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This was becoming a bad habit, John thought, flinching as mellow light seeped through the seam of his lashes. These days, people knew that if they wanted Sherlock’s attention, the best way to get it was to bash John over the skull and drag him off in the back of a van.
At least Sherlock noticed his absence. The first time it happened, John had been convinced Sherlock wouldn’t realise he was gone. Of course, the brilliant bastard of a man had plenty of opportunity to prove John’s fears wrong. Was this the sixth time this year, or only the fifth?
He kept his eyes closed, head bowed and lolling in feigned unconsciousness as he focussed on the information his other senses had to offer. A chair supported his weight, and not some flimsy, plastic excuse for furniture either. His wrists were bound to ornate arms made of polished hardwood. It would be heavy, difficult to tip over or smash without some serious effort. Soft upholstery cushioned his back, and if not for the fact he were tied to the bloody thing, he’d enjoy the comfort.
Normally, he was restrained with binder-twine or zip-ties: something industrial, commonplace and chafing. He still had faint marks from the last time. This, though, it wasn’t rope. Broad and flat, it felt like expensive linen bandages, Well-fastened, too, not clumsily lashed around him in an effort to keep him in place. They criss-crossed, supporting his joints while securing him to the chair. They had enough flexibility so as not to impede his circulation, but no more.
A low throb at the back of his head warned him of the blow he had received. Of course, there was no way to harmlessly render someone unconscious – even anaesthetics had their side-effects – but as beatings went, John’s skull did not feel as if it had suffered too terribly from the ordeal.
A shallow, cautious breath brought with it not the fragrance of dank cellars and mildew, but warm, dry air. The crackle of what sounded like a fire in the hearth tickled his ears, echoing in a way that suggested the room had a high ceiling.
Sherlock could probably have told him when the foundations were laid and deduce their location, but John could only do so much. He couldn’t be more than an hour away from Baker Street, and with London’s traffic that meant he hadn’t gone far. So, a big house somewhere in Central London.
‘You’re in Kensington, Doctor Watson.’
John opened his eyes, lifting his head to stare at the man who had spoken. He had made no sound, nothing to give John any hints that he wasn’t by himself – no sighs or whispering fabric as he shifted. How long had he been sat there… watching?
‘Thank you?’ John frowned, confused. He’d been expecting a thug, but no one else loitered in the well-presented room. The two of them were alone, and there was no way the man relaxing in the armchair by the fire could be considered a lout.
A fine blue waistcoat hugged his chest, and matching fabric encased strong thighs. The shirt he wore fit as if it were made for him. Hell, it probably was. Even his shoes gleamed as if they had never had to walk anywhere as filthy as London’s streets.
He reminded John of Sherlock. Not just the tailoring, but the way he sat. For all that his body was relaxed – his sleeves meticulously folded up twice at the wrist and a glass of red wine gleaming on the small table at his side – there was something predatory about the angles of his expression.
His eyes, though, they were nothing like Sherlock’s. So dark they were almost black in the room’s dim light, they watched John with an intensity that could not be dismissed as mere curiosity. That stare was more unyielding than Sherlock’s, and even though a polite smile touched the man’s lips, no emotion graced his gaze.
John cleared his throat, his fingers tightening into futile fists. ‘Sorry, and you are?’
‘Doctor Hannibal Lecter.’
Ice swept through John’s body, exploding outwards from his heart and racing down his limbs. He knew that name. How could he not, when it had been connected time and again to the cases currently being investigated by the Yard?
Sherlock had been called in because there was never enough proof. There were coincidences and theories and suspicions, but nothing that the police could act on. They were practically foaming at the mouth to have this man, this doctor, in custody.
‘Elegant.’
Praise from Sherlock was hard earned, but well-deserved. Even John could see that the murders were exquisitely executed, every little detail considered. Yet there was more to this than killing. Far more.
They were not just bodies; they were brunch.
‘The cannibal,’ John choked, his accusation hanging like smoke, heavy and toxic.
