Chapter Text
About fifteen minutes after Abigail left the apartment, Hannibal woke Will up with some homemade chicken soup. Will awoke to the feeling of Hannibal’s lips brushing gently against his forehead. They had fallen into this routine that neither man questioned or needed to question. It felt like falling but in the most graceful and natural way. They had killed for each other, lied for each other, and bled for each other. So during the invasion, when Hannibal said he forgave Will for betraying him, and asked if Will would forgive him too, Will said yes.
Will didn’t remember much after that as he had passed out from blood loss and pain. He vaguely remembered the plane ride to France and the train ride to London. All he remembers is Hannibal. How relieved he looked when Will forgave him. The love in his eyes when he realized that it was real, that Will wasn’t just playing along to get him to trust him.
“I made you soup.” Hannibal said, rising. He gathered the tray in his hands and sat on the edge of the bed, tray in his lap. “Unfortunately, since we are trying to keep a low profile, I couldn’t procure the quality of ingredients I usually prefer.”
“No, it’s fine.” Will assured, accepting the spoon of steaming soup in his mouth. Hannibal seemed content to feed Will himself, not offering the bowl to the scruffy man to feed himself. After being stabbed and moving halfway across the world, Will had gotten sick due to his weakened immune system. Hannibal had taken to nursing Will back to health after the move was complete as to not draw suspicion. Now Hannibal was able to coddle Will all he wanted, though both men knew it was hardly necessary.
After the bowl of soup had been drained and Hannibal was satisfied with Will’s cooperation in eating, the psychiatrist left the room and returned with a bowl of water, towels, and a first aid kit. Will stripped himself of his shirt to bare his bandaged abdomen.
“You didn’t bleed through your bandages today.” Hannibal said with a slight smile. Practiced hands undid the bandages revealing the expertly-sewn wound. “Your stitches are all intact as well. You are making a quick recovery, Will.”
“I would be recovering quicker if I hadn’t been stabbed.” Will retorted sarcastically, but he didn’t miss the hardening of Hannibal’s brow. Hannibal opened his mouth to defend himself, but Will beat him to it. “Listen, I know why you did it and I know you don’t regret it. I’m not mad at you Hannibal. I understand.”
Hannibal sighed, a soft smile on his face. “I’m glad you understand.” Hannibal quickly and efficiently cleaned and redressed his wound. He took Will’s face in his hands, seeming far too intent to just look into his eyes, blue as a forest stream. Will stared back, feeling whole. Hannibal smiled softly before standing.
“I need to finish making dinner.” he said. The older man removed himself from the bed. Collecting the empty soup bowl and used bandages, Hannibal retreated back to the safety of the kitchen.
See, Will understood Hannibal now. Maybe more than Hannibal understood himself. Will sees now. And neither man wants to admit how much this scares them.
~~
The dark haired girl with the scarf around her throat left 221 Baker Street at 2:17 pm. He watched her pull her jacket around herself to keep out the cold. The man blew a bubble with his gum. It popped.
New tenants in 221? This could be fun.
Or annoying.
He needed Sherlock’s full attention. The detective couldn’t have any distractions. Down turned eyes stared at 221 Baker Street. In less than a second, he weighed every likely pro and con of the new tenants, and determined them to be an obnoxious obstacle in taking down Sherlock Holmes. He would have to eliminate this threat himself.
~~
*Two Days Later*
“Sherlock!” John called through the apartment. Marching into the living room, the veteran looked rather annoyed. Sherlock was curled into a ball on the couch, pouting like a child, in nothing but a robe and boxers. Sherlock couldn’t see John, as his back was turned to the world, but he could tell the man had an annoyed look on his face.
“Sherlock, get dressed.” John huffed, utterly put-out. “Please.”
“Why? What for? What’s the point?” Sherlock grumbled viciously.
“The neighbors have invited us to dinner.” John pressed. “I thought you’d at least want to meet them.”
The truth was Sherlock did want to meet them, but on his terms. He’d wanted to catch them in the foyer, analyze them, perhaps creep them out enough to want to move again. But he hasn't gotten the chance yet. Even the girl, who takes daily walks, is always in and out in a hurry. And Sherlock has been busy with cases and other important things to really care.
