'I'm close, Mrs Hudson, I can feel it.' Mr Thompson appears in the sitting room in a flash of light, "The Reichenbach Fall" held tightly in his hand. 'There was a warm mug of tea left on the kitchen table. It was warm!' He sits down beside Mrs Hudson, blinking excitedly. 'I have a good feeling about this one.' He taps the book resting on his knees.

Mrs Hudson glances at the calendar, featuring snapshots of cats just before they sneeze, (this Audrey really was an odd young woman) and frowns.

'But that doesn't make sense… If she went in during the Blind Banker case and has made it all the way to the Reichenbach Fall... Why those five novels take place over the course of nearly two years!' She points to the cat calendar pinned to the kitchen door. 'I've only been here a week!'

Mr Thompson nods understandingly. 'Yes but time works very differently in the real world. In a fictional universe, time slows down. The time-flow in a narrative depends on the speed of the events and, you and I both know that Sherlock Holme's does not live a sedentary life.'

'Besides, do you really think we wouldn't have heard from Aud's mother by now if she'd really been gone for almost two whole years?' He asks incredulously, then knits his brows together in worry. 'Although if this goes on for much longer, I'll have to let her know at some point.'

Mrs Hudson pats his arm comfortingly. 'Does she know, your wife? About your...' She struggles to find a suitable word. 'Your special abilities?'

'God no.' Mr Thompson looks stricken. 'If she knew, Aud would never have been allowed to live in Ireland with me.' He rubs his eyes wearily, and sighs. 'God, I miss her.'

'There, there, Mr Thompson. We'll find her. I know we will.' She nods her head firmly, rises from the sofa and toddles over to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

'C'mon, Aud.' Mr Thompson leafs through the pages of the book. 'Give your old dad a sign.'

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

James Moriarty sits sulking in his office, nursing a bandaged hand. Shortly following his afternoon tea with Sherlock, and the unexpected appearance of Hannibal Lecter, he had raced home in a fit of (albeit concealed) rage and "accidently" punched Sebastian Moran in the face when he poured him a glass of whiskey, not brandy.

Moran, as it later transpired, had had a steel implant fixed to his jaw after a particularly nasty blow to the bone during one of his first ever missions. His opponent had completely shattered the left side of his jaw, rendering it useless.

After an hour of screaming abuse at his mortified henchman, Moriarty stormed to his office to plot a dastardly plan.

'Bloody Scandinavian giant.' He grumbles. 'He's not called a SNIPER'S DREAM for nothing!' shouting the last part in hopes that Moran will hear.

How dare that little witch try and beat him at his own game. And turning to Hannibal Lecter, of all people, for help? He snorts loudly, finding the situation rather amusing now that he's calmed down. He unlocks the drawer under his desk and pulls out his copy of "Paradise Lost", stroking its spine.

'You'll be the first to go, Sherlock.' He says darkly. 'And I'll make sure your little play-thing witnesses your fall first-hand.'

He sets the leather-bound book on the table, drumming his fingers against the cover.

'Oh Audrey, you should really learn to mind your own business.'

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

'Right.' I huff, slightly out of breath after reaching the top of the stairs to the flat. 'The cannibal is in the sack…ibal.'

Sherlock glances up from his laptop and blinks owlishly.

'Hannibal is at his old house.' I explain. Sherlock smiles distractedly and returns to his work.

I had escorted Dr Lecter to the house he had rented in Kensington during his time with Moriarty. His three-storey house was to be as expected; posh, pristine, and private. He had offered to cook me dinner by way of thanking me for accompanying him, but I politely declined.

For obvious bleedin' reasons.

'You know, there's something that's not quite adding up.' I plop down onto the sofa, beside Sherlock.

'Hmm?'

'Where does Hannibal get all of this money to buy a house in Kensington, if he doesn't technically exist?' I stare at Sherlock wordlessly for a good minute, who has gracefully divided his attention between me and his laptop.

We've taken to doing that a lot, recently, just staring at each other. Not in a romantic, gooey sort of way, but more in an "I feel really comfortable around you" way. Which is nice.

He responds after a moment's silence. 'Maybe a fictional character is fictional no matter where they are. Therefore he does technically exist. At least here, anyway.'

'So he's real… but in a fictional way?'

Sherlock bows his head in agreement. 'Yes. How paradoxical. And I can certainly imagine Dr Lecter keeping offshore bank accounts in London.'

'Mmm.' I hum absentmindedly. Sherlock stretches his arm behind my shoulders, pulling me in closer to him. He continues to type at lightning-fast speed with only one hand.

'I made some interesting discoveries about Hannibal's stay with Moriarty all those months ago.'

'Is that so?' Sherlock mumbles, eyes trained to the computer screen.

