Doctors

"We are ever striving after what is forbidden, and coveting what is denied us."

Ovid, Metamorphosis

Dr. Du Maurier looked forward to seeing Sigerson. Their previous session, in which he had revealed details of his past trauma, had signaled great progress. The patient was opening up to her, and she did not, in retrospect, regret opening up to him. Sometimes that was what it took for progress to occur. Hannibal might not—Dr. Lecter might not like that she had spoken about the incident, but he did not need to know.

The young man was as punctual as ever, and Bedelia answered the door to find him dressed in a suit and without his violin. "Good afternoon," she said, smiling. She did not remark on his attire, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Du Maurier," he answered.

There was something different, she realized. His voice was more assured, and so was his way of walking. She was skilled in the art of nonverbal communication, and to a trained eye, he was like a different person—like someone confident to the point of being dangerous, someone in control. He sat down, and she took her seat opposite, trying to understand what had effected his transformation.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said abruptly. "You may have heard of me. Your patient, Dr. Lecter, wrote a book about a case I solved."

"Why the charade, then?" she asked, as realization and then irritation at the deception washed over her.

"Purely for investigative purposes," he answered, sitting forward in his chair. "You know, I'm sure, about Will Graham."

"Yes," she answered, "it's unfortunate."

"Not so much unfortunate as intentionally malevolent," said her former patient, completely in his element. "I've been investigating you, and I now know you're uninvolved. I can't say the same for Lecter."

"Lecter?" she said, surprised. "He's bent over backwards to help Graham, in spite of Will's delusions."

"I won't waste time refuting incorrect assumptions with words," said Holmes, who now seemed about ten years older than he had in his Sigerson guise. "I've uncovered a plot, and it bears Lecter's unmistakable fingerprints." He produced a file folder, which he handed to Bedelia. His long fingers, she noticed, trembled no longer.

"You will find, in here, proof of a brain scan performed on Graham several weeks ago at Lecter's request, a scan that clearly showed encephalitis. Everyone, including Will, was instead informed that his brain showed no abnormalities whatsoever. You will also find a drawing Graham made of a clock—Lecter has several of these; my associate was only able to nab one during an appointment. According to his account, Lecter told him he'd drawn them perfectly."

He fell silent, and Du Maurier looked through the file, her heart sinking further and further as she realized that he had been entirely truthful about its contents. "This is bad," she said, "very bad." She was no fool. She liked Hannibal, but she would not let herself be blinded to the obvious. Her debt to her friend and patient did not supersede her basic morality.

"Why are you showing me this?" she finally asked.

"I need your help," said Holmes. "I have enough evidence to prove that Lecter is messing about with Graham's brain, but not enough to completely implicate him in the murders. You do realize, I take it, that this points that way?"

"Yes," Bedelia answered softly, pressing her fingernails into the arm of her chair. "I—I think I should have known, but Hannibal is an extremely charismatic man."

"And one to whom you owe a debt, possibly your life," Holmes finished for her.

Du Maurier smiled wryly. "That was very clever, what you did during your last visit. I had no idea I was being played. You're as good as Lecter is."

The detective pressed his fingertips together. "That's what I'm counting on."


Hannibal Lecter watched the clock as five minutes passed, then ten. Doyle wasn't coming. It was unlike him to be late, even less like him not to call and reschedule. He wasn't that kind of man. He was meticulous, conscientious. When a patient did something out of character, that was the time to wonder and consider.


"And I Just. Want. To. Know. What. Is. Going. On." John was in one of his moods, perched on an uncomfortable Holiday Inn desk chair, with his ever-present mug of tea in his left hand, his right punctuating each word by punching the air. The doctor was usually good-humored, if grumpy, but occasionally he took as much exception to being kept in the dark as Dr. Bloom did.

Sherlock shook his head. "Quiet, John. I need quiet."

"They why didn't you send me to my appointment?" The detective could tell that the edge in his friend's voice was such that he wouldn't be put off, so he turned around on his perch at the center of his hotel bed, setting his laptop down next to him.

"I'm at the point where I need someone who actually knows Lecter to do the digging," he said succinctly. "It no longer serves my—our—purposes for Doyle to exist."

"And you think Du Maurier will actually help you?" the doctor asked.

"Of course," said Holmes. "She feels indebted to Lecter and perhaps slightly afraid of him, but I accurately sized her up as retaining a moral compass." He spoke quickly, begrudging the wasted time it took to explain himself.

"Of course, I would know that if you'd told me anything about your appointment today," said Watson, huffing and pulling on the edges of his pullover.

"Perhaps you should go meet with Dr. Bloom," the detective rejoined, trying to conjure a method of simultaneously placating his associate and earning himself a chance for uninterrupted quiet.

"Fine," his flatmate said, standing up and putting his hand through his hair. "I'll do your work for you." His attempt to project irritation failed, and Sherlock was well aware that he was pleased to be given the assignment.