Chapter 3

"What's he doing here?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Donovan was speaking to no one, but him. "I have to see the crime scene."

"You've already been."

Sherlock decided he was done with her, she was the kind of person one could only waste so much time on, and pushed by her to duck underneath the police tape. He heard her protest behind him, but jogged quickly up the flight of stairs to one Randall Mckinley's flat, the young gay gentleman that had been sliced open neck to belly.

Come to RM's flat – SH

Having dinner with Mary – JW

Already here. Work to do. Come now. - SH

Sherlock tucked the phone away into his pocket and surveyed the flat. He walked around the chair and the dark stains on the floor, constructing a mental floor plan of the space. He went down on his knees to inspect the floor, but curiously found no drag marks. No scratches in the wood, or scuff marks on the walls. Sherlock straightened up again and looked for every entrance and exit into the flat. There was a fire exit accessible from the window if a person were brave and could jump in the dark. No chance of CCTV.

Or the killer could have just left using the front door. There were times when no one was at home that the killer could have left undetected. That spoke to an amount of fearlessness. Confidence.

An experienced killer.

If there were no signs of a struggle than Mckinley invited his killer to his flat, probably under the pretence of an anonymous sexual encounter, or Mckinley was drugged. Sherlock walked from the door to the centre of the room, miming supporting a young man of Mckinley's height and weight. For someone strong and of similar or greater height, it wouldn't have been too much of a challenge. He would have to ask Molly Hooper for the toxicology results.

But drugs were traceable, and Lestrade had told him Scotland Yard was frustrated because there were no hair or fibre samples or fingerprints found anywhere. A careful killer wouldn't use anything that could be traced back to their identity.

Sherlock was at a dead end.

Though he was alone, the forensic crew members had cleared out quickly when they found out he was coming, Sherlock glanced around him to make sure he wasn't being observed. Privately embarrassed, he reached into his coat pocket and brought out his metronome. Still unsure if what he wanted to try was a good idea, Sherlock placed it on a table and set it to a slow rhythm.

He was a man of science, evidence and logic. But he was curious about this method Will Graham used. The metronome hand swung, to and fro, the ticking soon becoming hypnotic. Sherlock closed his eyes.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He calls it the pendulum.

The metronome hand swung in Sherlock's mind, and he was standing in a white room. He blinked and looked around him in the room of his memory palace dedicated to the Minnesota Shrike. Something was different though. Will Graham was sitting in a chair, his hands cuffed together and lying in his lap. He looked as if he had walked out of the image of him locked up in the Baltimore asylum.

"Dr. Graham?"

Will Graham didn't speak, didn't look up at him.

"How do you catch your killers?" Nothing. "How would you catch Randall Mckinley's killer?"

Will Graham didn't speak. Sherlock had only seen pictures from newspapers of him. He did not know what Graham looked like animated, in motion, in the flesh.

Sherlock moved over to the crack in the wall. It had spread, the spiderweb lines crawling further along the otherwise smooth expanse. Sherlock ran his fingers over it, wondering what it could possibly mean, and he heard an unfamiliar voice behind him.

"This is my design."

"What?" Sherlock's head whipped around, and suddenly there was light glaring into his eyes and obscuring his vision.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

Sherlock blinked several times and realized he was still standing in Mckinley's flat. The sun was setting and it glared through the window, hurting his eyes. Watson stood beside him, a hand tentatively shaking his arm. The metronome was still ticking.

"You're pale."

"I'm fi-" His voice cracked and he tried again, "I'm fine."

Watson shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around the flat. "Got anything new then?" He nodded at the metronome. "What's that for?"

Sherlock grabbed the metronome, fumbling with it as he turned it off and shoved it back into his pocket. Watson was looking at him curiously and he didn't want to explain what had unsettled him. "Mckinley was targeted by an experienced, ruthless killer. Someone who's done this many times before. He knows what he's doing, he's an expert."

"Are you sure it's a man?"

Sherlock nodded, motioning to the door and then to the centre of the room. "Most probably. Mckinley's killer is someone who could easily overpower him, lift or drag him while leaving minimal markings."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, letting out a jagged sigh. "He's a professional. Someone who isn't prone to the usual instabilities or obsessions most serial killers are to have left a mistake, or have indulged in some behaviour that would have given me more clues. I'm afraid...I'm afraid there's little I can deduce until another body is found."

