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A sometimes devastating character flaw of Sherlock Holmes is that, contrary to his reputation, he can, at times, be completely oblivious to his surroundings. Engrossed as he was by his phone, the only connection to a string of murders an ocean away, he managed to insult the host of the FBI dinner party twice before something in the man's behavior caught his undivided attention. By the time Sherlock actually looked at the psychiatrist they were already seated for dinner and he immediately saw what was carefully hidden behind a paisley tie and 300 dollar haircut. The person seated at John Watson's shoulder was not a man. It was a carefully constructed facade, a well rehearsed stage show costumed to perfection. It was a wolf, leering out from underneath the flayed skin of countless sheep.
The detective quickly looked around at a the gathering of guests. John was smiling apologetically at the host, no doubt on Sherlock's behalf. Something was said by the somewhat disheveled agent seated to his own right that the detective’s overactive mind filtered out as unimportant. The host laughed politely as he went around the table, serving the evening's main course. The loud man who had sought his consultancy was hungrily watching the display unfold on his plate.
“Another work of art, Doctor Lecter” he exclaimed, clasping his large hands as the host finished his stalking round.
“Bon appetit.” Their hosts smiled pleasantly, his lips never parting to reveal the predator's grin beneath.
Oh. The food.
Sherlock looked down at the finely cut piece of meat resting on a delicately prepared spread of seasonal vegetables. He knew what it was. No one else seemed to. How was it possible, all of these professionals around and none of them notices the human cadaver on their plate and the monster in their midst. Sherlock looked up at John, already cutting into the meat, blood from it pouring out and mixing with the red wine vinaigrette.
He played every possible scenarios out in his head in rapid succession. All of them ended with Lecter hunting them down before Sherlock could do the reverse, because as Sherlock had seen him for what he was, the psychiatrist had seen him as well. For a moment their eyes locked over the dinner table and all of Lecter's pretense fell away in one gaze. He let Sherlock see what he was, showed the detective that he knew he knew. At the same time his immaculately dressed arm pressed against John's. A threat invisible to anyone but Sherlock. He would eagerly wager his own life against the intellect of a serial killer, but he found himself unwilling to wager Johns.
No choice then.
He heard his brother's disapproving voice as he put the first piece of expertly prepared human flesh into his mouth.
“Sentiment? Really, Sherlock.”
For the remainder of the dinner Sherlock made polite conversation and was by all accords a fantastic guest. He laughed at high-brow jokes about famous painters, made quips and when Lecter heard of Sherlock's fondness for the violin they spent the better part of an hours discussing classical music. This culminated in their host urging Sherlock to play something of his own composition, and Sherlock, to John's amazement, agreed. The gathering were treated to a heartbreaking nocturne, created during one of Sherlock's more gentle detoxings. Against the black marble fireplace of Doctor Lecters home the detective made an impressive silhouette in his well-tailored suit and dark curls tamed just enough to make it look effortless. The renowned psychiatrist watched him carefully, as if savoring each movement of the detectives long fingers against the strings.
John shrank away from the crowd, observing them from the far end of the room, trying desperately not to fidget with his ill-fitting dress shirt. He had hardly spoken to anyone, finding it hard to keep up with the conversation of the company. He was joined by Doctor Lecters friend, a profiler that looked more like a school teacher than an agent and smelled vaguely of wet dog.
“It can be a bit overbearing, these dinners.” he said as a way of greeting.
“Yeah, not really my crowd.” John smiled self-ironically “I’d be more at home with a pint rather than a… Bloody hell, I don’t even know what I’m drinking.”
“Some sort of sparkling wine.” the agent smiled back “Probably insanely expensive.”
“They seem to get along” John nodded at the well-dressed men who had been the centre of attention all night.
“Hannibal gets along with everyone.”
“Funny, Sherlock usually doesn’t get along with anyone.”
“It’s strange.” the profiler looked at the men, Sherlock now admiring the handiwork of the violin Lecter had lent him while the psychiatrist offered remarks on it’s origins “They’re so careful with each other. It looks like they’re dancing.” When John raised an eyebrow at him the man shook his head, smiling curley at his own expense “I’m sorry. Ignore me. My meds and wine generally doesn’t mix.”
As Sherlock and John walked back to the hotel room they shared when staying aboard, far away from the prying eyes of Scotland Yard, the detective was unusually quiet.
“Spit it out.” John demanded as they rounded a street corner “What the bloody hell was that all about?”
“What specifically?”
“All of it, Sherlock. You were pleasant.”
