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I - Gathering of Minds
“So why are we here again?” House mock-whispered to Wilson.
Wilson shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know… maybe you pissed off a cop or something, and I’m here because you used my name to forge things,” he said, gesturing to the men in black suits around them.
The room felt like an imposing display - dominated by a dark walnut table, its polished surface gleaming in glossy streaks. High-backed chairs stood around like sentinels.The wallpaper a rich saturated crimson patterned with dull-gold fleur-de-lys that seemed to waver under the light. Even the plush carpet hushed every step, swallowing each footstep.
The heavy swish of the door brought in one of the black-suited agents ushering two men inside. The first strolled in smoothly, settling into the indicated seat without hesitation. The second followed, a taut, coiled presence. He took the seat beside the first in a single, deliberate motion.
A man, tall and poised, took his place at the head of the table.
"Good evening, gentlemen. You’ve been gathered here because one of Her Majesty’s ambassadors has died under what would be deemed as non-natural circumstances. The matter is extremely delicate and of utmost importance. Our American counterparts have graciously agreed to cooperate which is why you-.
The doors burst open. A tall man with a shock of curls swept through the doors, eyes dissecting through everyone’s faces. An older man followed by his side, steady in his gait.
The Speaker frowned.
"Just in time - I suppose. Let me introduce you to each other.
The ones who just came in the door are Mr Sherlock Holmes, our consulting detective and Dr, John Watson, formerly of the British army. To your right is Dr Hannibal Lecter, an esteemed psychiatrist and Mr Will Graham, a profiler for the FBI. And to your left is Dr Gregory House, well-recognized diagnostician and Dr James Wilson, Head of oncology.
Details for this case can be found in the files that will be circulated. The gist is that some toxin was utilized. Caused the liver to fail, clots to appear everywhere and growths in the lungs, resembling advanced stage lung cancer. The ambassador was then strung up and hung upside down. We must identify the toxin, the perpetrator, and their intent urgently. I trust - everyone - will extend their full cooperation."
"So much for a detective title, eh, Wilson," said House as he nudged Wilson with his cane, pointing to Sherlock. “Needs others to hold his hand.”
Sherlock turned sharply at House. "I am a consulting detective and I was just told of this when I was kidnapped and flying halfway across the Pacific ocean. Don’t confuse me with those bumbling idiots in Scotland Yard."
"Sherlock," cut the Speaker. "Be nice. You will require their knowledge."
"I don’t see why I need a team when I can do it by myself," glared Sherlock as his fists gripped the armrests. "You’re forcing me to do extra work, filtering out incompetence, Mycroft ."
"Well Mr Holmes, take it this way. We could perhaps learn from each other. It’s not like we often have a chance to see such sharp minds from different expertise. Reciprocity, I’d say - Quid pro quo ," said Hannibal, his polite smile holding the quiet depth of a dark ocean.
"Well I’d have to agree with the shark guy here. Somewhat. A team’s needed to come up with stupid ideas, so you can eliminate them and - prove that your theories are mostly right. Though I’ll be humble and say I’m always right," said House. "Besides, isn’t John here your ‘team’?" said House as he gave air quotes.
"I don’t require a team, Dr House. I require John. A team’s a deadweight," snapped Sherlock. "You limp on your right leg but the stiffness isn’t from your knee. An atrophy of the quadriceps, an infarction in the thigh. The rattle in your pocket is pharmacy issued - opioids, obviously. A dependency despite the years since your operation. Though you wouldn’t call this an addiction, you'd just call it self-medicating to cope with your own incompetence."
House threw an exaggerated sad face. "Oh, you’ve got me… anyone with eyes can see a cane and a limp to deduce a thigh infarction. With such severity means chronic pain ergo pills. Congratulations third-rate detective, you cracked the medical mystery any babushka on the bus can solve. At least my painkillers work and I’m not slapping on nicotine patches to fuel a third-rate deduction."
