Chapter 4

Hannibal wiped his hands dry on a towel, lowering the heat of a stove element, and made his way quickly to the front door. When he opened it he saw Sherlock Holmes soaked from the pouring rain and glanced at the clock in the sitting room.

"It's very late, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

Hannibal's lips twitched upwards slightly at the first polite thing Holmes had said to him, and he moved aside to graciously invite the drenched man in. Holmes stood awkwardly in the hallway and Hannibal retrieved the towel he had just used and handed it to him. Holmes dried his hair and Hannibal gestured for him to have a seat at the kitchen counter.

Hannibal began to pour Holmes a glass of wine, but he put his hand over top the glass to stop him. A red drop splashed onto his finger. "I don't imbibe. Normally."

Hannibal refilled his own glass instead as Holmes sucked his wine-spattered knuckle clean. The motion didn't go unnoticed and he hid a smirk as he took a sip. "Have you come here with your troubles?"

Holmes looked mildly amused at the archaic turn of phrase and didn't answer, instead looking around the beautiful home. "Dr. Friedson keeps a nice house."

Hannibal returned to the mire-poix and stock reduction simmering on the stove, gripping the heavy pot easily and pouring the mixture over a roast pan in a smooth, steady motion. He wasn't surprised that Holmes had found him here. The detective had shown his competency already. "Surely you didn't come all this way to discuss interior decoration?"

Holmes folded his hands together and rested his chin on top of his interlaced fingers. "I'm working a case for Scotland Yard. A young male victim who was killed and posed in his apartment with pink lipstick smeared on his mouth. His kidneys were taken."

Hannibal placed the empty pot into the kitchen sink and turned off the stove. He placed the roast pan into the oven and then leaned against his side of the kitchen counter. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbow and his collar undone. Holmes had removed his scarf and unbuttoned his coat, though he was still dripping on the floor. The significance wasn't lost on Hannibal and he considered Holmes carefully.

"You've already discussed this with Dr. Watson and found the answers wanting. What further insight are you hoping I can provide?"

Holmes stiffened slightly. "I see we're getting straight to the point then."

"Not at all, Sherlock. We can discuss whatever you feel like."

Hannibal remained still, though his posture was relaxed instead of stony. Holmes had a fragile support system with only Dr. Watson as his stalwart pillar. That was straining on both parties, particularly Dr. Watson, and Hannibal felt a kind of hunger at the knowledge that when that foundation shook, Holmes had sought him out. Like any ambush predator, Hannibal was patient and waited for Holmes to circle closer and closer into his reach, relaxed yet ready at any second to deliver the death strike.

Holmes side-stepped the subtext of the conversation, tapping a free finger against the side of his jaw, and asked, "What are your experiences with killers who take trophies? What is their compulsion, their goal?"

Hannibal reached for his wineglass, shifting so he could rest a hip against the kitchen counter. He studied the wine swirling inside the glass as if he were contemplating his answers within its liquid depths. "Why does anyone desire a trophy? To commemorate a unique event that makes one proud. Memory is important to many psychopaths. They are constantly directed by and further validating their unique perspective of the world. Their logic and perspective are constantly challenged by the world around them. A trophy is a benchmark of their success in asserting their will."

Holmes' eyes were half-closed, his gaze far away. Hannibal smiled as he watched the detective digest that information and store it away. The scene strongly reminded him of when another shining mind had sat in his kitchen searching for answers, hunting a monster, and lost. He felt the first tendrils of yearning slowly uncoil at the base of his tongue, the want to taste pushing gently against his iron patience.

"Why display them? How would they display these macabre tokens?"

Hannibal stretched his arms above his head in one languorous motion, his eyes fluttering closed briefly as he felt the satisfying strain of every muscle responding to pressure. Holmes was watching him carefully, curiously, wondering why such a display was now accessible to him. Maybe Holmes knew he was being baited. That was acceptable. Hannibal knew that a mind like Holmes' wouldn't be able to resist the intricate puzzle of a snare, even as it slipped around his neck.

"The matter of these psychopaths you hunt, Sherlock, is actually very simple. They want to be caught."

Hannibal was then leaning against the counter again, swift as a viper, and closer to Holmes than they had ever been. "It comes back to the assertion of their will. They want to challenge those around them, hoping to find someone like them who is worthy of their time. A psychopath, in his own way, can be very generous."