Watson hid a shiver. "You think there will be others?"

Sherlock's voice was small. "I don't know. Probably not."

Watson looked at him with surprise and concern. There had been a handful of cases that Sherlock hadn't solved, but half of those had been because Sherlock lost interest mid-way through, and the other were still small in number. Sherlock felt intensely uncomfortable under Watson's scrutiny and worry. He didn't like feeling beaten.

"What about the organs, Sherlock? This madman took Mckinley's kidneys. What's he done with them?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Some killers like to take trophies. He might have a collection of them...he could do all manner of things with them."

Watson gesticulated in the air impatiently. "Like what?"

"Preserved them in jars, ground them into paste, made art with them, incorporated them into another object-" Sherlock shrugged his arms again helplessly, but a smile was breaking out on Watson's face.

"So that's something we can find, isn't it? All those things take certain materials or machinery, don't they? We have a time of death, we know when Mckinley was killed. We'll look at other missing persons or other cases of bodies found without organs, and we'll look at records of people who've needed formaldehyde or what other mad stuff this killer needs."

Sherlock started to break into a small, grateful smile as well to reflect the grin on Watson's face. He had been floundering in a creeping, insidious self-doubt, but with Watson's encouragement he was feeling the ground level underneath his feet again. He let out a self-conscious chuckle and clapped a hand to Watson's shoulder.

"Yes. Yes – you go through missing persons reports from the last five years and I'll look through hospital records of theft."

The grin on Watson's face dropped. "That could take ages."

Sherlock was already bundling his scarf tightly around his neck and walking towards the flat door, a bounce in his step. "We have a killer on the loose, John! The game-"

"Don't," Watson pointed a warning finger at him, "don't you bloody say it."


Hannibal was completely alone in the privacy of a kitchen, not his kitchen, but a suitable replacement. He rolled his shoulders, easing away a little stiffness, the movement graceful and feline, and uniquely private.

He was in the home of a colleague who had given him permission to use it while he was staying in London. The kitchen knives were not to his standard, but he had spent an hour carefully sharpening and honing them to his liking. He held one now in his hand with ease, feeling its weight, before carefully preparing the kidneys laid out on his cutting board.

A light gravy was already reducing on the stove. When in England, make steak and kidney pie, though Hannibal was making a deconstruction of the dish as he found the traditional iteration too heavy.

The young man it had come from embodied a particular pet peeve's of Hannibal's: intelligent, but wasting his given resources with a sense of entitlement, cocaine addiction, and a very improper sense of when it was appropriate to touch one's person.

The kidney's sizzled in a hot pan as he lightly seared them, before de-glazing the pan with a rich-bodied red wine. He was using a parsnip mash instead of potatoes and filo pastry rounds as a base. Each 'pie' would only be the circumference of a wine glass, delicate and ornate. He had a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon already in a decanter, Special Analyst Murray's favourite, to pair with the meal.

The motions of cooking were familiar and soothing to Hannibal, and he was able to compartmentalize his physical actions apart from his inner musings. He was thinking of Sherlock Holmes again, and amusing himself as he dissected the consulting detective in his mind.

He wanted the younger Holmes' brain. Perhaps a little contrived, but Hannibal couldn't resist poetic touches. He would take the pre-frontal cortex and the amygdala. He wondered if he would mash and then whip them until they were creamy and buttery, or if he would lightly batter and fry them. Perhaps, when it came to a man who prized his cerebral abilities so much, it was all right to be a little indulgent.

He would have the man's tongue as well, of that there was no doubt. Sliced thinly and cooked en sous-vide. The tongue was such a powerful muscle, it required a lot of attention and patience to soften and avoid unwanted chewiness. He thought of Sherlock Holmes' slips of the tongue, his obliviousness to how his words affected those who cared for him, his casually rude, sometimes bitter, sometimes witty words...

Hannibal could almost feel the texture and pressure of Holmes' tongue sliding between his teeth, the amount of force required to sever it, the satisfying motions of masticating that rude organ. He smiled darkly to himself.

Holmes was a rude man, but he was not one amongst the cattle. He was prize game, a treasured bounty that any self-respecting hunter would be proud to take a trophy from.


"Register me for the conference."

Mycroft stopped in his tracks. "Absolutely not."

"You're allowed to bring a guest. Register me as your guest."