" GENTLEMEN . If we can momentarily put aside this… riveting posturing of adolescence, perhaps the focus should be the case, lest it grows cold," cut Mycroft. "Use this room for your… working of the case. You should find it suitably secure for discussion and refreshments are provided. For the sake of discretion, I must insist that you remain here at all times. I am sure you understand. Come up with your theories first, you’ll see the body later.”
Around the table, Hannibal’s faint smile hinted at a promise; Will’s eyes flicked toward his, their shared amusement almost palpable. John and Wilson sighed deeply and pinched their nose bridges, an uncanny mirror image that almost looked rehearsed. Yet both looked faintly relieved that someone else was admonishing their… impulsive friends for once.
II - Coffee Corner
"So, Dr Watson, which hospital are you attached to?" asked Wilson. He already felt a sense of kinship with the man, if he’s stuck with a person like Sherlock.
John threw a glance to Sherlock who seemed to be locked in a stare down with House; Hannibal and Will looking on as though they were watching an exhibit at a zoo.
"Oh, call me John. I do locum. Working with Sherlock… well let's just say there’s no chance of getting attached to one," sighed John.
Wilson laughed. "I completely understand. If Sherlock is anything like House, they can be… overwhelming. Hey, do you want to get some coffee? We can leave them to duke it out."
John glanced once more at Sherlock then nodded to Wilson and the pair set off for the refreshment table.
Midway through John’s tale about improvising a dam to stop bloodflow, Wilson noticed the way Will’s gaze seemed to go back and forth between glazed and concentrated from the other end of the room.
"You look like you're going into shock, Will - just kidding of course but you could join us," said Wilson kindly.
Will’s mouth twitched; not denying what Wilson said. "They are pretty loud, even if they aren’t speaking."
John chuckled. "Tell me about it. Living with Sherlock is like living next to a jet engine. Real quiet when it is off but once it starts, it just zooms off and you’re doing your best to catch up."
That earned a huff of faint amusement from Will and his posture eased just the tiniest bit. The three of them drifted to their own quiet corner with their own cups, leaving Sherlock and House to stare at each other like wolves with Hannibal lounging back, amusedly waiting for the first bite.
III - The Art of Restraint
Hannibal held the faintest turn of his lips. He could practically see the powerplay. Sherlock and House weighing what to say about the other person and when to say it to best get the upper hand.
"How rare - men who thrive to prove others wrong for the sake of truth, suddenly devoted to quiet restraint. I understand the urge to measure one another. Still… there is no need for that. Shall we not treat dialogue as a shared indulgence, rather than a contest?"
House groaned. "And here I was thinking that I was just beginning to like you, shark boy. You're annoying and you're hiding something. No one is that polite and polished," said House, leering at Hannibal. "Come on, show us what's beneath this veneer."
Hannibal didn’t flinch."If there is a veneer, it’s just courtesy. But I will take it as an invitation to be more casual. Call me Hannibal. May I call you Gregory? Or House, if you prefer, since that is what your companion calls you."
"Gregory’s for my mother, telemarketers and hookers. You don’t qualify. Though Sherlock probably does. He's already doodling my name in the margins of his case file," drawled House.
Sherlock's eyes flicked towards him, as he stopped looking at the open file in front of him..
"You're not worth the ink."
House grinned. "Not worth the ink? You're already staring at me harder than a schoolgirl daydreaming about her hot teacher. Though you probably never had a real class. Too arrogant, too self-obsessed - your distaste for authority probably freaked them away."
"I wasn't impossible to teach. I just refused to waste my time on incompetence," snapped Sherlock."You provoke others for sport. Such a waste of time when you could have spent it solving the case. Or attempting to."
"Indeed. Sherlock is right. While provocation has its uses, it does not further our understanding of this case. Observe Sherlock - and it may illuminate the benefit of restraint for you, House," said Hannibal, his finger brushing the edge of a page with the slightest hint of force, a touch less graceful than usual.
IV - Surgical Design
"Killer’s making a statement. Somehow being hung upside down here seems oddly personal but the drama of it is how everything points to the chest," said Will, passing the crime scene photo to Wilson.