Hannibal did not so much as blink. Instead, a sickle of a smile curved his mouth, his ash blond hair falling into his eyes as he tilted his head. ‘Do you have any proof?’
No. They didn’t. Even after a week on it, Sherlock had not been able to pin anything down. Far from being dejected by his failure, he seemed enthused, bouncing around London in unseemly delight.
Worse, there was that same, subtle vein of admiration. The one Moriarty inspired. The one that made Sherlock forget all the little graces that made him human. He turned cold; indifferent to everything but the puzzle in front of him.
‘Do you deny it?’
Hannibal smiled, reaching out an indolent hand to capture the stem of his wineglass. He took a sip, savouring the flavour as John clenched his teeth. His voice slipped between them like acid, made bitter by his fear. ‘I hope that’s not a pre-dinner drink.’
A warm laugh rumbled forth from his captor. It was a pleasant sound, a noise that matched the man. His eyes crinkled at their corners, and suddenly John could see how he slipped through London unnoticed. Maybe it was a sham, maybe it was genuine, but he looked more human than Sherlock: approachable and compassionate, open and trustworthy.
That was how he got to them – his victims. It had to be. He made them trust. He made them think they were friends.
Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.
‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Doctor Watson.’ He shook his head, setting his wine down and getting to his feet. Polished shoes carried his measured stride across the plush rug covering the hardwood floor, and John’s gaze never left him as he approached.
He was waiting for denials and excuses… something like that. Instead, Hannibal hunkered down before him, just out of range. Not that John could throw a punch if he tried. At best he could bite him, and some sinking feeling told him that wasn’t the way to go. It might encourage the bastard.
‘You are not on the menu,’ Hannibal murmured, a clandestine confession. ‘As special as you are in your own unique ways, I have my heart set on a more… singular delicacy.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘After all, I’m sure you can agree: there is no one in the world quite like Sherlock Holmes.’
Bile rose in the back of John’s throat. He was accustomed to being the one used to lure Sherlock in. That was how these things went, but he hadn’t figured out that particular equation, the one that ended up with Sherlock being served up on a plate. Here he had been, impatient for Sherlock to show up and save the day, but now he wasn’t sure it would go according to the same old script.
Hannibal may look refined, like he had stepped off the pages of Vogue as he straightened up to prowl the apartment once more, but he was no cloistered academic. His obvious strength outlined his every movement.
Sherlock appeared slender and frail at times: a deliberate deception. Still, John doubted the lithe power he knew so well would outmatch the brute force that lay dormant in the line of Hannibal’s shoulders and the breadth of his chest.
No, John could not afford to rely on Sherlock to rescue him. There was too much unknown about this whole situation. Better that he get out of this mess himself. He just needed to create a few opportunities, to keep Hannibal distracted, keep him talking… Anything to delay the end of this gruesome little game.
‘That’s not like you,’ he murmured, pursing his lips as his mind raced. ‘Using someone else as bait. Seems a bit – messy.’ He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, adding just enough judgement in his tone to sting Hannibal’s pride. ‘I saw the others. They were precise. Artful. This…’
He trailed of, letting the silence speak for him, letting it spread and thicken, waiting to be filled.
‘You seem to think, Doctor Watson, that this is some kind of finale. That I shall capture Mister Holmes and there it will end.’ Hannibal huffed, a genteel, mirthful sound. ‘For you, I suppose, it is true. The curtain will fall, but for the rest of us? For myself and Mister Holmes? The show will go on, at least for a little while.’
It was for pleasure, that much was obvious. Hannibal enjoyed the hunt as much as Sherlock enjoyed the chase. Yet it did not end there, with the capture of the quarry. Not for Hannibal, anyway. They had seen it in the other victims: no quick death. No mercy. Sherlock had said that what the killer did lay somewhere between punishment and worship. Revulsion and reverence.
He kept them alive, paralysing them with surgical precision before getting to the meat of it. The thought of Sherlock in that state, hovering on death’s brink with only a few short hours of pain and torment to mark the end of his life…
John’s throat closed, tangling his next breath. He could not imagine that long, lean body laid out for Hannibal’s butchery. A body that John loved as much as the man within it. He could not stomach the notion of Sherlock so reduced, all his vivid intelligence forced to witness his own final moments.