"After the insulting manner in which you treated Special Analyst Murray, I think the phrase is 'not on your life', Sherlock."

Sherlock had that maddening expression on his face which usually meant he refused to understand Mycroft's position and was only focused on his goal. Mycroft headed his younger brother off before Sherlock could launch into another pestering tirade. "If you're so interested in Dr. Lecter's work why don't you use your connections with Scotland Yard to register yourself?"

"Registration's full."

Sherlock wasn't even denying his motivations, and Mycroft turned to face his brother. He looked at Sherlock carefully. He knew when his younger brother obsessed over something, and despite the fact that they butted heads, he always did his best to keep Sherlock out of harm's way.

"You don't want to cause trouble at the Behavioural Sciences Conference, Sherlock. And remember what I said about Dr. Lecter."

Sherlock's brow knitted together into a frown. "Is this another one of your attempts to hide me in a corner while you try and impress a desirable friend? I never played in the schoolyard with your toadies, Mycroft."

Ah, Sherlock, always the first instinct to be cruel when told 'no'. Mycroft's umbrella tapped against the ground as he leaned in close to his brother. "Sherlock, if I worried about the potential of you embarrassing me in any situation I would have gone completely bald by twenty."

Sherlock shot an impertinent look to Mycroft's hairline, and Mycroft snapped at him. "For once open your ears and listen to some common sense. Tread carefully around Dr. Lecter. I can protect you in England, but America is a different matter. The FBI take care of their own."

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "Like they took care of Dr. Graham?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "And you think the actions they took against a serial murderer were unjustified?"

"No. Tragic, maybe." There was something Sherlock wasn't telling him, he could never lie properly to Mycroft. However, Mycroft also knew he could never pull anything out of Sherlock when his brother decided to be obstinate about something.

"Keep your nose out of it and solve your next case. The world Dr. Lecter comes from is not one of your games."

"Do you trust Lecter?"

Sherlock had a curious look on his face which bothered Mycroft, but also made him soften his tone. He felt as if some of what he had said reached his brother, but not in the way he intended. Whatever it was, at least it seemed he had managed to impress some of the seriousness of the situation onto Sherlock, and that was a small victory in and of itself.

Mycroft answered truthfully. "I don't trust anyone, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave him a queer, half-smile, nodded and then turned away. Mycroft brought out his phone as he watched his brother's receding figure and contacted the security company managing the conference. He could tell Sherlock was going to sneak in anyway, and he might as well use some favours now to make sure the stubborn fool didn't get arrested.


Lestrade walked into his office, a cup of coffee in hand to wash down the aspirin he was already fishing for in his pocket, and started when he saw Sherlock and Watson seated at his desk.

"Get out of my chair."

Sherlock ignored him, rapidly typing into his computer and Watson gave him an apologetic shrug. Lestrade pointed accusingly at Sherlock. "Are you using my access code? Did you hack into my account again?"

Sherlock snapped at him in annoyance, "We're on the hunt for a killer, Lestrade. Don't get in the way."

Lestrade slammed the coffee down on his desk and Watson jumped a little to avoid the spray of hot liquid. "Oh, I'm in your way, am I? I've got a dead body in the morgue and no bloody leads. I've got you running around crying 'serial killer', but we've got nothing to prove it. Anderson's hounding me to call a press conference, Donovan's on my back to hush it up – I need something, Sherlock, or I need another body."

Lestrade looked as if he immediately regretted his words as he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, frustrated sigh. Watson looked at once startled and sympathetic, and Sherlock finally tore his eyes away from the computer screen. Lestrade's eyes were bloodshot, he'd skipped a button on his collar and he had forgotten to put on deodorant.

"You should go home and get some rest."

Lestrade snapped, "Don't tell me how to do my job, damn you."

Sherlock replied calmly, "You need a minimum of five hours uninterrupted sleep to be working to the full potential of your mental faculties, even if the potential is average."

"Sherlock." Watson gave him a sharp look.

"Really, it would be best if you went home and didn't interrupt me. That would be the most productive and helpful you could be right now."

"Sod off." Lestrade looked like he wanted to hit him, but found the effort too tiring. He motioned at Watson to slide an extra chair over to him and sank down into it. "Just tell me you're getting somewhere."

Watson absently flicked a page of the missing persons report he had been reading. There was already a tall stack on Lestrade's desk. "I've been going through these the past few nights, but without a profile it's hard to say what's relevant."