'Apparently,' I begin, tossing my hair and activating gossip-mode, 'They had a…falling-out, shall we say. Moriarty kept using Hannibal as this sort of secret weapon to threaten his enemies. The good doctor got tired of Moriarty's antics, overheard one of the kitchen staff calling him "Moriarty's pet", and… well killed and displayed said kitchen staff.'

'Displayed?' Sherlock asks.

'Displayed.'

'How so?'

I shudder slightly, recalling just how in-depth Dr Lecter's description of his "masterpiece" (his words, not mine) was. 'I'll save you the grisly details but… You know the way rotisserie chickens are –'

'Ahh.' Sherlock interrupts, disgust lacing his voice. 'Lovely.'

'Yeah well… Moriarty soon got gist of Hannibal's "eat the rude" motto.' I grin at Sherlock excitedly. 'You know, I think Moriarty's almost afraid of him. Did you see how pale he went when he caught a glimpse of Hannibal last week? You'd swear someone had machine-washed his Westwood suit.' I shake my head and chuckle at my frankly astounding wit.

Sherlock, however, turns to me with worry creasing his brow. 'In that case, I don't know how comfortable I am with you being alone with Hannibal Lecter. Underneath that cool, calm exterior, lies an entirely morally-skewed man.'

'Morally-skewed, eh?' I place a finger to my lips in mock-concentration. 'Now who does that remind me of?'

Sherlock scowls. 'I have no idea who you're talking about.' He replies in a clipped voice.

I kneel on the seat and turn towards him, wrapping my arms around his neck and noisily planting kisses on his cheek.

Boy do I sure know how to drive the fella's wild.

'Just…oomph…kidding.' I struggle against Sherlock's violent writhing. Clasping his face in both of my hands, I look him straight in the eyes and say, 'If you were a cereal, you'd be special flakes. Kellog's, mind you. Not the cheap Tesco knock-off.'

'Thank…you.' Sherlock gives me the type of smile one might give a toddler if they were to gift you a pebble.

Just as I snort out an extremely unattractive laugh, there comes three sharp raps on the door and in strides Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan. They both stop and stare at us, taking in Sherlock's arm wrapped around my body. Sally's eyes narrow slightly.

'…Yes?' Sherlock inquires after a minute's silence. (And I am pleased to inform you, dear Reader, that his hands stays firmly curled around my shoulder, holding me close to him.)

Lestrade eyes us carefully, sniffs, and waves his rolled-up folder at us accusingly. 'So are you two like…a thing, now?'

'I don't believe that's any of your business.' Sherlock replies haughtily while I nod my head enthusiastically. Lestrade's face split's into a wide grin. 'Well about bloody time!' He nudges Sally who throws a filthy look at him. He winks at me, muttering nonsensically, although I do believe I catch the word "snakes".

Clearing his throat, he unrolls the document. 'Anyway, onto more sombre news. There's been a kidnapping.'

Sherlock looks mildly interested, and quirks his eyebrow.

'Rufus Bruhl's kids, Claudette and Max.'

'The US Ambassador?' Lestrade nods at Sherlock in response. 'Interesting.' He pulls his arm away from me and begins typing furiously.

I hear the front door open and slam shut, and recognise John's heavy tread up the stairs. 'What's goin' on here?' He asks as he pushes the door open.

'Kidnapping.' Sherlock replies absentmindedly. My eyes zoom straight to John's hand, in which is clasped a thick, brown envelope, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp.

Good. The sooner we get these cases over and done with, the better. I had come up with some vague ideas on how to outsmart Moriarty's "final problem", most of them including locking John and Sherlock in a panic room while Hannibal Lecter and I deal with the Consulting Criminal.

Lestrade hands the document over to John. 'They're at St Aldate's. It's a posh boarding place down in Surrey.' He turns to Sherlock. 'The school broke up; all the other boarders went home. Just a few kids remained, including those two.'

'The kids have vanished.'

I roll my eyes at Sally's dramatics.

'The ambassador's asked for you personally, Sherlock.' Lestrade faces Sherlock, who has already jumped up onto his feet and is heading out of the door with his coat over his arm.

'The Reichenbach Hero.' Sally quips in a nasty tone, causing Sherlock to hesitate momentarily at the door.

This bitch.

Lestrade, being the pure, good soul that he is, lightens the mood. 'Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity!'

All three of them trail out after Sherlock. I hang back so that I'm walking beside Sally. I put my arm on hers, stopping her mid-stairway. Looking her evenly in the eye, I make sure I have her full attention.

'Sherlock's a good man, you know that.' I say carefully. 'I know you and Anderson don't always see eye-to-eye with him, but he would never lead you or any of the other members of the police team astray.'

She squints suspiciously at me. 'What's all this about, Audrey?'

I glance at the open door and lead Sally slowly down the stairs after the others. 'I… I don't really know how to explain it, Sally, but there will soon come a time when Sherlock will need all of the support that he can get from his friends.' She scoffs at that last word.