‘Why?’ he asked, making no effort to hide his grief. ‘Why do you do it?’
Anyone else may have read his tone as disgust, but Hannibal paused in his steady prowl, pivoting to give John his full attention. A faint frown marred his brow, and consideration pinched his lips as he tilted his head.
‘You are not just Mister Holmes’ flatmate.’
Not a question, but John shook his head anyway. It wouldn’t get him compassion or sympathy. It wouldn’t change Hannibal’s mind, but it was the truth. One he and Sherlock made no effort to hide. Why should they? It didn’t protect anyone; didn’t spare them situations like this, and the both of them would rather live the truth, unrestrained, than tuck it away in the shadows as if it were something shameful.
‘Is that a problem?’ he croaked.
Hannibal huffed, and the look he cast in John’s direction was almost one of friendly reproach. ‘I am many, many things, Doctor Watson, but I do not discriminate. No, it is merely an unanticipated variable. One I have perhaps not given adequate consideration.’
He glanced towards the door as if expecting it to burst inwards on its hinges, but it remained blank and implacable. Nothing unusual stirred the respectable air of the flat. No sound heralded an imminent rescue, and John clenched his jaw even as Hannibal visibly relaxed.
‘You asked me why.’ He smiled, settling back into his armchair with his body slanted towards John, ever the attentive host. ‘You are not the first to question it. Nor will you be the last. Every time, I am afraid, my explanation changes. For you see, there is no one reason. No singular motivation for what I do. Contrary to what many people believe, it is not a simple decision.’
He leaned back, his hands caressing the arms of his chair like a pianist stroking the keys before beginning his concerto. ‘Each interlude is unique, and the motivations match it. Sometimes, initially, spite directed my actions. A visceral sort of punishment on those who had wronged me, or the people I love. It seemed at the time to be the ultimate vengeance. A statement that they were unworthy of the basic human civilities.’
‘What, like “don’t eat each other?”’ John swallowed. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to goad Lecter, but he couldn’t help it. Fear made him sarcastic, and the only weapon available to him was his voice.
‘Precisely.’ Hannibal smiled as if enjoying a private joke. ‘Later, it became a way to celebrate what makes an individual special. A way to consume it, and in doing so, make it a part of myself.’
‘So… it’s not really about the food?’
‘Oh, you mistake me, Doctor Watson. The meal is as important as the murder. Do you imagine I rip the meat from the bone like some wild thing?’ Hannibal raised an eyebrow. ‘I will say hunger has little to do with it. I do not crave the taste, but I relish the experience. I select the cut with care and forethought. It has purpose. Meaning. It is, in many ways, a type of art.’
A breeze stirred through the flat, carrying the scent of London traffic, but John barely noticed it. He was too busy staring at Hannibal, captivated and horrified, not so much by what he was saying, but how easy it was to see what he was getting at. Vile, but if he were talking about cooking up a side of beef, no one would bat an eyelash.
‘People only see what they wish to see: murder and monstrosity. Society tells us that what I do is wrong, and so many believe it without ever asking a single question. Yet, if I were to feed you a dish I had created, something combined with all my skill and attention to detail, you would thank me for the privilege of eating at my table. You would not even think to ask what lay upon your plate.’ His smile turned sharp. ’Ignorance is bliss.’
A click of metal sparked through the room, breaking Hannibal’s spell. It shattered like so much spun sugar, falling away to dust as John sucked in a breath. His head whipped around to the bedroom door, his heart knowing who he would see before his eyes had the chance to confirm it.
Sherlock.
‘I left the front door open for you, Mister Holmes. There is no need to sneak in through the window,’ Hannibal chided, nonplussed by the brutish line of the Sig Sauer in Sherlock’s grip. ‘We were just awaiting your arrival.’ He tilted his wrist to check his watch. ‘A little later than I expected.’