“I can be pleasant. If I feel like it.” The detective's voice was vacant, his attention miles away.
“That’s the thing though,you never feel like it. Yet here you are. The bell of the Baltimore ball!”
Sherlock didn’t reply as he busied himself frantically scrolling on his phone, no doubt hunting down clues for the murder case that to his enormous annoyance had popped up in London during their international flight. One of countless downsides to Sherlock being so bloody tall was that John could never peek at his phone without reaching to do so.
“You like him.” Sherlock missed a step, a rattled gesture that assured John of his point “You do. Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? He talks like you. He keeps up.”
John. Sweet, patient, protective, impossibly simple John. Of course that’s where his mind would go. If we was making the type of effort he’d just seen Sherlock make it would be a sign of attraction. This might be good. This might help him get out of explanations.
“He is rather interesting.” Sherlock admitted, and he wasn’t lying. Under any other circumstance the discovery of a serial killer of this caliber would have made him giddy.
“A bit posh though, don’t you think?” John continued, trying to hide the hurt feelings lingering behind the words.
“There is only so much paisly I can stomach during an evening.” Sherlock smiled in that secret way he reserved for John, and the doctor couldn’t tell that tonight he was faking it.
After changing out of his dinner jacket to a more appropriate darker suit Hannibal descended the staircase with the intent of breaking into the Kimpton Hotel only to find his intended victim comfortably seated at his kitchen counter.
“Mr. Holmes” he said with equal amount surprise and delight “You seem to have preempted my intentions.”
“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, Doctor Lecter, but I thought we should talk.” Sherlock drew out the last word, watching carefully as the cannibal made his way into the room.
“Under normal circumstances I am a private man and I do not appreciate visitors arriving unannounced.” Lecter pulled a kettle out from one of the many eerily clean cabinets and started to fill it with water as he spoke “However I can not bring myself to scold you for it. I hoped we would get some time to ourselves this evening, and here you are. It is like coming home to a set table.” The psychiatrist smiled and for once the expression was intended to be transparent, rather than illusive. “Tea?”
“Why not.”
Sherlock took inventory as the other man busied himself with the task of boiling water. He counted seven knives, including a meat cleaver, within Doctor Lecters reach. He deduced that at least three drawers held even more, one an especially fine set of japanese cooking knives too delicate to be put on display. Add to that the boiling water and assortment of heavy steel pans and the kitchen was a veritable armory.
“This is a tarry Lapsang souchong.” the cannibal produced a small steel jar from a shelf and opened it, filling the room with a pleasant smoky aroma “I think it will be to your liking. It’s dark, bitter and has a very rich aftertaste.”
“And rich history.” Sherlock remarked as the hot water poured over the large leaves. When boiling the tea smelled vaguely of a forest fire.
“Hopefully this particular tea will not find itself on the bottom of a harbor.” Lecter smiled as he sipped the brew from a delicate porcelain cup before handing it to Sherlock.
“Thank you, but there’s no need for that.” their fingers brushed lightly when Sherlock accepted what was offered “I would be sorely disappointed if you stooped to poison.”
“The lapsang is an interesting type of tea” Lecter deflected, his voice musing “It is immensely popular, yet enjoyed by few. An acquired taste, as the expression goes. However those who develop a taste for it, love it.” His eyes shimmered in the light of all the polished steel around him when he turned to Sherlock “It is almost abusive. A Stockholm-syndrome kind of tea. Why do you think I thought you might find it to your liking, Mr. Holmes?”
“I’m not here for a psychological evaluation.”
“Your friend, doctor Watson, was it? He seems more like an earl grey kind of man. Rather… plain.” Lecter studied Sherlock's reaction carefully over the counter top “ But I am sure he could learn to love a lapsang, if it was imposed upon him with some regularity.”
“As could your agent Graham, if it was forced down his throat with a handful of prescription drugs.” Sherlock bit and watched the words take effect as Lecter clenched his jaw.
Good.
He hadn’t misjudged the way Lecter's eyes kept drifting to the seemingly oblivious agent during the dinner. After carefully setting the cup down Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor without breaking eye contact. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and let it follow.
“Let’s get the formalities out of the way, shall we?” he said dryly, as he expertly undid the splendid cuff links Mycroft had given him three Christmases ago. He placed them next to the tea cup and stood up in one calculatedly slow motion, spreading his arms slightly.