Sherlock's eyes were still scanning through the reports on the computer screen. "There have been some cold case files of young men murdered and having their organs taken, but it was always prize black market organs or genitalia."

Lestrade and Watson both winced. Sherlock looked up at them with a mildly confused look on his face and Watson rolled his eyes. "Toxicology report came back from Mckinley, he was a regular cocaine user. So that definitely rules out any black market trade."

Lestrade took the report from Watson to read over. "Cocaine, MDMA and ketamine. A real party animal. But not enough cocaine in his system that night for on overdose."

Sherlock trained his uncanny gaze to Lestrade and in a quiet, but forceful voice said, "It's a serial killer, Lestrade. It wasn't an accident or manslaughter, or a crime of passion. It was premeditated, methodical and clinical."

Lestrade was grimacing, but he didn't protest. He believed that in his gut to be true as well, otherwise he wouldn't have asked Sherlock to consult. Sometimes half the battle was convincing the Detective Inspector to embrace his convictions. And to let Sherlock work unimpeded. The two usually went hand in hand.

"You keep saying serial, but we only have one body. Are his other victims in there, then?" Lestrade waved a hand over the pile of missing persons reports by Watson. "Or is this the only time?"

"His methods are too precise for this to be his first. His experience shows in everything."

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Look, give me a profile. Something, anything, I can slap on a report to send through Interpol. The usual stuff, what kind of victims he chooses, how he chooses them, some kind of trademark – anything."

Watson looked to Sherlock. "We really only have the missing organs."

"A profile..." Sherlock looked to both of them expectantly, and when he was met with blank stares, gestured impatiently for them to turn away from him. "I have to go to my mind palace."

"For chrissake," Lestrade pushed himself up from his seat and made his way out of the office, "let me know when he's done."

Watson dutifully turned away and busied himself with the remaining reports. He was more used to Sherlock's unorthodox methods. Sherlock leaned away from the computer screen and closed his eyes.


Sherlock began where he normally did, a busy intersection in London. It was a quick trip to the Scotland Yard offices because he was already physically there, and because that was a mental path he navigated so many times. He opened a door and he was in the morgue with Molly Hooper.

"Bruising around the ankles that occurred while the victim was still alive. A cut beginning right from his sternum to just below his navel done with a scalpel."

Sherlock tapped a finger to his lips as he observed the body of Mckinley laid out on the examination table before them. "Also performed while he was alive."

Molly nodded, opening the flaps of skin and revealing the layers of fat and coagulated blood. "There's something odd about this, Sherlock. It's staring right at you."

Sherlock looked at the long slice. It was precise and clean, an impressive feat even if the victim had been restrained. Alive, Mckinley would have struggled and his body would have gone into shock from the blood loss. A straight line.

"The killer didn't use a Y-incision."

Molly nodded in agreement. "Why? Anyone with a working knowledge of anatomy or surgery would use a Y-incision for easier access to the internal organs."

"Because the killer already knew exactly what he wanted to retrieve from Mckinley's body." Sherlock's eyebrows rose up to his hairline. "Grim, indeed."

Molly rested her hands on the examination table. She was much more assertive in his mind than she was in person. Her voice was demanding and insistent. "There's something else. Something you're assuming."

"No, no, it's all logical," Sherlock protested, pacing around his mental version of the morgue, "that only speaks more clearly to the killer having a working knowledge of anatomy. He's had some medical training. In fact, he might have previously been a surgeon-"

Molly persisted, "That's not it, Sherlock. Think again."

Sherlock stopped in front of the body, his eyes narrowing. He could feel the answer hovering before him, slowly being teased into fruition. "Given the medical knowledge required to perform the mutilation I have assumed..."

Sherlock's eyes ran along the wound. "...that the killer used a scalpel."

"There are other knives that could have opened this man."

Sherlock nodded slowly as he digested that information. "Thank you, Molly."

Her lips quirked into a small, sad smile and she covered the body with a sheet. Sherlock absently snapped his fingers together as he ruminated over the new piece of information, making his way to the door and pushing it open.

It led him down a white corridor. At the end of a corridor was the only door. He pushed it open and found himself in an empty theatre.

Sherlock looked around him, stunned. The walls were high with beautiful sculptures, red velvet brocade and plush seats. There was an orchestra on a gold-trimmed stage, though their faces were blurry and the music faint as if he were hearing it underwater. He had never been to this theatre before, it was like a mix of everyone he had been to.