‘My apologies.’ Sherlock grimaced, not taking his eyes off of Hannibal. ‘Are you all right, John?’
‘Doctor Watson is unharmed. He should not even have a headache.’
John clenched his jaw, unwilling to admit he was right. The blow to his head had been perfectly tempered, and now there was too much adrenaline heaving through his veins to let him feel the grudging bruise left in its wake.
‘The gun is a surprise.’ Hannibal’s mirthless smile bared an edge of teeth. ‘Far from polite.’
‘Your invitation to dinner hardly followed common etiquette.’ Sherlock shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I have not come to accept. Rather, I am issuing one to you. An indefinite stay at Her Majesty’s leisure. Broadmoor, I suspect. Unless they extradite you.’
Hannibal tsked, rising from his chair and slipping his hands in his pockets. ‘Then, like you, I shall have to decline. A shame, Doctor Watson and I were having an interesting conversation.’
‘I heard. You’re wrong, of course.’
In any other situation, John would have laughed at the expression on Hannibal’s face. He looked as if he had bitten into a lemon, his lips twisting in a revolted moue at Sherlock’s accusation.
‘The taste of human meat is distinctive from anything else. The balance of myoglobin and haemoglobin present in the flesh cannot be adequately altered to a more familiar level by cooking alone, and there is only so much the best bordelaise can do.’ Sherlock shrugged. ‘Only those who cannot fathom the possibility of eating human flesh would be deceived about what they were consuming. Even then, they would still realise they were dining on something exotic.’
‘Venison,’ Hannibal conceded, ‘or kangaroo. Such answers satisfy those rude enough to enquire. Few do. They are simply happy to appreciate my culinary efforts.’
‘Pride.’ Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgement, flicking his gaze in John’s direction. ‘Power and control. That’s why he does it, the same as any other murderer skulking on London’s streets. They all take delight in crossing the lines society draws in the sand. The only thing that sets him apart is that he will involve others in the taboo, normally without their knowledge.’
He turned back, speaking to Hannibal once more. ‘You enjoy the violation, not just of your current victim, but of those you invite to dinner.’
‘Mister Holmes.’ Hannibal sighed, his shoulders slumping. ‘You make it sound so sordid.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Sherlock’s lip curled, his nose wrinkling as he inched to the side, circling towards John as the barrel of the gun pointed unwaveringly in Hannibal’s direction. Part of John wished he’d shoot – put a bullet in that mad brain and be done with it – but this wasn’t the battlefield, and Hannibal was armed with nothing but words.
‘You find your thrills in solving murders, Mister Holmes. A noble pursuit, but I know you don’t fool yourself into believing that you’re driven by compassion. You look at a corpse and see a puzzle. You do not mourn the victims. You celebrate their demise and find satisfaction in their fate.’ He spread his hands. ‘So you see, we’re not so different, you and I.’
‘We’re different enough,’ Sherlock murmured. He sounded unaffected, but he no longer inched towards John. He stood rooted to the spot as if caught in the web of Hannibal’s gilded lies.
The air hummed, the tension the same, strange mix of danger and excitement that had surrounded Moriarty, and John’s stomach clenched. They didn’t need Sherlock growing obsessed with the challenge Hannibal embodied, respecting his mind even as he grudgingly reviled his actions.
‘I hate to break this up,’ he grumbled, trying to ignore the nervous sweat prickling the nape of his neck, ‘but do you think maybe someone could untie me?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Doctor Watson. I think it’s best you stay where you are.’
‘It’s not your choice to make, any more,’ John snapped, insidious uncertainty honing his temper. The situation should be simple, two men with a gun versus one in a waistcoat, but somehow it wasn’t working out the way it should. Against all the odds, it felt like Hannibal still had the upper hand, and John hated it.
It happened quicker than he could blink. One moment, Hannibal was standing a safe distance away, his hands in his pockets and his body relaxed. The next, he struck like a viper, teeth clenched and face twisted, the muscles in his arms bunched with controlled force as a scalpel gleamed in his hand.