Lecter watched him warily for a second before making his way around the counter top, pacing like a tiger around large prey. Standing face to face they were equally tall, but Lecter was ten years Sherlock's senior and made up the age difference is pure muscle. In a fist fight Sherlock might have a chance if Lecter never got his arms around him. The psychiatrist put down his own cup next to Sherlock's and heavily placed his hands on the detective's shoulders, starting to roughly trace the length of his frame. Sherlock successfully managed to appear stoic under the investigating palms of a serial killer. He didn’t like being touched at the best of times, and when Lecter moved around to stand behind him it was almost impossible not to reel away from his hands. For good measure the doctor ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls, grabbing a large serving of his hair and pulling his head back. His free hand came to gently rest around Sherlock's neck and when he without pretense smelled the detective Sherlock couldn’t help the disgruntled sound that escaped him.
Keep calm. Evaluate. Plan .
“Satisfied?” Sherlock asked as Lecter let go, having found no wires on his person.
“Almost” Lecter bent down and picked up Sherlock's jacket and coat, neatly folding them over his arm before he picked a cell from one of the pockets. With a casual flip on his wrist he threw it into the tea kettle.
“There we are.” Lecter sounded genuinely pleased as he smiled at Sherlock “A private conversation. Tell me detective, what have you deduced about me that makes you think I will not gut you in my kitchen?”
“Simple.” Sherlock sat down again and sipped his rapidly cooling tea “It would be boring.”
“You confuse a chef with a hunter, Mr. Holmes” Lecter swept past behind him, hanging Sherlocks clothes on a vacant chair “A hunter finds his enjoyment in the conquering of it’s prey, the chef in it’s preparation for the dinner table.”
“Not if the chef is an artisan.” Sherlock replied calmly “You don’t simply prepare a meal. You conduct a symphony around it. There must be drama for the dinner discussion, a display for the courses and you do create such artful center pieces. Not to play into your inevitable diagnosis of my narcissistic tendencies, doctor, but I would make an excellent center piece.”
Lecter looked at him in a way that sent shivers down Sherlock's spine, like he was assessing how to best bend his limbs in order to make the most use of his mass.
“I would have loved to delve into that mind of yours, Mr. Holmes. I’ve heard extraordinary things about it, and so far you have not disappointed. However coming here, without a weapon, and exposing yourself to me was reckless. I am not keen on recklessness.”
“The demolition of a building looks reckless to someone who is unfamiliar with the procedure and the strategic placement of explosives.” Sherlock replied darkly “Do not assume my lack of weapons means I come unarmed.”
“So you have rigged my house then?”
“Not just the house. Everything.” Sherlock stood up, placing both his hands on the countertop “I can demolish everything you are within minutes.”
“And then what?” Lecter matched his movement, but his tone was still casually indifferent “You have me arrested? I spend the rest of my life in a high security penitentiary?”
Sherlock snorted dismissively. “Too mundane. And you would love a stage. No, Doctor Lecter. If you do anything to me, or my friend, I will erase you.” Sherlock let the word hang between them, sharp like an executioner's axe. “I will erase the Chesapeake Ripper from existence, I will murder his reputation, I will kill the fear his name inspires. I will paint your artfully created canvas white, so that your legacy will be nothing but a bargain bin frame. In ten years, no one will remember him as anything but a fraud.”
“A bold statement. How, pray tell, do you plan to do that?” Lecter was dangerously close to reaching for a filé knife, Sherlock could see it in the muscle tensions of his right arm.
“We’re well past planning. You would be amazed what kind of destruction can be caused in a couple of hours if you know where the bombs are.” Sherlock nodded towards the kettle “I would offer you to check the news on my mobile but…”
Lecter moved faster than Sherlock could have anticipated. In a flash the carefully cultivated facade fell and only the monster remained. His arm shot out like a viper and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, dragging him across the stainless steel countertop, utensils and expensive cookware rattling around him. Sherlock managed to shift his weight just in time to avoid being dragged over the still hot gas stove.
“What did you do?” Lecter's voice was still calm, a sharp contrast to the physical violence as he locked his arms around the detective's neck “What did you touch?”
Sherlock wanted desperately to kick and twist in the deadly grip, but he knew it was futile to try to physically overpower the serial killer.
“Check. The. News.” Sherlock replied coldy, empathising each word with as much disinterest as he could muster. Lecter held him for a while, the pressure on the detectives windpipe just enough to cause severe discomfort, but not enough to make him lose consciousness.
After a moment that seemed like an eternity Lecter slowly let go and Sherlock threw himself out of range of his arms.