Holmes didn't start, but had grown very still again and was holding in a breath. Hannibal knew he had a captive audience and continued, "You understand that behaviour. You display it yourself. It frightens those closest to you."

Holmes refused to be that easily cowed, his own face settling into a serene expression. "It doesn't frighten you."

"Does it distress Dr. Watson?"

Holmes' face closed and his eyes hardened. Hannibal was enjoying himself and gently pressed further. "He wants to protect you, but you resent it. Because he thinks you need protection from yourself."

Holmes' voice came out as a whisper. "Do you think that concern is valid?"

"No."

Hannibal pushed away from the counter and turned on the kitchen sink tap. He began to clean the dishes he had used, his expression only politely interested as if they had been discussing something as banal as the weather. "Perhaps it's an occupational hazard, but in my line of work I've found there is no such thing as normal or abnormal. Only the mundane or the interesting."

"You find me interesting." Holmes couldn't completely mask the pleasure in his voice.

"Should I not?"

There was something hard about the way Holmes looked at him now, but the curiosity was stronger. "What is it about me that you want to fix, Dr. Lecter? That's the instinct of every psychiatrist. But you don't seem interested in the usual."

"Do you need to be fixed, Sherlock?"

Holmes was having none of it, shaking his head and his words taking on their usual demanding tone. "What is it?"

Hannibal turned off the kitchen tap and dried his hands on a fresh towel. He took another sip of his wine and tilted his head as he regarded Holmes through lowered lids. "How have you constructed your memory palace?"

Holmes looked slightly taken aback. He hadn't expected that line of query. "Room by room."

Hannibal nodded as if he approved, but pushed further. "The foundation?"

Holmes looked slightly confused, and Hannibal rested his arms on the counter again, leaning in, but not too close. "Were you methodical in its construction or going by instinct? The method of Loci, first introduced to us by the Ancient Greeks. Did you familiarize yourself with the texts: the Art of Memory or the Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci?"

"I did."

There was still a tinge of bewilderment and even bashfulness on Holmes' face and Hannibal merely nodded again. It was as he suspected, and all for the better. "You read these texts to identify and confirm what you had been doing instinctively, and then thought no further upon it. Tell me, Sherlock, what does your memory palace look like?"

Hannibal didn't expect Holmes to answer him that easily, and Holmes remained silent. Silent, but also excited, suspicious, and intrigued. Holmes was looking at him expectantly, a challenge in his eyes, and Hannibal answered for him with a smirk. "It looks like London."

Holmes did not need to say 'yes'. Hannibal already knew, had already guessed from their interactions, and the stillness from the detective spoke volumes to him. The wire loop of the snare was reflecting in Holmes' eyes, and he was rooted to the spot like any curious prey. Unable to run away.

The silence stretched and grew between them like the feeble kicks of a trapped animal. Tentative at first, and then growing frantic. Holmes was desperately trying to reciprocate, to make his move, say anything, but his window of opportunity was closing.

The oven timer chimed, Hannibal gave Holmes an apologetic smile, and turned his back. He opened the oven door to check on his dish, the tantalizing scents drifting through the kitchen, before closing the door and lowering the temperature. It was meant to slow-cook overnight.

"It is late, Sherlock. You should return home."

Holmes blinked, seemed to wake from a trance, and then snatched up his scarf and began tying it around his neck. Hannibal's eyes travelled along the length of the kitchen counter, passing briefly over the knife on the counter, and then to Holmes. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to take Holmes now. But Hannibal knew the moment to flush the game would come later, and haste was the enemy of all careful hunters.

Holmes launched himself away from the counter, doing up his coat buttons in swift motions, already opening the front door and walking out without a 'good night'.

Hannibal was thinking he wanted Holmes' cheeks as well.

Holmes waited until he had rounded the street corner before straightening his posture, removing his hands from his coat pockets and quickening his pace to a brisk, confident stride. All visible airs of distress evaporated from him in a few steps. He passed underneath the lamp post at the next block, and subtly nodded towards a member of his homeless network watching from the alley. He received a nod back and the confirmation of the 'all clear' sign.

His conversation with Watson had upset him, and he had purposefully held onto some of those feelings when he sought Lecter out. It was much easier to exaggerate genuine feelings than to fabricate them entirely. And he wanted to see how Lecter acted in a situation where he held more power.