A wicked glint and a splash of red. Sherlock gave a feral hiss of pain, and the gun thudded on the polished floorboards, skidding out of harm’s way and into the shadows in the corner of the room.
John’s vision crystallised, turning glassy at its edges as he twisted his wrists. The bindings bit at his flesh. Abuse fell from his lips, snarls and curses. A desperate bid to distract Hannibal, but it was no use.
He grappled with Sherlock, the mercurial tip of the scalpel drenched dark. The back of Sherlock’s hand bled, the gash deep and narrow. It soaked the cuff of his shirt and painted a bracelet around his wrist, but he paid it no mind. He couldn’t, not when he was struggling to stop Hannibal’s next blow from finding its mark.
Those long fingers manacled Hannibal’s right arm, white-knuckled, while the other palm cupped his elbow, jamming the joint sideways. A sudden switch and Sherlock jabbed Hannibal’s ribs, quick and hard. A stalemate locked them in its grip: a deadly dance that was more waltz than fight.
Hannibal was the one who broke it, spinning away with preternatural grace. He moved as if he knew exactly where he was within the room, and John hissed a curse. Of course, the bastard would be a good fighter as well, as confident in his damn body as he was in his fractured mind.
Yet Sherlock didn’t turn his back or dart for the gun. His weight shifted, his fists lifting to guard his torso even as he circled inwards, robbing Hannibal of the space he’d claimed for his own.
John watched, his lips parted and his breath quick between his teeth, coming in shallow, unsteady gasps. He hated this, being forced to do nothing but bear witness. Still, at least he got the satisfaction of Hannibal’s surprise. Whatever he thought, he was not expecting Sherlock to give as good as he got, moving with a different kind of grace before snapping his fist forward, fast and true.
He hounded Hannibal, his blows grazing but not touching. To some, maybe it looked like inexperience, but John knew what he was seeing. This was Sherlock making sure Hannibal was where he wanted him, planning the angle and judging Hannibal’s actions – one step ahead and always ready.
A quick hit caught Hannibal as he twisted, slamming hard into the side of his nose. The bone gave an audible crack, and John’s eyes watered in sympathy. Blood spurted, red and human after all, but that wasn’t what Sherlock cared about.
He wanted the blade.
He ripped it from Hannibal’s grasp, probably cutting up his own hand in the process. It was the key to John’s cage, and the scalpel sliced through the linen around his right wrist like a hot knife through butter.
‘Look out!’
The air left Sherlock in a rush as Hannibal barged into him, slamming him against the wall behind John’s chair. They were too far back, out of John’s range of vision. He could only hear the tight breaths and choked sounds of a struggle. Adrenaline thickened his veins, and his eyes focussed on the scalpel, gleaming like a minnow where Sherlock had dropped it.
With a snarl, John lunged, using all his weight to tip the chair. It crushed the air from his lungs, but that didn’t matter. He had the blade, and a moment later his remaining restraints fell away.
He kicked the chair aside and leapt to the last place he had seen his gun. The scalpel wouldn’t do, not now. They were beyond the clarity a knife could bring. Sherlock and Hannibal both knew where to hit. This was not a grappling brawl, but calculated combat. They would kill each other, and John did not think he alone had the strength to pull them apart.
Metal touched his fingers, cool and familiar, and the shape of the Sig against his palms snapped the world back into brutal focus.
‘Stop!’
His voice echoed through the flat, but it fell on deaf ears. Sherlock and Hannibal had their hands around each other’s throats, fingers like bleached bones as they grimaced and squeezed. Hannibal was on top, pinning Sherlock to the floor. He had the advantage of leverage and force, his dark eyes ink-like and intent as Sherlock struggled.
Instinct took over, pulling back John’s arm and snapping it forward. The crack of metal on bone rang through the room as the polished curve of the Sig’s muzzle connected with Hannibal’s temple.
He reeled sideways, human after all, his grip slackening just enough for Sherlock to rip himself free.
