A/N
This is a psychological thriller Hannibal/Sherlock crossover, written as a birthday fic for my friend Jellyfishphat. One would need to be familiar with Hannibal Season 1 and BBC's Sherlock to enjoy this. It's essentially one long, slow-burn mental cat and mouse game between the genius detective and the charming cannibal. Fun, right!
More notes below. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter One
"What are we doing here, Sherlock?"
There was no answer and the glare of neon lights was beginning to hurt his eyes. He was growing impatient. There had been a faint, but unrelenting drizzle all night, and they had left a hot Chinese dinner before he could get two mouthfuls in because Sherlock had "needed to check on something".
Watson stopped in his tracks when he saw the line of men outside the club. His questioning became more insistent. "This is for a case, yes?"
"Shut up. Thinking."
"Sherlock, this is a men's club."
"That much is obvious. Continue shutting up."
Sherlock pushed them both to the front of the line, flashed something at the bouncer and they were waved inside. Watson shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to grimace sympathetically at the grumbling men still waiting in line before ducking in. The music pounded in his ears at an uncomfortable level and he had to push through a sea of bodies to follow Sherlock to the bar.
Sherlock planted himself on a seat and went immediately into his 'observation' mode, as Watson thought it. The bartender, a large man with several studs piercing his face, looked at them expectantly and Watson ordered a pint to keep up appearances. The bartender gave him a suspicious look at the order, but then hunted for a glass. Watson then noticed behind the bar was almost an exclusive collection of different vodkas and exotic liqueurs.
He looked to the dance floor and saw a sea of male bodies grinding on each other in a way that left little to the imagination. He glanced curiously at Sherlock, who was off in his own little world, and huffed a sigh. He wasn't sure what the consulting detective was seeing, but it probably wasn't the cacophony of lights, tight trousers and gelled hair that was making Watson go cross-eyed.
Sherlock blinked once, deliberately, and then he could isolate the flashing coloured lights.
Chapped redness around the nostrils. A high propensity of cocaine habits in the establishment. Approximately five-eighths of the men inside. Another six-eighths of the men with the signs of extasy or MDMA. Almost all on both and a variety of other garden variety recreational drugs.
One man, wearing casual clothing but obviously from the business sector, patrolling the dance floor alone, pulled into a dance and then sexual contact in less than two minute forty-five seconds.
A man in a tasteful suit being propositioned by a younger man in a mesh top. Young man purring, "You're right, I am a rude boy."
Two young men dancing together, university students, undeclared arts, fashionable clothing but from a marked down shop, touching, but no sexual contact. Friends.
Two men, one pulling the other by the belt to the facilities. Contract labourer, tan lines and musculature of an outdoors worker. The other a shop worker, nervous but eager. Sexual contact in less than thirty seconds.
"This beer is awful."
Watson. Sherlock looked irritably over to Watson who was frowning into his pint glass. His concentration had been broken. Watson looked annoyed with him, something he was used to.
"Why are we here?"
"I'm collating data."
Watson gave him a pointed look. "And I'm here...why?"
"Deterrent."
Sherlock's eyes scanned the nightclub again, and he could almost hear the rusty wheels turning in Watson's mind. He'd get there eventually.
Ninety percent of the encounters between anonymous strangers. All leading to sexual contact and fulfilment in an average of five minutes or less. Encounters between acquaintances much more drawn out, half requiring over fifteen minutes, the other half unsuccessful.
"A deterrent?" He could hear the annoyed rasp of Watson's voice. "Am I supposed to pretend I'm...with you and chase off any bloke who asks you for a dance?"
Sherlock compartmentalized his observations so he could keep a running timer in one corner, hunt for another encounter in the happening in another corner, and then reserve room to grace Watson with a pithy remark.
"You are here with me."
"For heaven's sake, Sherlock."
Twenty encounters observed in an hour. A small sample, but it confirmed his previous observations. Watson already done with his pint, had drank three cups of tea at the Chinese shop, would require relieving his bladder in twenty minutes. Plenty of time to make it back to Baker street.
"Let's be off."
Watson looked both relieved and annoyed as he shoved away from the bar. They didn't speak until they had left the pounding music and chaos behind, walking quickly through the late night rain.