Holmes hadn't been fully been playing vulnerable, some of it had been real, and that had spooked him a little. Even with an agenda, to lay oneself open to gauge a reaction was nerve-wracking. Lecter responded very well to it, and had finally revealed more of how extensive his natural resources were. He had guessed correctly what the foundation of Sherlock's mind palace looked like, and that had sent a chill down Sherlock's spine.

Lecter had also guessed the dynamics of his friendship with Watson accurately, but Sherlock felt any truly competent psychiatrist would be able to deduce that. It was far more interesting that Lecter had shown an interest in nurturing the behaviours others criticized Sherlock for.

If Sherlock cared to admit it to himself, that feeling was rather nice. They were still circling each other, but pushing closer to approaching the line of 'like' rather than 'not like', and Lecter seemed receptive of and even desiring of that conclusion. Sherlock felt the usual resistance to anyone trying to mentor him, but he couldn't deny that a deeper interaction with Lecter wouldn't be exciting and compelling.

John was right, though.

Sherlock was competing with Lecter, challenging him, and provoking him into playing this game with him. Psychiatrists hated Sherlock for this behaviour and never indulged him. Except Lecter was more than willing to play.

The conclusion was obvious. Lecter was a dangerous man to cross, though the shape and depth of that danger was still unclear.

And Sherlock knew it was his flaw, but the hints of danger only drew him closer in, instead of making him back away.

"Again?"

Sherlock looked up from Lestrade's computer screen to the Detective Inspector and grinned broadly, before returning his attention to the files he was reading.

"I work here, you know."

"You're not working right now."

Lestrade flipped him a rude hand gesture, but already knew he was defeated. He had too many things going on to get into a childish game of tug-of-war. "Just don't do anything illegal on that, all right?"

"I won't. Any further."

A string of muttered curses spat out under Lestrade's breath as he slammed the office door shut behind him. Sherlock waited until Lestrade was out of sight and then picked up the office telephone. He dialled the number displayed on the Tattle Crime blog, and was pleasantly surprised to get a response after only two rings.

"Am I speaking to Freddie Lounds?"

"Who wants to know?" The voice on the other line was a woman, at once coy and slippery. Typical journalists.

"Miss Lounds, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade and am calling in an unofficial capacity. I would like your opinions on a case you covered recently."

"No, you aren't." Lounds' voice was teasing, and sharp. "DI Lestrade has given video interviews before and you don't sound a thing like him."

"We always sound different on the phone."

"Tell me who you are or I won't talk. And I'm sure you don't want this to be a waste of your time." She didn't sound angry in the slightest. Instead, she was cheerful and probing, her curiosity apparent and relentless. Sherlock could see her being able to tease answers out of reluctant interviewees quite easily.

Sherlock decided to give her what she wanted because he needed to know more than she did. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I need access to Will Graham."

"Sherlock Holmes," she practically purred with delight, "the famous British detective with the funny hat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. That bloody hat.

"Will Graham is a dangerous murderer locked up in the Baltimore State Hospital. No one has access to him."

"Not even yourself?"

She laughed, pleased and still coy. "Not yet."

"He isn't allowed phone calls or visitors?"

"No phone calls. And he refuses to see anyone except for Dr. Lecter or Dr. Bloom. Why are you interested, Mr. Holmes? Do interests in the copycat killer reach over the pond?"

Sherlock hung up the line before Lounds could continue. Any prolonged conversation with her would just end up in a petty power game and further toying on her part. Journalists were all the same – anything for a story. And Sherlock had little patience for it. Lounds had already told him everything he needed to know.

Will Graham still received visits from Dr. Bloom. Given their past history, Sherlock knew he would be able to find a sympathizer in Bloom, but had been unsure as to how accurate her opinions on the case would be. However, the game had progressed beyond that point and now he just needed insight into the man who was Will Graham. A different perspective.

Using Lestrade's access codes, Sherlock signed into the FBI's internal directory and looked up Dr. Bloom's contact information. He called her office number and got her answering machine. He tried her mobile number instead and received an automated greeting again. He hung up without leaving a message.

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table. He looked at the time, calculated what hour it was in Baltimore, and realized Dr. Bloom was probably giving a lecture or working. He would try again when it was more likely that she had retired for the evening.

Sherlock went back to the computer and signed out of Lestrade's account. He then pulled up the internal server for the CIA and typed in Special Analyst Murray's login information.

Mycroft would be so displeased with him if he knew. Sherlock grinned to himself and hit 'enter' with relish.