The man looked dazed, but far from done for. He listed to the left, half-sprawled upon the floor, but that did not stop the spidery crawl of his hand. It inched across the carpet, making for the silver flash of the scalpel.
John moved without thinking, slamming his boot down on Hannibal’s fingers. Bones crunched, their treble destruction underscored by the tight noise of agony that locked in Hannibal’s throat. He shouldn’t feel good about that, satisfied at causing another pain, no matter how evil they were, but John could not stifle it. Not when it meant Hannibal was on his knees before him, panting in discomfort and glaring up into the baleful stare of the gun’s muzzle.
‘You all right?’ John asked, turning his head a fraction without ever tearing his eyes off the man in front of him. He longed to check on Sherlock, but he couldn’t take that risk. He did not dare look away nor lower the gun. Hannibal’s retribution would be swift and brutal. John had no intention of giving him that chance.
‘Fine,’ Sherlock croaked, his voice wrecked and wheezing. Still, he stumbled to his feet, ungainly as a new-born foal. John could hear him rummaging around, picking something up from the floor, but it wasn’t until Sherlock moved into his line of sight that he realised he had retrieved the strips of cloth that held John in place. Most were severed and useless, but there were a few long enough to bind Hannibal hand and foot.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ John spat, watching those unreadable eyes dart around, no doubt planning some method of escape. He did not like how that gaze clung to Sherlock’s bloody profile, nor the way Hannibal licked his lips, his tongue a pink, hungry flash.
Sherlock noticed it too, and John smirked as he shoved Hannibal to the floor, face down in the expensive Persian rug. John’s foot in the small of his back warned against any movement as Sherlock finished what he was doing, hogtying Hannibal with what they had to hand.
The wail of sirens reached John’s ears, their distant cry growing louder with every moment. Not just one, either, but what sounded like a veritable armada. ‘Back up?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow as Sherlock nodded.
‘I had one of my network deliver Lestrade a message. I wanted time to make sure you were all right – to make sure they did not spook Doctor Lecter into drastic action. They’ll be here shortly.’
The expression on his face lay a long way from triumph. He looked exhausted, not to mention bloody. The back of his hand oozed, and bruises bloomed before John’s eyes. At least they could take consolation in the fact that Hannibal looked just as bad, but it did nothing to dissolve John’s need to touch Sherlock, to brush his hands over him and make sure everything was as superficial as it seemed.
‘Keep your gun on him,’ Sherlock urged, as if reading his mind. Not that John blamed him for his caution. They were used to the few they captured swearing and ranting, promising all manner of revenge. Hannibal, it appeared, believed such a scene to be beneath him.
The squeal of tires outside announced the arrival of Lestrade. He could hear shouted orders and the slam of the door being shoved from its hinges, followed by the thunder of footsteps on the stairs.
There was no time to hide the gun; not that he would anyway. Hannibal may be outnumbered, but that did not make him harmless. Besides, Mycroft had ways of working his magic. He’d get it back within the week, or at least one very much like it – no questions asked.
‘Bloody hell!’ Greg’s face shone red from his mad sprint up the stairs. ‘Are you two all right? Anything serious?’
‘Nothing a few stitches won’t fix?’ Sherlock waited for John’s nod of agreement before continuing, ‘You’ll find plenty of evidence in Doctor Lecter’s kitchen. Make sure forensics is thorough. Many of the murders were staged to mimic other killers, but there will be trophies. A shipping container at the Wharf is also registered in his name. You may want to investigate its contents.’
A couple of strong officers cuffed Hannibal properly, removing Sherlock’s impromptu bindings and hauling the Doctor to his feet. John expected babbled excuses or denials, but nothing so undignified spilled forth from Hannibal’s smiling lips. Instead, he surveyed them all, his expression serene, all the anger of a few moments ago bundled away out of sight.
‘I told you this would not be the final act, Doctor Watson. It seems I was right.’
‘All right, you. Come on.’ Greg jerked his thumb towards the stairs. ‘Get him out of here. Maximum security procedures all the way, got it?’ He sighed as his men nodded, dragging Hannibal away and giving the forensics team space to process the scene.