Before Watson could interrupt him again, Sherlock recited his findings aloud. "The average time it takes for an anonymous sexual encounter between two homosexual men, if both have the exclusive purpose of such an encounter, is seventeen minutes. Five minutes to find a partner, an agreement to take place, ten minutes for sexual gratification of both parties."
Watson looked nonplussed. "And the two minutes?"
"Allowing for transit time."
Watson scratched the back of his neck, a puzzled grimace on his face. "That's a little narrow, Sherlock. There must be plenty of queer blokes who want a nice date and to take things slowly."
"This is pertaining to our Mr. Riley. He was in an establishment such as this. Seventeen minutes, allowing for up to a further ten minutes, but not much longer in a public space with security and other patrons."
"Riley was gay? The missing banker whose wife called us?"
Sherlock smirked at Watson. "That's a little narrow, John."
Watson had the good grace to look embarrassed.
"Riley disappeared for one hour and six minutes before he was seen leaving the establishment. He lied to his wife about his sexual encounter. He was engaged in another sort of business."
"You think he's mixed up in something sinister?"
Sherlock shrugged, they were five minutes away from Baker Street. "Sinister? No. Criminal. Drugs. Boring."
Watson opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and closed it with a tired shake of his head. "I suppose I'll have to call Mrs. Riley then."
Sherlock shrugged, his attention already tuned to another matter. "She already knows. She wants hard evidence to assuage her guilt when she files divorce papers. As I said, boring."
He opened the door to the Baker street flat with a sigh. "I hope Mrs. Hudson hasn't forgotten to go to the shops today. There were no biscuits with tea this afternoon."
"Don't fuss with it, Sherlock."
"I'm not fussing. I'm un-tying it."
Mary rolled her eyes and held out her hand, into which Sherlock deposited the necktie that had infuriated him the entire drive to Mycroft's function. His displeasure at being forced to attend was apparent, because Sherlock never liked being told to do anything by his elder brother. Mary and John had to strong-arm him into coming.
Private rooms of the Savoy had been reserved for a group of foreign delegates, and other such illustrious individuals. There was a visiting forensic analyst from the CIA, and Mycroft just wanted to show off his little brother. And far be it from Sherlock to do anything that would please the elder Holmes.
But as John had pointed out, they had no interesting cases at the moment, and Mary wanted a chance to dress up and drink expensive champagne.
"Sherlock, do pull that sour expression from your face."
"Why?" Sherlock felt his hackles rise as he saw the superior look on Mycroft's face. "You're smiling."
"Special Analyst Gwen Murray is inside." Mycroft strode ahead with an imperious click of his heels. "Do try not to be beastly."
Sherlock fixed an exaggerated, rather terrifying grin on his face. Watson gave him a look, a slow shake of his head, and he dropped it. "Am I doing it wrong?"
"Yes."
Sherlock was finally in a good mood. Special Analyst Murray was a quick read, and after he had dissected her illicit affair with a subordinate, chronic migraines to an outdated eyeglass prescription, and an ulcer she had no knowledge of, Mycroft was so furious with him he had been banished to a separate room of the party.
He sank down gratefully into an open armchair and began playing a mind game he liked to think of as "food chain". He imagined the few people mingling in this private room were deserted on an island and catalogued who would survive the longest, and by which means.
"Who is that?"
Sherlock looked up to see Watson hovering by him, and glanced over to see Mary chatting with a very distinguished looking gentleman. She had a carefree smile on her face, and when she noticed them she waved for them to come over. Watson rushed over a little too eagerly, and Sherlock trailed behind.
"John! Sherlock. This is Dr. Lecter, he's visiting from America."
The man gave them a polite smile and offered his hand first to Watson. "Dr. Watson. Please excuse me from depriving you of the company of your charming wife."
Watson shook his hand stiffly and stammered some sort of greeting. Dr. Lecter carried himself with an amount of grace and composure that was intimidating. He offered his hand to Sherlock next, which he grasped briefly before letting go. His hand was warm and dry, and spoke of a hidden strength.
"Dr. Lecter's here for-"
Sherlock interrupted Mary. "For the Behavioural Sciences Conference in two weeks."
Dr. Lecter gave him a gentle smirk, but in no way looked surprised. Sherlock wondered if his reputation preceded him, even across the pond.
Watson looked embarrassed for him. "Sorry, he tends to do this."