This was not on his terms. This was an invitation by them, to go to their flat, to eat their food.
Sherlock threw a pointed glare at John over his shoulder. John only met his icy gaze with a deadpan stare. After a few moments of silence, John sighed dramatically.
“Please, Sherlock?” he said, softer than before. “Just one meeting, one meeting, and you don’t have to talk to them ever again.”
Sherlock simply held his glare.
“...Just one?” he cursed the hesitation in his voice.
“Yes, yes, just one.” John sagged in relief, knowing he’d won.
“... fine.” Sherlock stood abruptly, ignoring the rush of blood to his brain, and stalked to his room. He threw open the closet dramatically, and tossed a plain navy button down and black dress pants onto the bed. Pulling the clothes on perhaps a bit too harshly, Sherlock was out the door and back in the living room in less than three minutes.
Without a word to John, Sherlock threw open the door to the stairs and was already flying down the stairs at a pace too fast to be casual. John stayed silent for an annoyed beat but eventually followed after the taller man. Sherlock stopped in front of the door of 221c. He quickly ran his hands through his curly hair before knocking sharply in a rhythmic way.
A moment of tense silence. Then, a scruffy man opened the door. He had brown hair as curly as Sherlocks and a stubble along his jaw. His clothes were plain but of a fine material, suggesting that they were financially stable but not exactly wealthy. His posture suggested he was in pain, perhaps a chronic illness or recent injury. He favored his right shoulder, suggesting another injury - older, however - in his left shoulder. But other than that he seemed plain… almost blank. Like the Woman.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” The man had an American accent. Foreigner. He held out his hand and John shook it. He shook Sherlock’s hand. The shake was firm, showing he was confident, despite his quiet voice and lack of eye contact. He wasn’t nervous, then. “I’m Will Bloom. Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for having us.” John replied, seeming pleasantly surprised. Sherlock said nothing, still examining the man, Will.
“Uh, please, come in.” Will widened the door and made his way down to the basement flat. Sherlock closed the door behind him, feeling like a casket being sealed.
The flat had been revived - once a barren cement tomb now a softly lit and cozy home. Soft rugs covered the cold floors, china cabinets and bookshelves lined the dining room. In the center was a large wooden table with an intricate center piece. Adjacent to the dining room was the kitchen, where another man was cooking. The man turned at their entry of the apartment and immediately Sherlock was on edge.
Sherlock was never one to simply “trust his instincts”, but this man put him on edge. Everything about him was meticulous - intentionally so. Like Will, he was too plain, blank. Like the Woman. The man’s cold brown eyes were just like His. His posture screamed more than confidence, it screamed predator. His face was smiling sweetly but his eyes were not.
“Hello, and thank you for coming.” The man - no, not a man, a monster - turned off his stove and offered his hand to John who took the offering politely, not seeing that he was shaking hands with a beast. “I am Dr. Hannibal Bloom. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“John Watson.” John returned politely. “Pleasure is all mine.”
Sherlock’s gaze wandered momentarily back to Will, trying to gauge how much he knew, but his face was just as masked, unreadable. Only when their eyes met, blue on green, did a slight flicker of knowledge glint in the foreigner’s eyes.
Sherlock suddenly felt surrounded. John was shaking hands with some kind of creature wearing a man’s face. Next to Sherlock was another man, seemingly human enough but too guarded to be completely removed from the monster. Was he a victim trying to survive the beast? Was this invisible body language a silent cry for help? Or was he an accomplice? And if so, to what?
“You’ve really livened the place up.” Sherlock remarked coldly, looking around the small flat. Will flashed a polite smile, though it was too fast to be genuine. Hannibal held a kinder smile, one that drew you in like poison-sweet honey.
“Why thank you, Mr. …?” Hannibal inquired.
“Oh, how rude of us, sorry.” John stumbled embarrassedly. He shot a look at Sherlock. Sherlock simply acted uninterested, trying to keep a low profile.