Lecter tucked in his disheveled shirt as he left the room, making his way further into the house. Sherlock was left on the floor of the kitchen, still struggling to breath normally when Hannibal strode back into the kitchen, the mask of civil pleasantry reattached.
“I am impressed, Mr. Holmes.” he grabbed Sherlock by the arm and hoisted the detective to his feet “But not entirely convinced.” he clicked his tongue as he looked over the carnage of scattered knives, spices and broken cups. “Tell me” he said while starting to pick up pieces of broken glass “How did you manage to implicate a long-dead man in a cold case on such short notice?”
“Four hours and three well-placed phone calls can work wonders.”
“How many of them do you have left, I wonder?” The broken porcelain clattered noisily into a trashcan, smashing itself into smaller pieces at the bottom.
“There is a man in Peru with the same MO as you and a taste for the macabre in a biblical sense. A train ticket and a security booth photograph places him in Essex the day before the murder at the church. They just need to be found.” Lecter watched the detective carefully as he spoke, looking for hints of lies or hubris where there were none to be found “There is a cultivated monster, somewhat like yourself but with a conscience, hunting his own kind down in Florida. A well placed article in The Miami Herald could send him this way. Three dollars and a ticket for the races turns Jeremy Olsen into a gambler who was literally taken for everything he had by the men he owed money. And did you know that Miriam Lass had a stalker during college? Neither does the FBI, yet.” Sherlock stared at the cannibal “Do you want me to continue?”
“That is quite enough I believe” Lecter picked up an assortment of knives and started to slide them back into a large wooden block that served as their collective sheat “However neither of these spectacular claims assures me of the point I am certain you wish to make by engaging in this conversation in the first place”
“Why you should let us live?”
“If that is how you wish to phrase it.” The drawn out sound of polished steel against wood accompanied doctor Lecters pleasant tone as the final knife slid into place.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock pressed his steepled fingers against his lips “These things will only come to pass if I should vanish, or perish during curious circumstances.”
“You are asking me to believe that in the handful of hours since you left my dining table you had time not only to hunt down the aforementioned information, but also set up a failsafe to spread it in case of your death? That is quite a stretch.”
“Doctor Lecter, I can spot a murderer by the crease of his sleeve placket and the length of his nails. I have unravelled more lives than I like to count, sometimes by a remark in passing. I’ve had a failsafe for years. I simply extended it to include you.”
Lecter studied him like a man might study an expressionist painting, trying to find meaning in the colors and shapes. “You are quite remarkable, Mr. Holmes” he smiled “Shall we adjourn to the study? This room is too messy for entertaining guests.”
“Would you be terribly offended if I preferred to stay where I know the placements of the exists?”
“Not at all.” Hannibal turned up the chairs that had been toppled over during their recent struggle and politely offered one to Sherlock with an outstretched arm. “It is a sound mind that contemplates it’s survival. You have made your threats. Is it time for me to make mine?”
Sherlock placed his elbows on the counter, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “At your leisure, doctor.” he smiled.
Hannibal moved slowly around the marble slab, seating himself so that they could lock eyes as he talked. “You said you did not come here to be analyzed, but humor me.” His smile was once again friendly, his eyes curious as they watched the detective “What is your diagnosis? I have read it somewhere.High functioning sociopath? A faulty classification, and with your intellect, you must know it as such.”
“I rarely bother with classifications.” Sherlock’s voice was kept as cold and uncaring as the night sky.
“Ah, but that is a lie. You bother greatly. Otherwise you would not use such an outdated term as sociopath. You must know it entails the same things as psychopathy, but you go to great lengths to pretend you do not.” He cocked his head, casually gazing at the shades of dark purple and red that had started to bloom on the detective's neck “However, the term has something rather… poetic to it, does it not? A bit of dramatic flare that ‘light schizoid personality disorder with a touch of narcissism’ simply lacks. Or worse yet, Mr. Holmes, there might not be anything wrong with you. Nothing.” Hannibal savored the almost invisible change in Sherlock's composure like the after-taste of a good wine “Everything you are, everything you can’t bring yourself to be, it is not due to some behavioral conductor forcing you to play a certain piece that constantly disappoints your audience. It is simply you. Everything that is wrong with you - is you.”
“Pity we can’t all be as straightforward as cannibalism.”
“Sarcasm is a deflection tactic, Mr. Holmes, and a rather crude one at that.” Hannibal's hand twitched as if reaching for a pencil.
“Do you want me to talk about how your remarks make me feel?” Sherlock spat the word out, making a face if it had disgusted him.
“Certainly not, unless you want to discuss the matter yourself? You can talk to me in complete confidentiality, should you choose to speak to me as a psychiatrist.”
