He shot upright with a start. Light. Music, sound. Scents. Details. Permeating his field of vision like unwanted guests. Unwelcome. Uninvited. Mycroft. His gaze shot from person to person. Analyzing. Dissecting. There. A man. Young. Tall, broad. Pupil dilation and slight eye twitch indicative of distempered psychopathy. Expensive suit. Tailor label recognizable, bankrupted mid-1940s. Bulge underneath jacket. Shotgun. Single barrel. Blood splatter on tie, pattern suggesting ruthless erratic bludgeoning of victim. Conclusion: Mafia hitman. Possible serial killer. Heavily armed. Delighted by death, or violence in general.
"...Everything's in order then."
Small mercies. He blinked, committing the details to memory as he tore his gaze away from Ladd Russo. He'd been at the flat. Possibly. Or on a case. Possibly. Yes, that was it. Moriarty case. Still alive. East wind. All that. And now...? He glanced out the window, eyebrows furrowing in sheer disbelief at what he saw. They were underwater. About 2000 metres below sea level if the depth pressure against the coral was anything to go by. Something else-- this was a city
. Someone had constructed a city underwater. Littering the floor. Picket signs? Source of controversy, perhaps? Segregation? Totalitarianism? Maybe-- was that a bloody pony
"Hmh. Odd. Thought I was finished with drugs... Damn."
And he promptly turned over and endeavoured to fall back asleep.