"You would be correct, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock hadn't introduced himself when they shook hands, so Dr. Lecter must have known of him already. He began in his rapid-fire manner, "You've just arrived from America. Your suit has been hand-ironed and has left a few creases by the seam. A suit like this needs to be dry-cleaned, so you haven't had the time to settle in yet and made do with a hotel iron. Yet you show no signs of jet lag so you're a frequent flier.
"A practising physician doesn't tend to leave their workplace for longer than a weekend, and not frequently. You're too young to have entered even semi-retirement, and your phone has been turned off entirely, a luxury most physicians never allow themselves. You let others speak before you do, a habit of gauging reactions, and a psychiatrist with connections to the CIA, you gave a familiar nod to Special Analyst Murray when she passed a few minutes ago, would find themselves at the Behavioural Sciences conference."
Dr. Lecter's expression hadn't changed in the slightest and he concluded for both of them. "Simple, really."
Sherlock was taken aback. It was a childish and petty thought, but he realized that Dr. Lecter hadn't been impressed. In fact, the polite smile on the other man's face looked indulgent, like one praising the school work of a child.
Watson glanced from the unflappable doctor to Sherlock and must have sensed the growing tension, as he began shooting concerned looks at him.
Mary could sense it too as she let out an uncomfortable little laugh and asked, "What will you be doing at the conference, Dr. Lecter?"
Dr. Lecter's eyes seemed to bore into Sherlock's, and Sherlock realized with alarm that the man's eyes were maroon. Contact lenses? No, they were natural. Genetic mutation of the pigment? Exposure to chemicals? The strange eyes then slid away and crinkled at the corners when they landed on Mary.
"I am giving a lecture on my recent work with the FBI in regards to a case that was concluded some months ago."
"Oh. A gruesome case?"
"Very. He was known as the Minnesota Shrike."
Mary smiled at Sherlock. "You two have something in common then. Sherlock consults for Scotland Yard."
The smirk was still hovering there…indulgent. Sherlock felt a bubble of distaste beginning to well over inside of him as he turned that word over in his mind. "You can profile everyone in this room, can't you?"
The maroon eyes flickered over to him and lingered. Sherlock felt the curious sensation of being watched by a hawk. He wanted to see if any of Dr. Lecter's methods could be revealed in this moment, but the man's face betrayed nothing. Nothing.
"Is that an invitation, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock spread his arms open in challenge. But then the smirk returned.
"I'm afraid I am very strict about keeping my professional interests out of social situations. I would not want to disrupt a party."
Sherlock could feel the corners of his mouth tug and had to pay attention to keep a grimace from appearing on his face. A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne and he took a glass. He held it out to Dr. Lecter and his eyes narrowed slightly. It took him seven seconds and then he announced, "Sveikata."
Dr. Lecter held up his own glass, white wine, and said, "Cheers."
Watson's eyebrows rose and he looked from Sherlock to Dr. Lecter before downing the rest of his drink in one swallow. He looked around desperately and called out too eagerly, "Greg! I didn't know you were here."
Detective Inspector Lestrade looked as if he had already taken advantage of the Savoy's choice drink menu, and clapped a hand to Sherlock's shoulder. "Gents. How's our favourite psychopath?"
Sherlock grit his teeth and ground out, "High-functioning sociopath."
Dr. Lecter swirled the wine in his glass before sipping, one eyebrow arching slightly. "I doubt that."
Sherlock had the unpleasant sensation of feeling unbalanced yet again, and his mind raced to come up with some snappy retort. Lestrade began laughing, a little too loudly, and instead Sherlock decided he'd had enough and without so much as a "how-do-you-do" he strode away from them.
Mycroft had just entered the room to see him storm away, and glanced over to the small gathering he was making his exit from. In a low voice he said to Sherlock, "So you've met Dr. Lecter. I hope you didn't annoy him."
"I don't like him."
Mycroft snorted. "Of course you don't. You've hated every psychiatrist you've ever met."
Hannibal had recognized Sherlock Holmes the second the consulting detective entered the room. He had followed some of the detective's cases from his subscription to English newspapers, and had perused Dr. Watson's online blog. He would have attended Mycroft Holmes' function regardless, given his interests with the London Symphony Orchestra, but he had hoped to see the younger Holmes in the flesh.
One could discern much of another person's temperament from text, but it couldn't compare to a personal interaction. He had politely reciprocated Dr. Mrs. Watson's overtures in order to lay down his web, and had found her to be a surprisingly pleasant conversation partner. Courteous, engaging, and with a sense of humour.