John let out a shaking breath, trying to force his muscles to relax. He felt as if he were carved from granite, rock-solid in anticipation of the next bloody threat. Someone stood before him, urging him to put the gun into an evidence bag, and it took all his will to peel his fingers from the pistol and relinquish it.
As soon as it fell into the plastic confines, it was as if the spell faded. Gone was the horror of Hannibal’s presence and the creeping, pervasive sense of threat. All that remained was the aftermath.
Shaking off the wave of leaden exhaustion that tried to catch him in its clutches, he stumbled over to Sherlock’s side, his hands half-outstretched before he paused. ‘Do they need to process you? For evidence?’
‘I doubt it. Hannibal is unlikely to be charged with this.’ He gestured around. ‘It would only muddy the waters. We can be treated. There are paramedics downstairs; you can tell by the pitch of the engines.’ Sherlock cocked his head, picking out god knew what from London’s symphony. ‘We should get your head checked.’
‘I’m more worried about that hand,’ John murmured, cupping Sherlock’s fingers and tipping his knuckles to the light, the better to look at the wound. ‘It’s deep. Then there’s your neck.’ He pulled a face at the thumbprints pressed over Sherlock’s larynx. Hannibal had applied all his strength. Another minute or two, and Sherlock would have been done for.
Sherlock sighed, leaning forward so that John could support his weight. He did not mind the burden: cherished it, in fact, considering the alternative. ‘I’m glad you’re all right,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘When I realised you’d be taken…’ He didn’t finish, though John heard the click of his throat as he swallowed convulsively.
‘Don’t worry. I was the bait. You were the one he decided was–’
‘Good enough to eat?’
A giggle bubbled from John’s lips: high and hysterical, but he would take it. It was that or let the fear claim him, and he knew which he preferred.
‘Don’t. Don’t make me laugh.’ He offered up a crooked smile, relieved to see Sherlock return it, the both of them as bad as each other, crime scene or not. ‘They’ll think we’re mad too, and I don’t want to end up sharing a padded cell with that… that man.’
‘Hmmm, I somehow doubt Hannibal will aim for an insanity plea. He does not consider himself so, and I have no doubt he would believe it a triumph to gain the court’s agreement.’
John grimaced, able to imagine it all too well. ‘What do you think will happen to him?’
‘Extradition and, eventually, death row. The Americans want him, and we don’t. Housing the criminally insane is an expensive endeavour, and one without end.’
John tried to muster some sense of outrage. On the whole, he didn’t approve of the death penalty, but for Hannibal, he could make an exception. He had looked into those eyes. He had seen the unflinching belief, the pride and the pleasure. There was no coming back from that; no return to normality, if he had ever been normal in the first place.
No, let the Americans have him and their justice. All he cared about was being as far away from Hannibal and his smooth, charming words as he could get.
There were statements to take and wounds to bind. John watched the paramedics tend to Sherlock, noting every bruise and scrape before they sent him on to University hospital. Neat stitches closed the wound on Sherlock’s hand, and a clean white bandage charted his skin courtesy of a harried nurse. The hours slipped by, taking the last of the daylight with them, and by the time they were free, night had thickened amidst London’s skyline.
‘Dinner?’ Sherlock asked, one hand already lifted to hail a cab. ‘You must be starving.’
‘God, yes.’ John sighed, thinking of his banal morning and the meagre breakfast he’d had. It seemed like a lifetime ago, now. Still, something in his stomach clenched, uncomfortable, and he reached out to tweak Sherlock’s sleeve. ‘Let’s, er, let’s make it vegetarian, okay?’
Sherlock’s warm, soft laughter wrapped John in its embrace, and he smiled in return, unable to help himself. This – God, it made it all worth it. The crazy cases and the mad men behind them, smirking in the shadows and oh-so-eager to be Sherlock’s downfall. John would face them all if it meant he could have this for the rest of his days.
Love and London; the chase and the game.
And Sherlock Holmes in all his glory.