The smells of misery and woe permeated the air. The dimly lit musty room in which he found himself had an actual ethereal air. He was lying back on a bed with a long thin pipe in his hands. An occasional whisp of smoke left his lips. Everyone had a weakness and this one was his.
His longish curls of black hair speckled with gray were resting against the pillow. Mycroft had pulled him out of places like this on more than one occasion, but since Reichenbach the general populace assumed he was actually dead. It was nice actually to have some sort of "retirement " as it were, but it actually was boring to not be doing anything. He was Sherlock Holmes. He had to do.
something.
As he lay there in this ethereal place, Sherlock realized how long it had been since he'd seen his favorite opera diva Christine Daae. He had a box at the opera house near that which was cursed the infamous Phantom just because it fascinated him. Hearing the voice of Miss Daae was like listening to heaven above. It was a joy that he often missed.
The young woman often in Miss Daae's company was called Foreman.
yes! Susan Foreman was a young lady of mystery. She'd actually met a man with proper curls and a silk cravat that insisted he was her grandfather although he didn't physically appear to be old enough to have such a role in Sherlock's opinion. It was no matter.
Sherlock had actually missed being in action. He missed the thrill of the chase and the exercise of his mental faculties. He'd been in one too many of his boltholes when he heard of murmuring among the denizens of Chinatown. There were mysterious deaths that were happening among them. Men and women were disappearing. It was a slow trickle at first but the numbers were increasing. 蛇 蛇 [Shé shé] was a monster that was apparently killing innocent people and growing stronger.
The last place where any of these people were seen was in this place in which Sherlock left himself fully exposed. Perhaps these visions of a serpent were hallucinations. It was opium. Hallucinations were a part of the entire package. Sherlock inhaled deeply. The smoke left his lungs and filled the room though parted lips. This time he saw something that aroused his curiosity.
A green mist looked as though it was coming from every ounce of his body. "What the devil…?" Sherlock's speech was slurred and a growing weakness made his body ache. "Hello….?"
The soothing owner of the opium den was near him. Sherlock was trying to focus his gaze on the man. He felt like he was caught in a nightmare. "Rest easy Mr. Holmes. You will be fine in a few hours." The Chinese man had long hair that was snowy white. He had a long mustache and beard that had once been black. The emerald mist that left his body was entering that of the other man.
Sherlock felt his eyelids grow heavy. "Rest… alright… just for a little while." He had gone into this den without anyone knowing his name. Just as he was about to slip into unconsciousness, he realized this man spoke his true name. "Who…are….you…?" He managed to whisper as he fell into an opium induced slumber.
"Don't worry Mr. Holmes. Death will not take you
this night. I have need of you just a little longer. My name is Shang Tsung and your soul is MINE!"
That was no accident. It was by design. Now, do you need me to elaborate... or can we just crack on?