There was only one person seated in the audience, and from the sleeked back dark hair Sherlock knew who it was. Nervously, he made his way down the aisle and gingerly sat down beside Hannibal Lecter.

"I don't understand."

Lecter's eyes were trained towards the stage, hard and soft all at once. They looked dark in the dim lighting and cold, but the lines around his eyes were softened and spoke of being at peace. He murmured, "What don't you understand, Mr. Holmes?"

"Where we are and why you are here."

Lecter closed his eyes briefly, following along to the strains of music Sherlock could just barely hear. His voice was soft and low in the hush of the theatre. "You need a criminal profile for the killer you are trying to catch. Perhaps you feel you don't understand, but it is more that you are unwilling to admit someone else may have more expertise on the subject than you do."

Sherlock squirmed in the theatre seat. He looked around him again. It was an amalgamation of half-remembered recollections of going to the theatre with his family, and of the pictures he had surrounded himself with at his Baker street flat. Subconsciously he must have been preparing a room for Dr. Lecter all along, and this is what it looked like inside his mind palace.

"What is this killer's profile?"

Lecter shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and resting a finger against his temple. He still did not look away from the orchestra. "You aren't asking the right questions, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock." Sherlock leaned back in his seat, taking in Dr. Lecter. The man still betrayed nothing, but Sherlock felt as if he could observe the man all he wished without being observed in return. "What is the right question?"

"Is your killer ruled by his compulsions? What are those compulsions? What does he achieve by killing? Psychopaths are goal-oriented, Sherlock, even if their logic is something incomprehensible to most. You will not be able to catch this killer unless you can gain some insight into his perspective and his reasons. Your individual sense of logic is not enough."

"So what you're saying is..."

That curious and familiar smirk curved at the corner of Lecter's mouth. "This is how Will Graham catches psychopaths. This is why he is so effective."

Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. "But it damaged him irrevocably. He couldn't escape the twisted minds he dived into. He assumed them so well he became a monster himself."

Lecter's voice was light and teasing. "Are you afraid of becoming a monster, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed a few times, stunned. He whispered, "No."

Lecter finally turned to him, but it had grown darker in the theatre, and so many shadows fell over his face that Sherlock could only see the red pinpricks of light that were Lecter's eyes.

"You are very talented at lying to yourself. How can you trust your mind palace if that is so?"

Sherlock's chest felt tight and he tried to take a deep breath. Instead his chest only grew tighter and he scrabbled frantically at the scarf around his neck, panicking as his vision grew dark and he desperately tried to breathe.


"Sherlock, it's all right. Just breathe."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he found himself hunched over his knees, Watson holding the back of his neck steady and with another hand cupping his forehead. Sherlock felt slightly dizzy and it took him a moment before he could straighten up.

"You started to have a panic attack."

Sherlock felt his face grow hot with embarrassment, but nodded at Watson to show he appreciated the help. He rose unsteadily to his feet and croaked, "Baker street."

He finally shook off the last vestiges of the anxiety attack by the time they exited the taxi outside 221B. Sherlock took in a deep breath of the cool night air and felt revitalized. The ride had been short, but silent. Watson didn't make his usual complaints that Sherlock overworked himself or didn't sleep enough, as if he felt Sherlock had been embarrassed enough. Instead he remained a quiet, but stalwart presence and Sherlock was immeasurably grateful for it.

Sherlock sank into his chair, and after making them a cuppa, Watson sat down in his chair. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards at the familiar sight.

"You'll catch him. You're just stuck." Watson looked so sincere it made Sherlock feel uncomfortably guilty. "But you'll figure it out."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave Watson a suspicious look. "Are you giving me a 'pep talk', John?"

Watson kept a mild expression on his face, though his tone was dry. "Of course not. When has the great Sherlock Holmes ever needed a pep talk? Surely not when he grumps around his flat in a mood."

"I am not in a mood." Watson was very bad at hiding his grins and Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh, though it was halfhearted at best.

"Pick up another case. We've had dozens of requests from the blog. Working on something else might help free you up your thoughts and crack this one."

Sherlock crossed his arms against his chest. "None of them are interesting in the slightest."