Holding the photo up close, Wilson grimaced at the photo of raw thoracic cavity.The lungs bloomed with yellow-orange nodules, striking out like little death lanterns in the dark. It’s not the first time he has seen them but to see it used… almost like art was pretty disturbing.
"They look like carcinoid microtumours… though they are pretty advanced. This person was fine and healthy just a week ago you say? That’s unusual…" He mused.
"He was last spotted - ironically - at a cancer fundraiser, all hale and hearty," said John, scratching his head. “Witnesses have said he was very sociable, shaking hands and smiling. No sign of any breathing issues.”
Will observed Wilson and John with quiet interest. In this line of work, he’s always surrounded by people with jagged edges. People… with a flair, who do something with intention that are so far out from what many consider normal. These two however were steadier, more anchored. He could see why Sherlock and House gravitated towards them. Though Wilson seems to be a bit more impulsive when compared to John, who still retained his army control. Perhaps he could convince Hannibal to host a dinner party with these two. Maybe not Sherlock and House… unless Hannibal is curious, of course.
V - The Tasting Menu of Logic
“All I am saying is that it was an environmental agent that could have acted on a preexisting condition,” argued House. “Look at his last bloodwork from a month ago. LDH’s count is elevated.”
“Then that means his perpetrator knew him intimately or at least his health history,” said Hannibal, reclining back on the chair.
“Family, friend or romantic partner,” mused Sherlock, hands clasped under his chin. “Family doesn't travel with him, friends don’t accompany him abroad. Which means we are dealing with an affair partner.”
Hannibal’s gaze lingered on the photo for a moment longer. “There’s a narrative the killer wishes to tell. A pattern. This intricacy is curated. I don’t believe that this is a crime of passion. There is a story waiting to be unveiled but it still remains hidden,” said Hannibal.
“Logically it must be intimacy,” pressed Sherlock. “Sex equals endorphins, a lowering of vigilance. It would be too easy to drug one orally or intravenously here.”
“Not that I am disagreeing with you on that, pretty boy, but he’s an ambassador. Don’t you think there would be some record of his torrid wining, dining and sexing trysts, like oh I don’t know… receipts for a BDSM dungeon or something?” said House. “Your Scotland Yard has helpfully given his credit card statements and they seem as dull as kale salad.”
Hannibal tilted his head, his voice a smooth cadence. “And yet you insist on an affair, Sherlock. You speak of intimacy as a deduction, not experience.”
House smirked at Hannibal before looking back at Sherlock. “Exactly. Pretty boy throws around ‘sex equals endorphins’ like a biology textbook instead of… y’know, real life.”
Sherlock’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking between the both of them. “Analysis does not require participation.”
Hannibal’s voice folded smoothly, calm yet edged. “But participation changes the lens, alters the palette. Intimacy is visceral, instinctive. We can quantify them however we like but desires within are experiences that cannot be described by scientific data. One cannot truly deduce intimacy without… experience.”
House leaned back, eyes glinting. “Translation: you talk like a virgin and the grown-ups can spot it a mile away.”
Sherlock’s back stiffened. The words hitting a little sharp. Not because it was true but because he hated being in the focus. “My experience is irrelevant. The facts of the case-”
“-are interpreted through the lens of experience,” interrupted Hannibal smoothly. He leaned forward slightly. “You thrive on details, Sherlock. But details without familiarity?” Hannibal’s smile was soft, deliberate. “One risks mistaking the shadow for the thing itself.”
House chuckled. “That’s a longwinded poetic way of saying: You don’t get laid, your data is incomplete. Like an experiment you’ve never done with your own hands.”
Sherlock bristled, eyes flicking toward the door. “Sex is a distraction. Attachment is compromise. I have no need for either.”
“Yet you catalogue it so clinically,” Hannibal murmured, studying him like a specimen of interest. “One might wonder if your dismissal is strategy - or just a shield.”
