Metamorphosis

"As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect."
― Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

Sherlock Holmes hadn't donned a disguise in some time, and he enjoyed the process. He exchanged his slacks for an ill-fitting pair of the heavy trousers worn by the guards at the FBI holding facility, and he kept his white dress shirt, but he covered it with a boxy jacket and put a badge around his neck. A pair of large, square spectacles made his face less recognizable, and the person that peered back at him from the hotel room mirror at least held the potential to seem like someone other than himself.

He was aware of the risk his mission entailed, and as a result, he hadn't told his flatmate about it, electing instead to do his work late in the night. Dr. Bloom, also, had no idea what he intended. She would have been furious, but he didn't care. Better furious than implicated in something that might wreck her already-unstable career. Her unwavering support for Will Graham had already, he knew, jeopardized her credibility in the eyes of some of her colleagues. Being party to a late-night attempt to secretly gain access to the prisoner wasn't something she needed against her record.

He didn't mind the risk. He'd done plenty of more dangerous things in his career, and he'd reached the point in his investigation when he felt it necessary to speak to Will Graham, but he was not yet ready to reveal his involvement in the case to the outside world.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, Holmes went downstairs where a prearranged taxi was waiting for him. He gave the address, and the driver, who seemed twitchy enough to be high, gave him a strange look. "That's government property," he said.

"I'm aware of that," said Holmes in a flat American accent. "I'm about to start a job there." He knew he didn't have to explain to the cabbie, but he thought he might as well go over his cover out loud.

"Ok, Man," said the driver, and the rest of the twenty minute ride was silent.

When they reached the entry gate, Holmes got out of the cab, paid the driver, and used a stolen barcode to gain entrance. For the door itself, he used another card, also stolen. He'd made sure no one would get in trouble for the unauthorized usage, even if he was found out. The codes belonged to recently-retired agents, but had not yet been deactivated.

Once inside, Holmes was confronted by a night guard at a desk. The man looked sleepy, but he perked up when the detective entered. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Name's Frampton," said Holmes in his Midwestern voice. "I was sent to cover for Allen."

This had taken some doing on the detective's part. He'd hacked the FBI site and found that Allen had requested time off for his honeymoon, and it appeared that his absence was being covered by a variety of agents from other postings who didn't necessarily know each other. This particular night, his replacement was supposed to be an Agent Donnelly, but Holmes had substituted his own name instead on the website, then made a fake call to the agent's home to relieve her of duty.

The tired desk agent clicked into his computer, looked at the fake identification card around Holmes's neck, and nodded. "All right. You know where to go. I probably shouldn't say this, but you can get a nap if you like. The only one back there is Will Graham, and he's about as harmless as a kitten. He's supposed to have done a bunch of people in, but I reckon if he did it, he was in some kind of manic phase or something that he sure as heck ain't in now."

"Thanks for the info," said Holmes, hating his own phrasing passionately but trying to sound as American as possible.

"You bet," said the guard, nodding to the detective, who had started down the hallway.

Holmes considered it extremely fortunate that Graham was the only one in holding. That meant a small amount of staff and less likelihood that he would be overheard. In fact, as he made his way toward the man's cell, he didn't even meet another agent until he was nearly there.

"Finally." It was a woman this time, young and as sleepy as the desk guard had been. "I'm ready to get home to my bed." She handed Holmes a keycard. "This unlocks the cell, but I don't know why you'd need to. He never does anything. You can also open it electronically with code 8384. If Warren didn't tell you, you can go in the break room over there (she gestured to her right) and grab a nap. Graham won't give you any trouble. He gets visitors sometimes—important people, but they don't come during this shift. If you need anything, call Warren. You're the only ones here for the graveyard shift, except Morgan. He does security at the back door."

"Thank you," said Holmes, forcing himself to smile widely.

As the girl walked away, the detective made a show of doing what she had suggested, but he lingered just inside the door of the break room until her footfall had died away. Then, as if he was used to doing so, he walked confidently out of the room, down the hall, and made a right to the place where Will Graham was incarcerated.

Graham was asleep when Holmes reached the cell, and he hated to wake him—his face was pale, and he looked thin and worn, as if he needed all the rest he could get. Still, time was limited, and the detective had a mission. He took the keycard and unlocked the cell. That, he knew, would be logged electronically, and he counted on his ability to convince Graham to give a good reason for his entrance in the morning. Thankfully, his unauthorized prowling on the FBI website had assured him that the individual cells in the building were not under constant surveillance by either video or audio device. He found it odd, but the American law enforcement agencies could be strikingly behind the times.

At his entrance, Graham stirred and sat up, looking confusedly at the detective. "Can I help you?" he asked, putting a hand through his tousled curls.

"No," said Holmes, "but I have very solid assurance that I may be able to help you." He'd resumed his normal speaking voice, and he removed his jacket, badge, and spectacles.

"You're—Sherlock Holmes," said the other man, peering at him uncertainly, as if he thought he might be a hallucination.

"You've heard of me, then. That's convenient," said the detective.

"Are you really here?"

Holmes might have answered something acerbic, but the empath's tone was pitiful. "Yes," he said. "To make a long enough story short, your friend Dr. Bloom has retained me to prove your innocence."

"Alana?"

"Yes, that's the Bloom I mean," said the detective, beginning to wish he'd brought coffee to jerk Graham more quickly from sleep.

"Do you believe her?" asked the pale man, sitting up straighter.

"Yes," said Holmes, "but not because of intuition or anything as nonsensical as that. I've been to your house and the Shrike's cabin, and I've researched Dr. Lecter. I've come to you because I believe you can help me. I know that you think you use empathy to solve cases, but what you call empathy, I call the instant assimilation of details that comprise a whole so complete they allow you to reconstruct the mind of someone else."

"That's fair," Graham answered drily.

"What I want is for you to explain Lecter to me and give me enough to go on that I can ascertain his guilt or innocence," said the detective. "I know you believe in his guilt, but I can't take anyone's word for it. I have to have proof."

"I've told lots of people what I suspect," answered Will, "but none of them could make sense of it."

"I'm not like anyone else," answered Holmes, taking a seat on the end of Graham's cot. "I promise that if you tell your story once more, the rewards will be far greater than they have been."

"Fine," said Graham, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. Holmes smelled something very faint and made a mental note to ask Dr. Bloom if anyone had ever checked her friend for encephalitis.