Sandpaper

"Fas est ab hoste doceri.
One should learn even from one's enemies."
― Ovid, Metamorphoses

Alana Bloom was not a morning person. In school, she'd basically slept through any class that took place before 10:00 a.m. These days, she didn't take appointments or classes until 9:30, and she made sure to drink copious amounts of coffee before that time.

8:00 a.m. Will Graham had better be thankful for this some day she groused, trudging up to the door of the IHOP nearest her house. She pulled her trenchcoat tighter against the wind and checked her reflection in the window. She looked passable, if grumpy.

"Good morning, Dr. Bloom," said Sherlock Holmes's short biographer as she entered. He stood up from a table on the right side of the room and smoothly pulled out a chair for her. The detective stayed seated, staring at his phone.

"Morning," she said, grateful that the two men had already acquired a pot of coffee. She poured a full mug and didn't speak again until she'd drunk half of it black.

"Well—," hedged Alana, unsure how to begin.

"Bedelia Du Maurier is attracted to Hannibal Lecter; she's possibly in a romantic relationship with him. Her reason for taking a sabbatical from active practice has something to do with him, though the specifics are as yet unknown to me. Lecter has a fondness for violent and provocative artwork. He was most likely manipulating Graham, though I haven't isolated the reason. I'd like to see Graham's house and the cabin that belonged to the serial killer—the Shrike—next, please. No accompaniment will be necessary, and I can be in and out without making my presence known. That establishes our current status, I believe."

Alana stared at Sherlock Holmes, trying to process the extraordinarily fast pace of his speech and the string of statements she hadn't expected. "Um—," she started to feel irritated. "Hannibal? Why in the world are you investigating him? I knew you'd have to meet him at some point, but this is ridiculous. Is this some kind of personal vendetta against the man who wrote a book about you? When are you going to meet with Will Graham?" She leaned across the table, her eyes drilling into the detective.

"Nonsense," said Holmes coolly. "Dr. Lecter and I have yet to meet. You either desire my services, or you do not, Dr. Bloom. I require complete autonomy." He pursed his lips, clearly unwilling to reveal more.

The psychiatrist sat back in her rickety plastic chair and folded her arms. It was all too familiar, this situation. He was like some kind of British Jack Crawford, with the savantness of Will Graham thrown in. "Fine," she said, rolling her eyes. It was juvenile, but she didn't care. "Thanks for the coffee."

She left the restaurant, wishing she'd slept in after all. Just before she reached her car, though, Dr. Watson came jogging over, looking concerned. "I'm sorry about Sherlock," he panted.

She stopped in front of her driver's side door. "Yes?"

"He's usually right, though," the trim man said apologetically. Alana shook her head, but she couldn't help half-smiling.

The drive home was frustrating. For the first five minutes, she stewed in her feelings. After that, as always, she started to use her thoughts to sort them out. Among all the general feelings of irritation at morning light, Sherlock Holmes's dissmissiveness, and the investigation not going the way she'd expected, there was a very specific and highly unpleasant impression. She forced herself to hone in on it; she'd long since learned that there was nothing to be gained by ignoring negative feelings.

What if Hannibal is involved?

The truth of her own thoughts slammed into her conscious mind, momentarily taking her breath. Surely, it was insane to even consider it. But the thought existed, placed in her head by the earnestness of Will Graham and the certainty of Sherlock Holmes, one man she adored, and the other she was beginning to loathe. But she couldn't shake her doubts.

That drive home felt like the beginning of something; she just didn't know what.