House leaned in, grin wide and merciless. “Look at him. So flustered. Bet he’s running laps in his mind right now just to keep from blushing.”
Sherlock’s mouth opened - then snapped shut again. His silence, for once, betrayed him.
House eyes glinted with mischief, gesturing to John at the other end of the room.
“You ever actually been on a date? Or do you two just show up uninvited to crime scenes and hope John calls it one?”
Sherlock gave him a withering look. “My work requires no such trivialities.”
“That’s a no,” House said, grinning. “Not even a drunken mistake? Shocking.”
In contrast to House’s brashness, Hannibal slid in. “Don’t tease him too harshly. Inexperience can be… alluring. There’s a certain intrigue in someone untouched by distraction.”
Sherlock stiffened, lips parting -too quick to reply. “I am not untouched by anything. My knowledge of human behaviour is -”
“- textbook,” House cut in. “Data without practice. Like trying to play the piano after only reading the sheet music. You can play the tune, but you’ll never sound good.”
Sherlock’s ears flushed faintly. He straightened his coat. “My deductions do not require… indulgence.”
Hannibal tilted his head, faint smile tugging. “And yet, indulgence often exposes truths no autopsy ever could.”
House snorted. “Don’t worry, Curls. We’ll start you off easy. Hannibal’s the candlelight and violins type. I’m the hookers and painkillers package. Together? That’s a tasting menu. You won’t walk straight for a week.”
Sherlock froze at that, words caught in his throat.
Hannibal exhaled through his nose softly, as though House burped loudly at the table.
“Crude… but not inaccurate. A tasting menu does allow one to appreciate contrasts and flavours one typically would not think go together. And in the end, Sherlock…” His gaze pinning Sherlock. “... The palate remembers what it savoured.”
Sherlock’s gaze remained pinned in the distance, eventually finding refuge in the crime file.
House grinned, drumming his fingers on the table. “Relax, Curls. We can take the wait, it’s just part of the game. Besides - “ his thumb pointed at the other side of the room. “ - Wilson asked me to marry him. And he puts up with me voluntarily.That’s kinkier than anything Hannibal can possibly come up with on the tasting menu.”
Across the room, Wilson sighed without looking up from the file. “House. I heard that. It was done as a joke, people.”
House’s grin widened. “You were meant to.”
VI - Anchors in Storms
Wilson turned, giving House a withering expression. “And have you done any work so far? Or are you still giving Sherlock and Hannibal grief?” Wilson turned to said two. “I do apologize for his lack of manners. He just won’t learn .”
“I know them. I just choose not to follow them,” House retorted. “But tell me Jimmy, are the growths infection or just cancer?”
Wilson walked over to the other three and took a seat next to House.
“Looks like microtumours to me. But it would need a biopsy for confirmation. John and I agree though that it is not an infection. The presentation doesn’t match.”
Wilson pointed to one of the spread out photos. “See the faint bruise under the eyes and that odd skin texture? It’s paraneoplastic. Fits the profile.”
“Yeah,” said John as he walked over too. “The spread of it is pretty odd as well.”
Sherlock scoffs. “Paraneoplastic? That’s tenuous, considering the time of death is not certain. The discolouration could just be postmortem lividity.”
House leaned in. “Postmortem lividity? Cute. DId you spend 10 years specialising in Oncology too?”
“House.” John’s rebuke came quick and he blinked in surprise.
House looked equally surprised before breaking out into a grin. “Oh I like him. He stands up to you, huh, Sherlock?”
Will finally approached. “Well, coming back to the case, odd, yes. And deliberate. Whoever did this wanted us to see the pattern, not just the damage.” He glanced between John and Wilson, then towards Hannibal as though checking for confirmation. “Someone used this agent in a way that suggests he can control the effects.”
Hannibal leaned forward. “This was no stranger. It is the act of one who cannot let go. Someone who cuts deeper because they believe each mark is a gift of devotion and the other will simply… accept it.”
