Sherlock found himself in the middle of the Sahara Desert. The air scorched his lungs and the wind blew grains of sand into his hair and mouth. Just then, Sherlock could hear a low chuckle fill the air around him. He tried to ignore it, but the sand beneath him began to shift. The detective could see the surface of the sand rise as something large circled him.
"You are impossibly pathetic, you know that?" A ghostly voice taunted. "Such a naughty secret."
Laughter ensued and Sherlock grit his teeth, the voice beyond irritating.
"This is none of your business," the brunet stood his ground.
"Oh, but it is...It always has been. For he will be my legacy and I will relish in your rich, hot blood...As I should."
Sherlock shielded his face with his arm from a gust of wind and when he opened his eyes again he was back to the real world in the middle of his sitting room. His hands were to his side with the violin dangerously close to slipping from his loose grip.