3

So engrossed in examining every inch of his room in excruciating detail was he, Sherlock nearly missed the sounds coming from the lounge. When he did become aware of the noises, he dismissed the intrusion as John having returned from the shops. He considered briefly that perhaps including John in the investigation would be useful, he had proven himself to be a valuable asset in the past, but before he could think it through properly, Sherlock really listened to the noises coming from the rest of the flat.

John, even in moments when he was intensely angry with Sherlock and making a ruckus purposefully, could not have produced such a sound. In fact, it was not even sound so much as a vibration, an auditory presence that simply demanded attention. Sherlock couldn't identify it, despite his familiarity with all the various noises associated with the flat. It had been an extensive study and required the sacrifice of two night's sleep, but it proved highly valuable in ascertaining when a new sound in the flat might indicate a danger of some type.

This noise was different from any of the noises of the flat, but not completely foreign. Although not immediately identifiable, it was familiar. It was…remembered. Sherlock had heard this sound before. Surely an unknown noise in the flat immediately following the apparition in his room had to be connected. Giving up the frankly useless search of his room, Sherlock walked cautiously into the lounge.

After the 'visitation' from his mother, Sherlock supposed he ought not to have been surprised by the state of his lounge, but it was a close thing. Every surface of the lounge, regardless of its previous state of clutter, was covered in some manner of drugs. Pills in various shapes, sizes and colors were strewn over the desk, bookshelves and mantle, even the skull was full to overflowing. There were kilos of heroine and marijuana in piles covering every square centimeter of floor. Where the sofa should have been, was more cocaine than Sherlock had ever seen or imagined. Some of the bags had split open, and the fine white power spilled out.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. He knew he was ignoring other, more important evidence, the dead drug dealer sitting atop the small hill of cocaine for a start, but he was temporarily unable to take his eyes away from the powder that was just achingly out of reach. He had a small and well hidden stash, of course. But he kept that strictly to prove to himself that he could go without it. It had been several months since Sherlock had even thought of it, and longer still since he'd considered using it with any measure of sincerity. Nothing as trite as out of sight out of mind, for nothing was ever out of Sherlock's mind unless he deemed it so. Out of immediate awareness would be an accurate description.

But to have it so readily available…

When you already suspect something is tampering with your basic functions of sight and hearing? Compose yourself.

Sitting atop the kilos of cocaine, and looking for all the world as though he was exactly where he belonged, was a man Sherlock knew only as Dionysus. If Sherlock had ever wondered what sort of drug cartel gave their contacts names from the pantheon of Greek gods (he had) he'd never bothered to ask. He'd seen much stranger things from the criminal classes.

Beyond the obvious temptation, the reason Dionysus' appearance in Sherlock's flat was so astounding was due to the fact that Sherlock was fully aware Dionysus was dead. Had witnessed said death, in fact, at Mycroft's had. Or, more precisely, at Mycroft's direction. Mycroft would never dirty his hands on a common drug dealer, regardless of the depth and breadth of his influence, which had not been inconsiderable.

"Stretch!" Dionysus exclaimed. Sherlock hated that nickname, had tolerated it only because Dionysus was occasionally willing to let Sherlock run down wayward dealers in his organization as a method of payment when Sherlock was too underfunded to purchase his own powder.

"Dionysus."

"Wrong, I'm afraid. Don't worry, this is a bit beyond even you, Stretch." Dionysus winked, and Sherlock couldn't help but cringe, remembering the numerous times that he'd offered to let Sherlock work off his debts in other, less savory ways than using his powers of deduction.

"You're one of the Spirits," Sherlock scoffed. Truly, whoever was perpetrating this scenario had a warped sensibility.

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past," Dionysus made a sweeping gesture across the lounge. "Your past."

"And what is to happen now? You're here to remind me of happier Christmases past, and I am then to realize the error of my ways and rejoice in the spirit of the season?" Sherlock scoffed, as if he would ever be susceptible to such triteness.

"Something along those lines, yeah. Only, I'm not here to remind you. I'm here to guide you."

"Guide me where?" Sherlock was suspicious now, and after the instance with the cabbie had no intention of going anywhere with a man he knew to be dangerous, dead or not.

"On a little trip. And you won't have to take a thing." The smile Dionysus leveled at Sherlock was sinister enough to make Moriarty and perhaps even Mycroft proud. He reached forward and grabbed Sherlock's wrist.

Before he could protest, Sherlock was jerked out of the lounge and found himself flying through London, tethered only to the specter of a dead drug dealer.