Sherlock’s voice was cool. “Yes, just like House. Wilson is the tether. Remove him and House collapses inwards - destroying himself and others around him. With him, House is merely tolerable.”
House jabbed his cane towards John. “John’s your crutch. He’s the only reason why you’re functioning in society. You think it’s noble - but all you’re doing is just leeching stability off the only guy dumb enough to stay.”
Sherlock inhaled, almost like a hiss -
“Sherlock.” John’s tone was quiet, a warning. Sherlock’s jaw clicked shut
House’s eyes gleamed with glee.
“Can it, House.” Wilson’s voice was weary.
Pinned by the rebuke of their companions, both Sherlock and House stewed silently.
“I don’t need a handler,” complained Sherlock, fiddling with his cuffs.
“Finally something you and I can agree on, Holmes,” glowered House as he glared at Wilson.
The room shifted with unease as the two storms found the same direction to break.
VII - (Un)Veiling Facade
Sherlock stilled. Fingers frozen on his cuffs. His gaze snapped to Hannibal.
“Your expression - it’s a cover. Amusement, empathy - they’re all an act. Every silence, every smile, you curate them. Even when you rest, you’re… posed. When you speak of murder - you believe it a gift.”
The faint tap of cane against the wooden chair legs stilled, creating a pregnant pause. House leaned forward, eyes sharpening with interest. “Yeah, you’re a psychiatrist not a marble statue. Nobody needs to be that controlled unless they’re hiding something. And like I said earlier: veneer. So what secrets are you hiding beneath, Lecter? Medical? Criminal? Both?”
Wilson and John looked on in horrified fascination. Will’s eyes lingered as well, laced with the barest hint of worry.
Hannibal didn’t answer. The shadow of a smirk grazed his lips - his eyes glimmering as though he was waiting for the punchline to a private joke.
House pointed lazily at Hannibal. “And your hands. That smoothened callus forming on your thumb web. Whatever you’re holding all day, it isn’t a Mont Blanc.”
Sherlock’s gaze dragged down Hannibal’s arms. “Not a musician's hands.Yet still suggests precision. A sustained strength. Either you're into orthopaedic surgery or a professional chef or butchery. All professions which contradict yours,” murmured Sherlock.
“Forearms too strong for golf or tennis at the country club. Something for brute force,” said House.
Sherlock’s gaze flicked briefly to Will, catching the barest hint of a swallow. “And a need for a mirror, an admirer. Someone to put you on a pedestal, to acknowledge you. He adjusts to you, looks to you for guidance - even when he knows he is right.”
House followed Sherlock’s gaze, catching how Will’s eyes lingered on Hannibal. “Yeah. It’s just Pavlovian.”
Sherlock tutted sharply. “Not obedience. Compliance. An oddly close relationship for mere colleagues. Will is just a prop for your stage. Your every gesture and movement is an act. Just what are you rehearsing for?”
House leaned back, giving a thoughtful nod. “Rehearsing… yeah. Everybody lies. But you go a step above that. Your manners are a script, a performance to cover a truth.”
Sherlock’s voice cut through. “So much concealment even though you aren’t fearful. You’re a construct. You’re after something - hunting something. And this facade is just bait.”
House tilted his head in amusement. “ You aren’t hiding. You’re camouflaging. Big difference.”
Hannibal gave a brief chuckle, low and indulgent as though humouring a couple of children. “That’s interesting, Sherlock, House. But unchecked speculation risks turning the ordinary into something grotesque.”
“Alright. Maybe let’s put this aside for now. There are more immediate concerns,” said Wilson, lifting his palms in a quiet attempt to calm the topic.
John gave a quick nod, glancing quickly between the trio of Sherlock, House and Hannibal. “He’s right. We should focus on the facts we have - the case.
Wilson gave John a quick nod of acknowledgement, a quick understanding passing between them.
The corner of Hannibal’s eyes tightened in mirth; Will caught it, answering with the faintest lift of his brow.