It sounded petulant even to his ears, and Watson must have thought so too. He gestured to the mural of pictures on the flat wall. "And this Lecter chap is your interesting pet project at the moment, hmm?"

Sherlock threw his head back and rested it on the top of his armchair, throwing his arms out in a display of exhaustion. "He's fascinating."

"He's creepy."

Sherlock chuckled. "I should tell Mary that you're jealous. You will get such a lecture from her."

Watson glared at him and defensively squared his shoulders. "I'm not jealous. I'm not. He is creepy. The way he talks, the way he looks at people. And sends their wife flowers."

"And invites them to dinner?"

Sherlock laughed again as Watson almost leapt up from the arm chair.

"What?"

Sherlock waved a lazy hand in the air, even as Watson's eyes were bulging and he looked like he was going to strangle Sherlock if he didn't answer quickly enough. "Mary sent me a text asking if we were free this Sunday evening. She asked about the both of us, which means she hadn't asked you. If she hadn't asked you, it meant she was concerned about how you would react: evening means dinner invitation, you overreacting means Lecter – it's all very obvious."

Sherlock had another good laugh at Watson's expense as the poor man went red in the face and looked like he was going to explode. Watson raised an angry finger to him, then dropped it, then raised it again a few times as he struggled to say something. Finally, he deflated and sat back down in his arm chair with a displeased grunt.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "Why do you dislike Lecter? Really? His attentions towards Mary are obviously chaste, if a little peculiar. And you've never reacted this strongly towards the men whose attentions have been illicit. He gets under your skin. Why?"

Watson shrugged, uncomfortable, and Sherlock leaned in closer, his curiosity piqued. Watson gave a self-conscious cough, glaring at how intensely Sherlock was observing him, but his manner was still evasive as if he were afraid of how Sherlock would react to his reply.

"Well...it's more to do with you, really."

"How do you mean?"

Watson puffed out his cheeks before letting out a long-suffering sigh, still searching for the right words. "You...obsess over things. You don't like looking the fool around other people. And I'm not sure if Lecter's the kind of man you want to be...competing with."

The words stung, especially because of how sincere Watson was being. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You think I'm competing with him?"

Watson sounded frustrated, placing his tea cup down harder on the table beside him than he normally would.

"Of course you are, Sherlock! You have to prove you're smarter than him, and you have to keep testing him, and it's all tied up with your bloody pride." Watson's voice had raised at the end of that sentence, and he looked slightly sheepish, but kept pressing on. "And I don't think Lecter's the kind of person you want to be doing that with. But he's humouring you, and I don't know why. And I don't like that he is."

Watson looked miserable and his concern was apparent, but Sherlock found it difficult in that moment to appreciate it. He felt like a balloon that had all the air taken out of it, and the pit of his stomach felt heavy. "Well, John...that's certainly one way to check a man's pride."

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock-"

Sherlock cut him off, leaning back and crossing his arms against his chest. He tried to keep his voice light, but it and his demeanour were closed. "It's quite all right, John. I've learned now when you're trying to tell me I'm being a 'drama queen'."

Watson gave him the kind of look that told him he thought Sherlock was being quite the drama queen at present moment, but Sherlock didn't care and kept his arms crossed. Watson got up, finishing the last of his tea and gathering his coat around him.

"Pick another case, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sherlock didn't answer and the door to the flat opened and closed. He was alone with his thoughts and Watson's indictment ringing in his ears. It always stung most the closer it hit to the truth.


A/N

Little note on the memory palace/mind palace (they call it the 'mind palace' BBC Sherlock, the academic term is 'memory palace', tomayto-tomatoh really, so both terms are used interchangeably in this story):

It's a clever visual device they use on the show, and it features largely here. If you're confused as to why figures from Sherlock's life keep popping up in his palace to talk to him, it gets explained a little later on, but to clarify: when you create a memory palace you visualize and create different rooms within it to store different pieces of information. What some people do as well is populate their memory palace with figures from their life attached to each branch of knowledge they possess. So, for Sherlock - Molly Hooper helps him remember medical knowledge, Mycroft helps him with his more cold, rational reasoning, and so on and so forth. So the Mind!Hannibal in Sherlock's brain is just how Sherlock imagines him, and a certain aspect of his mind. NONE of the figures in Sherlock's memory palace can know anything that Sherlock himself doesn't. Also, if they seem a little out of character this is because they are being seen through Sherlock's personal lens.