“Sherlock Holmes.” the detective answered, meeting the monster’s gaze while fighting the urge to look away. A hand reached toward him and it was all Sherlock could do to not flinch away. Instead, he firmly shook it in what he hoped was a confident way. Hannibal’s face remained calm and kind, but there was the slightest twinkle of amusement in Will’s eyes.
“Dinner is almost ready.” Hannibal announced happily. “Mr. Watson?”
“Just John is fine, thank you.” John interjected.
“John. Could you help me in the kitchen for a moment while Will and Mr. Holmes set the table?” The monster looked up expectantly.
“Oh, uh, of course.” John looked back at Sherlock in a pleading manner to behave himself during their short separation, clearly trying to impress Hannibal and his partner.
Will grabbed a stack of plates and silverware, handing the knives and forks to Sherlock. He accepted the cutlery, momentarily grateful for leaving Hannibal’s presence, but was immediately on edge again once John disappeared into the kitchen with the creature. Sherlock forced himself to follow Will into the dining room. Will set the plates in their places, and Sherlock placed the silverware alongside each plate. Carefully, Will stepped into Sherlock’s space, making his blood run faster once again.
“He’s not going to eat you.” Will whispered softly. Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was with irony or not. It must have shown on his face that ominous statement made him even more nervous. Will chuckled and added, “That was a joke. Just be polite, and don’t worry so much. Stay out of his way and he’ll stay out of yours.”
And with that, Will went back to pretending to be oblivious. A bullet train of thought shot through his brain, but he immediately halted it. For now. Will glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as a final warning. Right. Masks on. Sherlock allowed his thoughts to play in the background as he turned off his emotions and allowed for only ration and logic to dictate his mind.
“Many apologies for the wait.” Hannibal entered the room after John, carrying a large pot. Behind him trailed the girl with dark hair - Abby, John had told him - , who was carrying a bowl with some sort of porridge. Father and daughter set their respective dishes on the table. Hannibal took a seat at the head of the table, Will and their daughter to his right and Sherlock and John to his left.
“Veal osso buco with risotto alla milanese.” Hannibal served the meal, a rice dish and cuts of pork leg. Hannibal stood closely behind Sherlock while serving his portion and he felt himself tensing again before Will caught his eye and he forced himself to relax. Despite the overwhelming emptiness of it all, Sherlock found himself comforted by Will. Perhaps it was simply the comfort of someone else acknowledging the monster in the room, or how Will seemed the only one to be able to tame it.
After finishing serving everyone, Hannibal took his seat at the head of the table. Will and Abby began eating. Will ate with no problem, but the girl’s fork halted just before her lips for the barest of moments before she too ate.
That’s when it clicked.
John was beginning to eat beside him. Unaware of the owner of the flesh he consumed. Sherlock simply sat and watched in horror. A man usually so unbothered by the grotesque - but this was a different kind of evil. The forbidden.
“Oh wow!” John exclaimed. “This is amazing, Dr. Bloom. Don’t you agree Sherlock?” John looked at Sherlock expectantly, his eyes betraying his slight worry.
Sherlock felt the color drain from his face as the whole table looked at him with anticipation. He gripped his fork tighter. He felt those cold brown eyes on him again, drawing the life out of him while his smile said everything was alright…
Will caught his eyes again. ‘Be polite’, ‘stay out of his way and he’ll stay out of yours’ echoed in his head.
“Ah, many apologies.” Sherlock used the tone only ever reserved for a posh meeting with Mycroft and the Royal government. John raised an eyebrow. “My mind has not been with me today, stress from my work and such.”
Sherlock cut a slice of meat off the bone and brought it to his lips, hesitating for a second as his mind screamed that this was wrong-
No.
Not his mind.
His brother.
Mycroft’s voice telling him this was wrong.
Mycroft’s voice and not Sherlock’s, because of the knowledge of what he was about to consume, because Sherlock was curious. Curious of what it would be like, what it would feel like, what it would taste like to consume this meat.
Abby looked away. Will smiled slightly behind his glass of wine. Hannibal watched with intense curiosity while maintaining his ever so fake masks. Sherlock placed the meat in his mouth, and was surprised at how soft the human flesh was.
"It's delicious."