victorian gentleman. White cape (cloak?) over a black turtleneck and grayish pants, a clunky brown bag worn at his hip, and a large wooden staff in one hand that can in no way be mistaken for a sensible cane.

Still, as Shiroe realizes what’s not here among the books on the shelves, he glances at Mycroft and speaks in a polite tone of voice. “You haven’t seen the non-fiction section on that end of the room, have you?”

Not that there seems to be sufficient organization to give Shiroe hope that there is a section for such books at all, but he’s clinging to hope like a new dog-walker with the leash of a beagle that just smelled food.