'Please, Sally.' I implore her. 'If not for him, then do it for me and John. Please.'

Sally's eyes soften momentarily, but she remains silent. She gives me a final, questioning look and sweeps past me out the door.

I sigh, my shoulders drooping. Well, you tried your best, Aud.

*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*

John, Sherlock and I sit, slightly squashed, in the back of Greg's car. The journey to Surrey was a silent affair, but not uncomfortably so. We round the corner of the long driveway leading up to the boarding school, tailing two other squad cars. My phone dings a message as Greg parks his car. I pull it out from my coat pocket; it reads:

Afternoon tea at 4pm?

H.

Sherlock glances down at the screen, double-takes, and then snatches the phone from my hand.

'This better not be who I think it is.'

I scoff and try to grab the phone back, but he's already leapt out of the car. 'Sherlock, I told you!' Lestrade looks over at us from the other two police cars, so I lower my voice. 'He won't do anything to me.' Sherlock eyes me, unconvinced, but hands the mobile phone back. I reach out and squeeze his hand, and his expression softens. 'I'm his only hope for returning back to his own story. He's not going jeopardise that.'

John notices our stance and trots over. 'What's the problem?'

Sherlock's gentle smile turns into a full-blown Joker grin. 'Did Audrey not tell you? She's read Hannibal Lecter out of his novel. Again.'

'Yes but it was my decision this time!'

John looks at the both of us, mouth agape. 'She did what?'

I tsk loudly and glare up at Sherlock, the sun making his hair glow like a goddam halo around his head. 'Cheers, mate.' He smirks, and grabs on tighter to my hand when I try to pull it away.

'And she's going to meet him for tea this afternoon.'

'She's what?' John splutters.

'You know I'm standing right here?' I throw a dirty look at Sherlock. 'Why don't you just launch me under the bus while you're at it?' I turn to John, ready to learn him a thang. 'Dr Lecter trusts me, and we need someone like him on our side.' He raises one eyebrow, and I exclaim frustratedly, 'C'mon, when have I fucked up anything before?'

We all look at each other incredulously, before bursting into peals of laughter.

'Ayyyy.' I point at Sherlock and John, the latter of which is wiping away tears from his eyes.

'Oh, that was funny.' He chuckles, but stops abruptly when Lestrade hurries over to us looking severely pissed-off.

'Need I remind you that this is a kidnapping that we're dealing with?' He hisses. 'Pull yourselves together.' He looks at Sherlock and beckons for him to follow inside the building.

John and I trail after them, heads ducked liked scolded school children, avoiding eye contact for fear of lapsing back into uncontrollable giggles.

Once inside the dormitories, Sherlock has reverted to Mr Stealth and Skill, examining every inch of the room with his trusty magnifying glass. He drops to his knees and peers under the bed.

I quietly enjoy the view.

'They were the only two sleeping on this floor. Absolutely no sign of a break-in.' Lestrade explains as Sherlock pulls out a hockey stick from under the door and inspects it closely, brandishing it like a sword and whirling it around the place.

'I don't think the intruder clobbered them with a stick.' I smirk, but am secretly loath to put an end to Sherlock's manly sword-wielding stature. 'Maybe something's in this trunk?' I point to the large chest at the other side of the room, impatient for this case to be solved. As expected, Sherlock rummages around the truck and pulls out a large, brown envelope with a seal identical to the one John held in his hand back at the flat. Inside the envelope is a copy of Grimm's Fairy tales. Sherlock stares at it for a moment, evidently loses interest, and tosses it back into the chest.

'No!' I exclaim, rushing over to retrieve the novel. Sherlock looks at me questioningly, but says nothing.

Even though he knows that I know how every case will turn out, he never asks for hints, always wanting to solve the mystery for himself. He's a lone wolf, through and through.

I should really consider myself #blessed to be shown affection by him. Sometimes, I do worry that he'll lose interest in me, or that our relationship is just an attempt to come across as more "normal".

But then he does little things, like pulling me in close to him while he sleeps, or absentmindedly playing with my hair when I sit at the foot of his armchair reading or knitting, which make me believe that maybe, he needs me as much as I need him.

'We're going to check the other bedroom.' Lestrade calls to us as he and John leave the room. I glance behind to make sure we're alone, then quickly pull Sherlock down and kiss him. He responds enthusiastically, albeit a bit surprised, cupping my face in his hands and stroking my cheek.

'What was that for?' He murmurs, straightening himself back upright.

'Why, do I need a reason to kiss you?'

He chuckles quietly and leads me from the room.

We join the rest of the investigation team in the boy, Max's, room, where Lestrade and his colleagues pretend to look busy while Sherlock does all of the work. Sherlock walks over to stand beside the only bed in the room, which stands opposite the door and its frosted glass pane. He looks towards the door while gesturing down to the bed. 'The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door.'