The younger Holmes betrayed too much of his restlessness. He observed everyone in the room overtly. Hannibal could almost see the files click away in the man's mind as he catalogued each of them.
When he walked over Hannibal could more accurately assess his height and weight. High cheekbones, a Roman nose, and a prominent Adam's apple. Calluses on the fingertips and a turn of the wrists that suggested he played a stringed instrument. The violin, most likely. Hannibal amused himself with the idea of what kind of violinist Holmes was. Enough technical mastery to make a pleasing sound, but would work with dissonant tones and atypical bowing. The man liked to play the rebel; it was common amongst younger brothers.
When they spoke, Sherlock had tried to assert his intelligence immediately. To a stranger. To a doctor. An expert.
But of course. A genius in constant need of validation. With companions he was used to receiving admiration for his intellect from.
Holmes was certainly a fast analyst, but deducing Hannibal was present in London for the Behavioural Sciences Conference was a simple matter of observation. Hannibal was loathe to admit it to himself, but he was disappointed.
And Holmes didn't know how to process rejection or authority to any degree. He had the emotional maturity of an adolescent, falling quickly to the role of someone who needed to be minded by his companions. Hannibal had grown even more disappointed. The man he had read about in the papers was becoming positively textbook.
Dr. Watson had been a little more interesting, a riddle that took him longer to solve than he anticipated. Military bearing, a field surgeon most likely, but diffident and mild-mannered. The discomfort of asserting his presence or to be ostentatious was common amongst English men of a certain generation, but there was a skirting of his gaze that spoke of some past trauma. He glanced to his more aggressive companion constantly, like a green soldier awaiting an order before he was allowed to act.
It was a co-dependent relationship with clearly defined roles. And then Hannibal realized upon further observation that who occupied which role deviated from initial observation. Dr. Watson was a physician with compassion, one would think a nurturer. But he had been a career soldier as well. So not a caregiver...a guardian. And then everything slot into place. Dr. Watson was the man with the true steel.
It amused Hannibal. It was like a crossword puzzle that required two passes to confirm rather than one. An interesting diversion.
"Sveikata."
It was an obvious ploy from Holmes to engage Hannibal in a competition one more time, but finally Hannibal was intrigued by him. It was very few people who could tell he was Lithuanian without prompting. He had watched Holmes very carefully in the seconds it had taken the detective to reach that conclusion. He could see the barest outline of the man's personal memory palace at work, and finally Hannibal found something that piqued his interest.
Holmes' eyes had glazed over, his fingers twitching lightly at his sides, his lips moving soundlessly as he guided himself through his mental constructs. So, it was elaborate and in frequent use. In a different setting Hannibal would have wanted to prompt Holmes gently to see more of the man's personal technique at work.
"High-functioning sociopath."
Hannibal chuckled inwardly. Not at all, Mr. Holmes. Holmes only met people's eyes with effort, his body language was relaxed only when he wasn't being observed. He fidgeted and was a little erratic. Being called a psychopath stung him, got under his skin. He cared deeply for his two companions, the Watson's, as when he was uncomfortable he leaned in closer to them and stood firmly in line with them instead of crossing that barrier. And when social pressure became too much he obeyed his flight instinct.
A very high-functioning autistic. Somewhere within the family branch of Aspberger's syndrome. In fact, the younger Holmes reminded Hannibal strongly of Will Graham.
So despite himself, Hannibal found himself very intrigued indeed.
"How is Mycroft doing, dear? Has exercising helped him lose any weight?"
Sherlock scrolled impatiently through an online newspaper, digesting the information in seconds and moved onto the next of his thirty open tabs. "Incorrigible. Go away, Mrs. Hudson."
She just tittered and placed a cup of tea on his desk. "In one of your moods again?"
The door swung open and Watson shook out his umbrella, Mary following closely behind. He pecked Mrs. Hudson on the cheek and accepted the offered cup of tea. "He's just being difficult because we met someone smarter than him at the party."
"He's not smarter than me."
Mrs. Hudson gave them a conspiratorial look and excused herself back to her flat. Watson sank down into his favourite armchair and savoured the annoyed look on Sherlock's face. Mary glanced over at the articles open on Sherlock's laptop to see Hannibal Lecter's face emblazoned everywhere.
