Chapter Text
Sherlock looked at the black and white photo of Will Graham, mutilated in a hospital bed, and felt a deep twinge of pity for the man. Lecter had carved his testament of their friendship so deeply into the man, that Will Graham would have an ugly reminder of it for the rest of his life.
In his own perverted and twisted way, Hannibal Lecter had kept his word. Sherlock followed Will Graham's case with every breaking development, and saw through it to the end when Graham was vindicated and released an innocent man. The subsequent confrontation and capture of Dr. Lecter was violent and tragic. The sordid details of his activities and the horrors he had committed were splashed on the headlines of newspapers around the world, and he had earned the unoriginal nickname of “Hannibal the Cannibal”.
Sherlock saw the famous picture of Hannibal Lecter in a straight jacket and barred mask, sitting in the cell that had eluded him for too long. He felt no victory at the image, and he didn't think Will Graham did either.
Sherlock placed the photograph into the drawer that held the case files and evidence of Lecter's crimes and closed it. He then locked it. He didn't want to look at it again.
Sherlock heaved a sigh and looked around the blank room inside his memory palace. There was still a crack left on the wall, much smaller than it had been previously, but deep. Sherlock ran his fingers over the faint scar on his side. They resembled each other.
There were two pinpricks of red light that shone from within the darkness of the crack.
Sherlock looked to the centre of the blank room and saw the chair. It was empty.
He walked out of that room and took what small victory he could.
***
Hannibal Lecter sent him a card every Christmas, and Sherlock kept them in an old biscuit tin on top of the mantel of his fireplace. He never replied to them, but came to expect them every year.
Sherlock kept up to date with the articles Lecter published within his cell at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He even had a good chuckle over Dr. Frederick Chilton's misguided rantings on what kind of psychopath Lecter was. The man was a fool and knew nothing. Lecter was unquantifiable, and Sherlock knew he toyed with Chilton because Chilton was incredibly offensive on two counts: both stupid and rude.
Sherlock had been tempted every now and again to place a phone call to Lecter. For a scandalous serial killer, Hannibal Lecter was still allowed many privileges in his life sentence within an institution. The allure of the game and the memories of how exciting it had been tugged faintly on him.
But Hannibal Lecter was in a cell and the playing field wasn't level. The pain and the fear of that time had no hold over him anymore, because Sherlock didn't linger over emotion. He knew it was abnormal, and probably unhealthy that his disinterest stemmed from a sense of boredom, but he had decided long ago that he didn't like being psychoanalyzed.
He followed the Buffalo Bill murders with some interest, but was distracted by his own work. Clarice Starling came across as a bright and determined young woman, a spark amidst the tedium. Sherlock knew Lecter would toy with her, but ultimately he wouldn't harm her in his own way of helping her like he had Graham. With that concern out of his mind, his attention turned closer to home.
He was having tea with Watson and Mary when the package arrived.
“What's that?” Watson asked.
Mrs. Hudson shrugged, passing it to Sherlock. “I don't know, love. It was just sitting in the hallway with the rest of the post.”
Sherlock tore the brown paper wrapping and considered the plain box. It wasn't too large, it was light, but sturdy and he puzzled over what could be inside as he prised off the lid.
“Oh, Sherlock,” Mary gasped, “who sent that to you?”
Inside was a beautiful violin. Sherlock ran his fingers over the polished wood before picking it up by the neck. He admired it, turning it this way and that, and then plucked experimentally on the A string. It was perfectly tuned.
Sherlock grinned to himself, the others standing around curiously, and he searched inside the box for a card. He held it up to the light and read aloud, “For your trophy collection.”
He plucked the strings with his fingers, picking out a wandering tune. The sound was beautiful. He smirked at Watson. “Hannibal Lecter has escaped.”
***
There was a hush in the theatre as the lights went up on stage and the audience held their breath. There was always the moment, right as the conductor lifted his baton, a bubble of anticipation and silence that seemed to stretch on for a delicate eternity.
And then it was broken by a beautiful sound, the void suddenly being filled with a crashing wave of energy and life as the orchestra sent up its musical call, and one believed in that moment that the sound reached the heavens.
The blonde gentleman leaned back into his seat, a finger resting against his temple as he soaked in the sensation, a smirk fluttering around his lips. Inside his private box, it felt as if he were the only being in a private universe.
He closed his eyes as the London Symphony Orchestra thundered below him, feeling the jubilant swell of the symphony's first movement. Though he had a false nose covering his true features, he sensed something in the air and gently sniffed. It was the very faint perfume of a flower...
...a trillium. His smirk deepened into a grin and he lazily opened his eyes.
“Sir,” the voice was quiet beside him. He held out his hand and the usher placed the card between his fingers. Though it was dark in the theatre, his excellent vision could very clearly see what was written.
Stay out of England.
He chuckled at the card and tucked it into the breast pocket of his suit. His eyes scanned the audience, two pinpricks of red light in the darkness. They rested on another man in the box across from his. Their gazes locked.
Hannibal slowly nodded to Sherlock from across the theatre, the only two who mattered in that space. He could see the returning smirk on the other man's face.
Sherlock held up a wineglass in the air, and Hannibal raised his in answer.
Silently, they both mouthed the word, “Sveikata.”
END