Lestrade stares at Sherlock blankly. 'Okay so…'

'So someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognise; an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon.' Leaving us inside the room, Sherlock goes outside the door and pulls it closed. He then raises his hand and points his fingers as if they're a gun, demonstrating how it would be seen through the frosted glass. It takes all of my willpower not to hum the James Bond motif.

Sherlock pushes the door open and comes back into the room. 'What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?' He walks around the bed, looking at the boy's possessions. This little boy; this particular little boy…' He looks at the bedside table and points towards it. '…who reads all of those spy books…what would he do?

John's eyes widen as he catches up with Sherlock's train of thought. 'He'd leave a sign?'

Sherlock nods at him and starts…sniffing noisily. If I didn't find this lunatic so attractive, I'd probably laugh.

He picks up a cricket bat leaning against the nearby cupboard and sniffs along both sides of it. Putting the bat down again he squats and sniffs around the bedside table.

Now this I have to laugh at, because it literally looks like he's sniffing lines of cocaine. 'Someone's turnin' up tonight eh?' I nudge John, who quickly shakes his head. I join in, shaking my head as well. 'Yeah… that was…that was very inappropriate.'

Sherlock, who now vaguely resembles a bloodhound, suddenly reaches under the bed and picks up an almost empty glass bottle of linseed oil. He looks up sharply.

'Get Anderson.'

…..

'…Well I'm not going to get him!' I burst out angrily after neither Lestrade nor John make any moves to leave the room. 'Greg, you go.'

'Why do I have to go get him?!'

'Because it's your job, Greg.'

Lestrade rolls his eyes and huffs out of the room. 'I think you've spoiled him.' I turn and say to Sherlock.

'Hm.' John nods in agreement. 'He's gotten rather used to the idea of things being done for him.'

Sherlock's face softens into a smirk, which immediately turns sour the minute Anderson (or Randall, as I like to call him) walks in the room. 'Get the lights.' He snaps at him, eyes locked on the glass bottle. Anderson sighs loudly and flicks the switch. John and I close the shutters that are still allowing streams of light in the room.

'Over here.' Sherlock beckons Anderson to his side of the bedroom. 'Give me your ultraviolet light.' Anderson remains motionless.

'Please.' Sherlock says exasperatedly.

Anderson trots over and shines the light on the wall beside Sherlock, revealing a hidden message. "HELP US", the boy had written on the wall.

'Clever little lad.' John says, impressed.

'Yes but it still doesn't lead us to the kidnapper.' Anderson intones.

'Brilliant, Anderson.' Sherlock replies lightly.

'Really?'

'Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot.'

*Moment of silence for ….* Shit what's Anderson's first name? *... for…Anderson Anderson.*

Sherlock brushes past the seething forensic specialist and into the hallway, shining the light on a trail of footsteps. 'The boy was made to walk ahead of them.'

'On…tiptoe?' John offers, examining the shape of some of the smaller footprints.

Sherlock nods in approval. 'Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head.'

I hurry to shut all of the blinds on the windows, plunging the corridor into darkness and revealing more footsteps. Sherlock glances up and winks at me, a grin forming on the corner of his mouth.

I got you boo.

He walks slowly down the corridor, following the footsteps with Anderson trailing along beside him shining another ultraviolet light. 'The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck.'

A few yards along the corridor the glowing footsteps stop. 'That's the end of it. We don't know where they went from here.' Anderson says matter-of-factly, as though imparting great wisdom to us mere mortals. 'Tells us nothing after all.'

Sherlock stops and grinds his jaw. I can tell he's really struggling against the urge to smack Anderson around his smug face. 'You're right, Anderson. Nothing.' He pauses for dramatic effect, takes a breath and lists off rapidly, 'Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace.'

Anderson opens his mouth to retort, but I interrupt him, losing patience with the insufferable man. 'Anderson if you have something to say, raise your hand….and place it over your mouth.'

John chortles loudly at this, then composes himself and looks apologetically at Anderson, who narrows his eyes dangerously and storms back into the bedroom. John hurries after him, wearing a worried expression on his face.

I realise that I've probably now made Anderson and Sally even less likely to help us, but that git was just asking to be roasted.

Sherlock bends down to examine the footsteps closely, grinning from ear to ear. 'You truly are one of a kind, my Audrey.'

'Thank you.' I smile and pull my phone out of my coat pocket. 'Shit' I mutter under my breath when I see the time.

'Problem?' Sherlock asks from his squatted position on the floor.

'I'm late for my date with the cannibal.'

Hello everyone!

Thank you to my lovely readers for leaving a comment (especially the one's I can't reply to) or following the story! I know what you're all thinking: "Another chapter? So soon?" Well, I told you I had some extra time over Christmas break and I wasn't going to break my word.

Hope you enjoy the update, let me know what you think!

Until next time. x