"Don't know when to let go, do you?"
Sherlock held up a hand. "Quiet." He then steepled his fingers underneath his chin and began to construct a mental profile of Dr. Lecter.
Lithuanian, but with a varied accent. He could hear the soft French vowels, but the base had been from a different origin altogether. Cross-referencing geographical boundaries of the time period Dr. Lecter had been born in give or take a few years, and it was easy to narrow down from there. A world citizen, well-travelled. Private practice in Baltimore, very well respected. Leading expert on social exclusion. Patron of the arts, a celebrated member of the most prestigious galleries around the world and a director on the board of the Baltimore Philharmonic Opera. Cultured. Held his wineglass by the stem without any difficulty. Very proper. Moved with the grace of a fighter, but not with the rigidity of ex-military or special forces. Self-taught in martial arts and self-defence.
The man's control over himself and his appearance was the tightest Sherlock had ever witnessed. There was a certain amount every responsible psychiatrist possessed, but not to the almost monastic degree Lecter had. That meant he was keeping a secret. Something that could never once for a moment be allowed to slip...
...and Sherlock had the advantage in that he recognized Dr. Lecter. He had seen him once before Mycroft's party, and he was sure the sophisticated psychiatrist had no idea they had encountered each other before.
Sherlock's eyes squeezed tighter for a moment, his weight shifting from foot to foot as he mentally navigated down his mind-scape of London.
Through Vauxhall. Third alley off the main road. Pedestrian light that had a two-second intermittent flicker. The nightclub, two accessible fire exits, no back rooms. Main bouncer on weekends, former cage fighter, but a weak left knee. Awful beer, as Watson had observed.
A man in an expensive suit. Being propositioned by the "rude boy".
A secret. Something hidden.
But not the kind of secret that context implied.
"John," Sherlock suddenly barked, startling Watson, "what would a non-homosexual man be doing at a gay men's nightclub?"
Watson almost went purple in the face as Mary gave him a pointed look, and didn't try very hard to hold back her laughter. He said to Mary, "It was him! It was his mad idea! And not what you're thinking. Stop it."
"You would blush harder if you knew what I was thinking, love."
Sherlock snapped irritably, "Hush! John, quickly – what would a man be doing at a gay nightclub if he wasn't interested in a same-sex encounter?"
Watson shrugged his shoulders, his cheeks puffing up in a flummoxed sigh as he searched the air for an answer. Or for the fastest way for Sherlock to shut up. "Because his best friend is an obnoxious prat?"
Sherlock gave him a withering look. "Oh, John. It's not always about you."
The Behavioural Sciences Conference had reserved a wing of suites in the 41 hotel for its foreign guests, but Sherlock had directed his taxi to a different establishment without needing to look at the guest list to know Dr. Lecter would have found rooms elsewhere.
A man with refined tastes in his clothing, and a classicist appreciation of the arts would revere culture and history. He would find rooms in a hotel that cherished that sense of tradition, not some fancy modern venue. A man so guarded about his privacy would not have taken rooms in the Savoy where Mycroft's function had been held.
Sherlock stepped through a side entrance in a borrowed orderly's uniform and quickly perused the reservations at the concierge's computer to confirm his suspicions that Dr. Lecter had a room at the Claridge's hotel. After that it was a simple matter of taking charge of an unattended trolley and making his way to the appropriate floor. Key access was an even simpler matter when the head of the hotel staff was a former, grateful client.
It was quarter past noon, and Dr. Lecter was sure to be in attendance at a lunch meeting with someone important from the Conference. Or perhaps the artistic director of the London Symphony Orchestra. He was a private individual who nevertheless needed to maintain an element of visibility. Sherlock estimated he had a secure half hour uninterrupted to search Lecter's rooms.
He brought the trolley into the room with him, leaving it in the hallway would have aroused suspicion, and placed a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the room door before locking it behind him.
The room was fastidiously neat, though Sherlock could tell Dr. Lecter had never allowed the hotel staff to come into clean. Staff left mistakes. There was not a single thing out of place in the room. The bed looked as if Dr. Lecter never slept in it, the sheets were still crisp.
Sherlock went through the bathroom first. An old-fashioned shaving kit, a brush, a straight razor, powder. Expensive, old brands of colognes from Italy. Dr. Lecter had brought his own soaps, the hotel toiletries untouched, and a bottle of a powerful disinfectant. No pharmaceuticals or psychosomatic medication. That was curious. Every psychiatrist Sherlock had ever met needed the medication they prescribed their patients.
