Dark. Cold. Wet.
Groggily, the figure on the floor began to move, first stretching his arms and then his neck. He looked around the abyss of darkness, seeing nothing but specks of light that shone through the holes in the rock. His hair was curled, although not at all neat, perhaps from laying on the ground for so long. Silently he climbed to his feet, attempting to dust the mud and dust off of his long, sweeping coat. His silhouette would have been quite magnificent had it not been for the lack of light.
"Good morning Mr Holmes."
A taunting voice rang out from deeper in the cavern, echoing through its many walls. To Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective to ever grace the streets of London, this voice was all too familiar.
"Moriarty."
Sherlock whispered the name with a kind of wretched disgust, almost spitting as he pronounced every letter. The pair had not seen each other in years, Moriarty being presumed dead and Sherlock moving away from Bakers Street to pursue a new life elsewhere. Yet now, as silence hung in the air, they saw each other, barely able to make out any feature that was not distinctive.
"It's been a while, has it not?" Moriarty asked.
"Not long enough."
Each man spoke in a hushed tone, as if they were afraid to be heard.
"Oh, I just thought that I'd better check up on you. You know how much I care..."
He stepped out of the shadows, getting closer and closer to Sherlock. Flashing a toothy grin, he lifted his hand to the neck of his disgruntled "companion".
"Relax. We're only going to play a few mind games..."