VIII - Even Discordant Sounds Make Music
Sherlock’s finger tapped a sharp rhythm against the table. “The killer is precise and might have medical knowledge. He wants those growths seen. Specific placement to illuminate something. It’s not a quick growing cancer either.”
House rolled his eyes. “Sure, if you think tumours can be placed exactly on the body as though you’re Photoshopping it. No, they’d need a trigger. Someone has been experimenting. Viral, chemical or something to instigate bad genetics. This person is meticulous.”
“Poison then.” Sherlock’s voice cut through the table. “But no, poison would leave collateral damage. This is designed for the effects, not to kill the person efficiently.
House snorted. “So, you’re saying…?”
Sherlock snorted in disdain before he continued. “Precision. A message. Administered through trust, exact timing. Everything has to be just right.” He paused. “Do try to keep up, House.”
House barked a laugh. “I’m at the finishing line but congrats, Holmes. You’re finally coming up with something useful.”
Sherlock mused to himself. “This preciseness means: Lab-grown.” He snapped a look at House. “Don’t mistake commentary for insight.”
House barked a laugh. “Fun seeing someone actually keep up.”
Sherlock nearly sneered. “That, disturbingly, makes you bearable.”
A corner of House’s mouth twitched in disgust. “Gross. But I take that compliment.”
“Don’t assume this makes us… collaborators.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, detective obvious.”
“Observe how the legs are tied, the pinning of the flayed skin. It’s sharp, precise,” said Hannibal as his gaze drifted over the photos on display. “The legs, the lesions… they all point to the peeled area of his chest. It brings to mind Titian’s ‘Flaying of Marsyas’ . Did the killer think himself as Apollo and our ambassador a victim of his own hubris? Regardless, there is a perverse artistry to the execution.”
Will’s eyes flicked to Hannibal briefly before looking at the group. “There is… care in how he arranged the body. Everything points to the chest - which shows intent.”
Sherlock pressed his fingertips together. “So a substance was imbued through close contact, the body arranged, the chest being the message.” He paused. “The body holds a secret. The autopsy needs to be redone.”
House nodded slightly in agreement, any mockery in him lost for once.
John grimaced slightly, as though he was seeing the photos in a new light.
Wilson pursed his lips, giving an uneasy nod.
IX - A Table Awaits
“I have to admit, I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies and all sorts of wounds but one dressed up for a… message is unsettling,” said John.
Wilson took a sip of coffee. “That I agree. I deal with cancer daily. Watched how it strips away people bit by bit, month by month. But this -” He gestured towards the photos, “-This feels worse. Do you see things like this often, Will?”
Will shrugged, gaze falling on the table. “Part of the job, I suppose.”
“One shouldn’t be accustomed to such things. In this profession, it is a burden yet you bear it with remarkable strength. Not everyone could,” said Hannibal gently.
Will’s shoulders seemed to loosen a little. His fingers lingered around the rim of his mug as he look from John to Wilson, then momentarily to Hannibal.
“You know, when this is over…” Will began haltingly. “We should have dinner. Hannibal’s a wonderful cook.”
John blinked, then gave a quick smile. “That sounds wonderful.”
Wilson gave a slight nod. “Yeah, sounds great.”
The scrape of Sherlock’s chair cut through the room. “Dinner?” Sherlock exclaimed in disbelief. His eyes flicked from John to Will, widening momentarily in a flicker of eerie realization.
“Nope.” House gave a sharp tap of his cane on the floor, his gaze cutting coldly to Will.
Hannibal inclined his head calmly. “It would be an honour. A meal shared serves to strengthen bonds, or begin new ones.”
Sherlock’s back stiffened as he tapped his fingers on his knuckles. His gaze lingered on John before shifting coldly to Will, burning with objection.
House looked down with a sigh, looking as though a biting retort was just behind his teeth. His glare which held the bite of a dare fixed on Wilson, who only straightened his back without turning to House.
Will gave a brief smile. He looked at John, then Wilson before settling his gaze on Hannibal.
“Dinner, then.”