Sherlock searched the dresser, but found only a copy of the King James' bible. He went through Lecter's luggage instead to find an impressive collection of suits, jackets, and simple yet expertly tailored underthings folded carefully within sheet plastic dividers. The entire cost of the luggage contents could have paid the rent for 221B Baker Street for a year and a half. The books in Lecter's carry-on suitcase were beyond price. Sherlock felt a twinge of jealousy over some of the volumes. Lecter's personal library would make him seethe, if these were the texts that Lecter felt secure enough to travel with.
All still in luggage, but the conference was still two weeks away. A man like Lecter wouldn't abuse his clothing by living out of a suitcase where they would suffocate and crease. So the Claridges' room was very temporary housing.
Sherlock found a beautiful and well-maintained leather attache case. It had a number dial lock, but a complex one. Of course, a traditionalist like Lecter wouldn't use a digital passcode for his private work. And Sherlock wanted to see his lecture notes and presentation work for the conference.
Sherlock laid the case in the middle of the floor and then stood up. His right hand was raised slightly in the air as he brought up a mental image of the lock itself, isolating the different tumblers and mechanisms in his mind's eye. He wasn't going to force the lock, he wanted his intrusion to be discreet.
He ran through different patterns. Trigonometry, base ten and base twelve mathematics, the Fibbonaci numbers – no, too clinical.
Classical. Literature and history. Fine art and music.
The golden ratio for beauty. No, too many variables. Music...Sherlock began to hum to himself, his feet following the steps to a waltz as he moved about the room. A waltz was too obvious. Bach or Beethoven? Mozart or Wagner?
Three beautiful editions of treatises on Russian literature, Eastern European churches and a collection of poetry by Luka Fillipov that Lecter brought with him to London.
Sherlock smiled to himself. It would have to be the composer Rachmaninoff.
Date of birth and date of death. Too obvious. Sherlock considered the number of dials. He hummed again to himself as he ran through the composer's pieces. His fingers rapidly flicked the dials of the lock as he entered the different movements of a concerto, the changes in beat structure, the numeric values of his signature trills.
Each time the lock refused to open. Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly as he considered the dials again.
Surely, that would be too simple...
He assigned each letter a numeric value with the simplest of alphanumeric codes and "R-A-C-H-M-A-N-I-N-O-F-F opened the case with a satisfying click!
Sherlock held up the lecture notes in triumph. He also found the case files for the Minnesota Shrike, which were disturbing, but fairly common for a serial murderer. The name "Will Graham" appeared several times, and Sherlock found the sections pertaining to Graham's involvement interesting. However, there was no time to give the attention to the case files he would have liked at present moment.
Sherlock held each page up to the light so he could observe it clearly, and then created a room for it in his memory palace. He would go back to it later.
He placed the files back into the case in the order he found them. His fingers examined the lining of the case and he was rewarded with a slight thickness that revealed a hidden lining. Gently he removed what felt small in between his fingertips, and brought up a business card. Lecter's business card.
Sherlock turned the card to see a handwritten note on the back. The indentation and crisp lines of a fountain pen. The beautiful penmanship of a calligrapher.
9:00PM
1 Hr.
S. Holmes
Sherlock felt a chill race down his spine. It was an appointment card for him.
"A palate cleanser, sir?"
Hannibal looked at the small spoon of mint ice offered to him, and waved it away as if the maitre'd had insulted him. "No. Thank you. I would prefer not to interfere with the taste of the wine."
Mycroft dismissed the man as well without partaking, but with a kinder smile. He was enjoying the Mouton-Rothschild 1946 under Hannibal's recommendation, and it was the perfect end note to the meal he had just finished. One of the first things Mycroft had learned about Dr. Lecter was the man knew a good vintage. It could only have been made more perfect if he still partook in a post-meal cigarette.
But he'd quit, save for the Christmas tobacco he shared with his brother, and he would have offended his guest. Hannibal had a sensitive nose and an aversion to unhealthy habits.
"So Dr. Graham is still held in suspicion?"
Hannibal was the type of man who never let his composure slip an inch, but his eyes seemed to shutter at the mention of that sorry business. "It is an unfortunate, and personally troubling matter. Will is confused and deeply distraught by these events. He cannot seem to recall his own actions."