Sherlock's eyes were blurs as he sped-read through numerous files, pulling up as many internal reports as he could. There was a chance Special Analyst Murray would try to access her account while he was using it and flag a security breach. Sherlock wanted to get as much information as he could as quickly as possible in case that happened.

He read the report on Jack Crawford. Under evaluation from an internal affairs review. Numerous successful cases where the murderer was apprehended, charged and found guilty in court. The death of Miriam Lass, a Behavioural Analyst-in-training under Crawford's wing. The case still open on the Chesapeake Ripper.

Crawford's white whale. Sherlock pulled up the case files for the Ripper.

Grisly. Very grisly. Yet beautiful. Sherlock looked at the posed bodies of the victims and noticed the theatricality and artistry that had gone into their display. Detail-oriented and meticulously planned.

Organs missing from every victim.

Sherlock wondered what it was about American psychopaths that they all seemed to love taking trophies. The Chesapeake Ripper took organs or body parts. The Minnesota Shrike used the hair from his victims. Will Graham was found with Abigail Hobbs' ear and parts of every one of his victims in his fishing lures.

Sherlock made sure he scrolled to the end of every file and report on the Chesapeake Ripper so he would be able to recall its specifics at a later time, and then moved onto the internal reports on Will Graham.

Will Graham had worked with the FBI previously and returned to teaching. Psychiatric evaluations found him unstable, prone to internalizing his work and unfit for duty. Jack Crawford ignored the warning signs and brought Graham back. He had recently been diagnosed with autoimmune encephalitis.

He shot Garret Jacob Hobbs ten times.

Sherlock paused. He read through the section carefully. The files accessed through Murray's account were more extensive than the physical copies Lecter had brought with him for the conference.

A phone call had been made to Hobbs' residence minutes before the FBI arrived. Hobbs had already killed his wife and had a knife to Abigail's throat when confronted by Graham and Crawford.

"Someone warned you," Sherlock murmured aloud.

Frantically, he scanned through the other case files for the murders Graham had committed. A crime scene photograph of Georgia Madchen's burnt corpse caught his eye. He examined it carefully, his head tilted slightly. He saw something in the wreck, but couldn't make out what it was. Only that it was a foreign object.

Sherlock looked through the medical findings. Traces of plastic.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. A static charge would have set the chamber ablaze. Someone had given Georgia Madchen a hair comb. Was Will Graham the type of psychopath that could manipulate someone in such a fashion?

No, surely a man who had a complete mental break as Graham had would not have been able to possess the calculated premeditation that action spoke of. Sherlock looked through the profile of Graham again. Missing time. Mild seizures. Hallucinations.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and he was in a mental version of the Baker Street flat. Watson was seated in his armchair and ran through the symptoms and disease trajectory of encephalitis. Sherlock briefly thought, 'thank you, John' and forcefully pulled himself out of his mind palace and back to the screen.

The phone call. The comb. Will Graham-

The screen flashed before him, breaking his concentration. A security flag was flashing on the screen, asking Sherlock to verify his identification. Damn, just his luck. Sherlock considered how to diffuse the situation, and then pulled the power cord for Lestrade's computer out of the wall. Let them make of that what they would.

He hurriedly gathered his coat and exited the office. He didn't want to face Lestrade's wrath once the Detective Inspector got wind of exactly what kind of 'illegal activity' he had been up to.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The metronome hand swayed to and fro.

Sherlock stood facing his window inside the Baker Street flat, but his eyes were focused on nothing in particular. He had his hands clasped behind his back and rocked gently from his heels to the balls of his feet, like he was preparing to dive into water.

He closed his eyes and a blank, white corridor appeared before him. He pushed open a heavy door and walked into the blank room with the cracks on the wall.

The cracks had spread even further, now stretching onto the floor. Sherlock made his way to the edge of the decay and trembled. The ground did not feel stable under his feet. He looked to the centre of the room and Will Graham sat, hands cuffed, eyes to the floor.

"Will. Why did you hurt Abigail Hobbs?"

Will Graham's voice was hoarse and low. "I couldn't protect her."

Sherlock felt a sharp twist of pity hit him in the chest. "Why did you kill Abigail?"

Will Graham began to shake in the chair. His body trembled violently of its own accord, and his head snapped back, his eyes rolling into the back of his head until only the whites showed. Sherlock cried out in alarm and ran over as Will Graham suffered in the throes of a full-body seizure.