“I couldn't afford you.”
Hannibal laughed at that, a short pleasant sound tinged with the melody of his accent. “I suppose not.”
“Are these the threats you’re intent on making? Treatment outside of my economical range? I had expected something more… violent.”
“Worry not, my threats will be of violence. However I suspect they might lead our conversation in another direction, and I was curios to see your reactions to my theories on your mental efficiency. But as you are eager to proceed, let us simply get to it.” Hannibal smothered a fold on his shirt with the strong hand that had been wrapped around Sherlock's neck half an hour ago “As you might have concluded, I am a highly organized killer. Tell me what you think that means for my potential capture.” It wasn’t phrased as a question.
“That you have an exit strategy.” Hannibal nodded along as Sherlock talked. “A go-bag somewhere, a couple of passports in different names, money in cash. You could be out of the country within hours.”
“The short version of my threat, Mr. Holmes, in that if anything goes awry, if I notice any change in my current situation, I will find you and end you in a spectacularly painful way.” He absentmindedly stroked a finger over his thin lips as he spoke “After I kill your friend of course. He seems a sturdy fellow. Given that I could find a desolate place to work on him, I could stretch his suffering for days. He seems to subconsciously favor one leg. Perhaps I could saw it off, and serve it…”
“Your point is made!” Sherlock hissed between gritted teeth.
“Do you believe me capable of carrying out these threats?”
“Yes. Do you believe me capable of mine?”
“I believe you capable of infinitely worse should you loose your temper one day.” Hannibal smiled pleasantly. “But I am curious about another thing. What stopped you from simply exposing me in front of my guests tonight? You could have caught me unaware.”
“Sentiment. If I revealed what I know, I would also have to admit to John that I understood what you where the moment I laid eyes on you...” he paused “and I let him eat at your table regardless.”
“You are willing to risk the lives of countless others to keep a small secret from one man?”
“The one man in the world whose life I care about.” Sherlock leaned forward and his voice took on the dark severity of a Dvorak composition “You are not my puzzle to solve. I don’t care what you do. I don’t solve crimes because of my compassion for the victims. I’m not like your Will, haunted by the shadows of the dead at every turn. I do it because I’m bored. And frankly, you where not a challenge.”
“You have a strange way of begging for your life.”
Sherlock flashed the cannibal the twisted imitation of a smile “So do you.”
Hannibal rose and took some satisfaction in seeing the other man flinch at the ordinary movement. He extended one hand to the detective, as if ending a session.
“It would seem we have an agreement, Mr. Holmes. Both of us have nuclear missiles pointed at the other, so we shall have to endure a cold, quiet peace until one of us falters.”
Sherlock tentatively rose, every muscle in his body tense like the strings of a violin as he took the serial killer's hand in his own.
“It’s a deal.”
“Oh, I have been meaning to ask, how did you find your meal? I do not often get a chance to discuss the quality of the meat, and by your ability to separate a Sassicaia from a Cabernet Sauvignon I am convinced of your refined palate.”
Sherlock let a moment of silence pass them like a stranger on the street before replying.
“I prefer chicken.”
Ever the proper gentleman Hannibal held out Sherlock's coat and the detective managed to slip into it with ease even though every sense screamed not to turn his back on the cannibal. After the heavy fabric had found it’s place on his shoulders, the doctor helpfully commented on how Sherlock might want to keep his scarf on for a couple of days to hide the bruising. As there were no way for Sherlock to order a taxi with his phone confiscated and drowned in tea Hannibal offered to drive the detective back to his hotel, an offer which Sherlock, to both of their astonishment, accepted.
In the car they settled into stretches of well-composed silence arranged around short conversations about classical music as the streetlights warm glow streamed over the Bently like waves.
“It really is unfortunate that we should meet under such dire circumstances.” Hannibal remarked as they turned into the city “I feel we both might have missed out on a wonderful friendship, or a spectacular hunt.” Sherlock hummed in agreement.
Sherlock got out of the car on a side-street three blocks down from his hotel, a story about a robbery gone wrong already prepared for when John asked what happened to his neck and cellphone. As he was about to shut the door, Hannibal stopped him.
“Out of curiosity, Mr. Holmes, was it the crease of my sleeve placket that gave me away?”
Smiling, Sherlock bent down, one arm carelessly slung over the roof of the Bentley.
“No. Your clothes were immaculate. However you did make cannibal-puns at the table.” As an afterthought he added “And frankly, it rhymes.”