The corner of Hannibal's mouth threatened to tug, and his expression grew a millimetre more sad. "I confess I feel a little irresponsible for leaving Baltimore at this time."
Mycroft nodded, leaning back slightly in his chair as he sipped at his wine, allowing Hannibal a private moment with his own thoughts. The case hadn't received much attention in the English media, but an FBI specialist being the prime suspect of a string of grisly murder cases was the sort of trouble he was meant to keep abreast of. Lord knows his own brother had aroused similar suspicions in the past.
"I understand you were close to Dr. Graham. My commiserations."
Hannibal nodded slightly, his gaze elsewhere. "He was my patient and I was meant to ensure his mental well-being. I cannot overlook my responsibility in this matter."
"The blame you mean?" Mycroft scoffed. "With Jack Crawford under review as well it is going to turn into a bloodbath of sharks. Better to let them cannibalize each other and keep the attention away from yourself."
Hannibal smirked slightly, but didn't argue. He merely lifted his wineglass to Mycroft in thanks and took a thoughtful sip.
"Things are going to get very interesting at Quantico if Crawford takes the fall for this. I assume Dr. Graham will be mounting a defence for his inability to account for his actions?"
"Dr. Bloom is pushing for that, yes."
Mycroft mentally reviewed the most likely candidates to replace Crawford, and it summoned another grimace. "A bloody mess."
Mycroft shook his head and noticed Hannibal watching him with a look of polite amusement. He smiled a little self-consciously. "Pardon my woolgathering. I'm afraid I've turned the tone of our conversation rather morbid. How are you enjoying your stay here?"
Hannibal accepted the apology with quiet grace and his eyes flickered to their view of the London streets. For once it wasn't drizzling, and there was a happy glow of sunlight that touched the buildings. "I am very comfortable, I have always enjoyed England. Even if it is just for business."
Mycroft laughed knowingly. "I know you keep a very busy schedule, Dr. Lecter, but you never neglect the gallery or the theatre. You will be attending the Symphony's season review?"
Hannibal nodded in confirmation. His fingertip skimmed along the delicate rim of his glass, a touch that was contemplative and featherlight, so as not to make an offensive sound. "A touch of civility amidst more tedious matters is always welcome. I enjoyed meeting some of your acquaintances."
"Ah, Sherlock. I hope he wasn't too boorish to you." Mycroft's phone vibrated in his pocket and he took a quick glance at the screen. It was an SMS from his younger brother. "Speak of the devil. Excuse me."
Send all internal reports on – SH
No. - MH
Not a request - SH
Tread carefully – MH
Mycroft turned off his phone and swiftly returned it to his pocket. "He can be a little difficult sometimes."
"Not at all. I enjoyed meeting your younger brother, Mr. Holmes. I found our encounter quite enlightening."
Mycroft chuckled. "Well that is a very polite way of putting it. I suppose given your line of work you'd find him interesting. He rather just annoys the rest of us."
Hannibal had a mysterious smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps you're right. It is an occupational hazard to be attracted to certain kinds of personalities. I think...I would like to have him for dinner."
A/N
SO. This was a doozy to write. I love these characters, the literary and television versions both, and it was a real challenge to try and do both of them justice. My real goal is to make their little contest of wills entertaining, but also play fair to each of them. I've derived a lot from the Thomas Harris novels to provide Hannibal's backstory and some characteristics, but you won't need to have read them to understand what's going on (just, heads up if something isn't familiar from the show, it's probably come from the books). Sherlock on the other hand I derived completely and only from the BBC adaptation, as the literary Holmes has quite a different personality.
The timelines for each TV canon has had to be altered slightly to fit. For Hannibal, this would take place just after Season 1 and with Will Graham behind bars. For Sherlock, this would take place a little into Season 3, though with some changes. Mary and John are already married and Moriarty is still presumed 'dead' and won't be present here (sorry Moriarty fans).
The idea of the memory palace is essential to this story and will be mentioned and delved into quite a bit. You don't need to have read up on the subject to follow the story, but any time there's a technique used or some visual motif linked to it that could be confusing, I will provide author's notes for further explanation.
I hope you enjoy the ride! This story IS complete, and I will be posting a chapter every day or every other day. It is also being hosted on AO3. Please leave a comment, your feedback makes my day! :D