"Will!"

Will Graham's head lolled grotesquely and his white, blank eyes stared eerily at Sherlock. His lips moved clumsily, and he croaked, "Find Hannibal. Find Hannibal..."

Foamy spittle started to erupt from Will Graham's mouth and he made pathetic choking noises. The blankness of the room felt oppressive, and Sherlock backed away and found himself bumping into a door handle. Horrified, unable to tear his eyes away from Will Graham's suffering, he twisted the knob behind him and fell through into another room.

Sherlock fell to the ground and looked around to see he was in a kitchen. He scrambled to his feet, massaging his chest and breathing hard through his nose. Mycroft was sitting with a glass of wine by the kitchen counter. Molly Hooper was standing by the sink.

"Sherlock, the answer has been staring at you in the face this whole time," Mycroft commented drily. "You aren't the only one who likes to play games, you know. And some have been playing it for longer."

Sherlock felt a cold sweat overtake him and he ran a shaking hand through his hair. It came back drenched, and he tugged at his collar uncomfortably. Molly gave him a sympathetic smile, but she was always colder in his mind.

Mycroft looked completely disinterested, and was speaking to him in that unique mix of exasperation and encouragement. "Let go of all other distractions, Sherlock. You are not Will Graham and you don't possess an ounce of the empathy he has."

Sherlock stammered, "I know that."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "But have you forgotten that? How have you solved every case previous to this one, brother? It wasn't by using someone else's methods."

"I-I haven't..." But the protest died in Sherlock's throat and he felt cold all over. Mycroft gave him a knowing look.

"Someone has wanted you to view this case from Will Graham's perspective. Why? Make a deduction."

Sherlock felt sick. He felt as if the walls of his memory palace were tilting and throwing him off balance. He grasped the ledge of the kitchen counter for support, his breath coming out in jagged gasps.

"Sherlock. Deduce."

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and wiped the sweat from his face. "I'm afraid, Mycroft."

Mycroft almost looked sad. "I know."

Sherlock felt calmer and steeled himself. "None of the other cold cases match up with the MO of Randall Mckinley's killer. Mckinley isn't the first victim of a new serial murderer on the loose. He was killed by someone with experience. Mckinley was killed a few days after Hannibal Lecter arrived in London."

Sherlock couldn't fight the tremble in his voice, but now that he had started he found it easier to continue and forced himself to push on. "Hannibal Lecter has the strength and calm under pressure to have easily incapacitated Mckinley. Lecter mutilated him while he was still alive and took his kidneys. He posed Mckinley afterwards because he leaves an artistic touch on everything. The lipstick...the lipsti-"

Sherlock fought hard to keep his eyes open. He wanted desperately to close them and abandon himself to the scream that was building in his chest. "...the lipstick was a message. Mckinley may have already been wearing it, I don't know. But it was left on him or painted on him for a purpose. It's a vulgar shade and it's tacky. It isn't sophisticated or cultured. It's rude. Mckinley was a rude man.

"Hannibal Lecter wants me to know what he does to rude people."

Mycroft's expression was unfathomable, but his tone was soft. It sounded like the few times Mycroft had expressed his compassion to Sherlock openly in real life. "There's more, Sherlock. You know there's more. You've been circling around the truth this whole time, but you have refused to delve deep in the right direction because you were enjoying the game too much. The game is over."

Sherlock felt like he was on the edge of despair, and looked up at his mental personification of Mycroft. He was glad, in a way, that he would never have this conversation with his real-life flesh and blood brother.

"The copycat killer of the Minnesota Shrike left the FBI a clue to lead them to the arm of Miriam Lass. He was baiting Jack Crawford and pulling him into a dark game. The copycat killer is a sadist. Manipulative, very intelligent and has a flair for the dramatic. He had intimate knowledge of the murders of not only the Minnesota Shrike, but the Chesapeake Ripper as well. He wanted to destroy Crawford."

Mycroft asked, "Why can't it be Will Graham?"

"Will Graham isn't a sadist."

Mycroft clucked his tongue in disapproval and shook his head. "No, Sherlock, that's conjecture. A guess based on emotional prejudice, and you have never even met the man. It isn't evidence and it isn't fact. Why can't Will Graham be the copycat killer?"

"Because..." Sherlock felt a terrible weight on his shoulders. "Because he couldn't have made that phone call to Garret Jacob Hobbs. The physical opportunity was slim, but not impossible. Yet, the stage his encephalitis is in now, and the rate at which it's progressed, means at that time he hadn't contracted the disease yet. He had no motive to aid Hobbs. He wasn't a killer then."

Sherlock grew very still, feeling the oppressive weight grow in his chest. "He isn't a killer now."

Mycroft said nothing, but gave Sherlock a slow nod. Sherlock looked desperately to Molly Hooper, who had been quiet this whole time. She must have been here in this room for a reason. "What does he do with the organs?"

Molly shook her head patiently. He wasn't asking the right question. "Did he use a scalpel, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

Molly persisted. "What else could he have used?"

Her hand strayed by the wood block of kitchen knives on the counter. Sherlock felt weak at the knees and gave her a desperate, pleading smile as if to ask her to reassure him that it was all a joke. She could offer him no comfort.

"You need to ask a chef."

Sherlock doubled over, sliding to the floor and breaking into peals of helpless, manic laughter. He couldn't handle it, and he succumbed to the bizarre giggles bubbling up and forcing their way out. He pounded himself hard on the chest to try and shock his system into restarting. He knew he was veering close to the line between laughter and screaming.

Sherlock gripped the kitchen counter with white knuckles and pulled himself back up to his feet. He heard the sound of a knife against a wooden cutting board. Mycroft and Molly were gone. Instead, Hannibal Lecter stood by the kitchen counter, breaking down what looked like a pig's haunch.

"What kind of knife could make that clean of a cut?"

Hannibal pursed his lips as he considered. "Several. The easiest to use would be a sharpened filleting knife of high quality steel."

Hannibal severed the strong tendons within the haunch, placed his knife down and then gripped both ends of the haunch. In one swift motion he pulled down hard, snapping the bone at the joint. Sherlock watched, nauseated and mesmerized.

"Why were Mckinley's shoulders broken at the bone?"

Hannibal picked up the knife again, severing the haunch into two halves with a few, powerful chops. "It's part of the process of breaking down cuts of meat. Allows easier access to the sweetbreads."

Sherlock's mouth felt stretched apart as it cracked into a queer smile. He felt no mirth, only that manic bubble of laughter or screaming threatening to spill forth again. He didn't want to ask, but he had to. He always had to. "Jack Crawford described the Chesapeake Ripper as killing in 'sounders'."

Hannibal wiped his hands on a towel and brought his full attention to Sherlock. "A sounder is a herd of boar. It's also a butcher's term to mean three pigs. Three victims per cycle."

Hannibal reached behind him and brought forth a Trillium bloom. He tucked the white flower into the breast pocket of Sherlock's coat. He then waved a gracious arm to the oven and gripped the door handle.

"Would you like to see what's for dinner?"

Sherlock shook his head, but the door was already opening. He felt a gust of hot air on his face, the growing darkness as the mouth of the oven yawned open...

Ring!

Sherlock came to violently, almost falling over. His heart was hammering in his chest as he fumbled for the source of the sound. It was his phone. He looked at the screen and saw that it was Dr. Alana Bloom. He quickly took the call, pausing for a moment to let out a shaky breath, before bringing the receiver to his ear.

"Dr. Bloom."

"Who is this?"

Sherlock licked his dry lips, his nerves swiftly returning to him. "Someone who knows Will Graham is innocent."

There was a pause on the other line. Then a tight, strained reply. "How did you get this number? Are you with the press?"

"Dr. Bloom, I am a consulting detective. You don't need to believe me. But it is singularly important that you tell me what Will Graham thinks of Hannibal Lecter."

There was another pause. Sherlock was afraid that Dr. Bloom would hang up on him, but as the silence stretched on he knew he had her. When she spoke again her voice spoke to volumes of pain, confusion, betrayal and a smothered hope.

"They were close. Now Will thinks Hannibal framed him. He's confused and in denial. He's been saying Hannibal is the real copycat killer and even-"

"-the Chesapeake Ripper."

"How-" She sounded spooked.

"Thank you, Dr. Bloom."

She hung up quickly, and Sherlock slid his phone back into his pocket. He felt like he had been frozen, but the paralysis was lifting from his body bit by bit.

Will Graham had solved this case long before he did.

A/N

Not too much to say about this instalment, other than thank you for those who have been reading and reviewing! You guys are the best and make my day. :D

Hope you've all been enjoying, cheers!