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jessamygriffith: Hanlock AU - Sherlock/Hannibal Hannibal thinks he found someone who shares interest with him, but he is mistaken. Perfect fusion. I can envision an unholy steampunked alliance of fandoms between Burke and Hare, Sherlock, Frankenstein, Hannibal and the Old Firm of Croup and Vandemar from Neverwhere. O’er rooftops and alleys they roams The New Firm of Lecter and Holmes Lecter’s the slaughterer, Holmes is the thief Watson’s the doctor that dissects the beef. Doctor John Watson’s lips tightened. He twitched the bloody cloth further down. ‘What is this?’ Holmes arranged his lanky limbs against the door-frame and sucked in a lungful of cigarette smoke in lieu of an answer. The rasp of his exhalation was loud in the subterranean depths of this abandoned old canal-side London stable. Lecter’s face was smooth as he took up the conversational gauntlet left dangling by his cohort. ‘One male cadaver, of reasonable health.’ ‘Still warm,’ observed Dr. Watson. ‘Fresh, Doctor Watson,’ corrected Lecter. ‘Ex-sanguinated. It will keep longer.’ He stood with his hands clasped behind. The cuffs of his grey tweed were darkened, but he otherwise appeared perfectly turned out. ‘And…’ John prodded at the unfortunate’s torso. ‘Missing his liver?’ He dropped the cloth. ‘God help me, I said I wanted cadavers, and I haven’t asked questions about your methods of procurement.’ His soft Scottish burr became stronger as his outrage grew. Lecter watched with the detached calm of a scientist observing protozoa under his microscope as John flushed. ‘But mutilation –! The damage to the inner systems of humours! Would it be too much to ask why?’ John found himself trapped against the wooden cart with Holmes’ dry breath wafting over his face. The man’s pupils were huge with some drug, swallowing up the strange pale irises. ‘Too much, Doctor Watson, no, not too much at all,’ the young man sing-sang in a rapid patter. ‘I could tell you why, but you wouldn’t like it, no. Maybe you’d feel it wasn’t worth the price of knowing.’ He grinned, a wide toothy gash splitting his thin face. ‘Or maybe you would. Very satisfying, liver. Root of heat, after all.’ He pressed closer, a quivering line of warm body and smoky wool burning against John’s front. A stray splinter was stabbing John’s back. He didn’t have time for this. He had to get the cadaver safely away and locked up before his vulturine rivals at the university sniffed it out for their own purposes. He drew a quick breath and blew hard into Holmes’ face. The young man flinched and John shoved him off. He pulled his rubber apron on, effectively concealing his arousal. ‘Grow up. Learn some manners. Or I’ll slab you myself.’ Sherlock’s mouth turned down. ‘You wouldn’t.’ Lecter reached out and pulled Sherlock away by an elbow. ‘Don’t forget, he is a doctor.’ He nodded to John before steering his partner to the door. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, the smirk back on his face. ‘Seen lots of violence then, doc? Death? Why do you need all these bodies?’ John grinned, unamused. ‘Could be I dealt it. I had bad days. And none of your business.’ Beyond the gas-lamp, the pair were reduced to dark shapes. Lecter’s near silent laugh reached John’s ears. Sherlock stage-whispered, ‘He must think we’re idiots. Building a Creature? Obvious. He could consult with the best and only about the resurrection game.’ ‘Narcissist,’ Lecter returned. ‘Whatever.’ John waited until their footsteps had retreated. Their presence always made his neck prickle, which was why it was a pleasure to do business with them. A token reminder of better times when John hadn’t needed to create his own excitement. He sighed a little and heaved his leather case onto the cart, the bottles within rattling. It was time to salvage what he could.
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jessamygriffith: Hanlock AU - Sherlock/Hannibal Hannibal thinks he found someone who shares interest with him, but he is mistaken. Perfect fusion. I can envision an unholy steampunked alliance of fandoms between Burke and Hare, Sherlock, Frankenstein, Hannibal and the Old Firm of Croup and Vandemar from Neverwhere. O’er rooftops and alleys they roams The New Firm of Lecter and Holmes Lecter’s the slaughterer, Holmes is the thief Watson’s the doctor that dissects the beef. Doctor John Watson’s lips tightened. He twitched the bloody cloth further down. ‘What is this?’ Holmes arranged his lanky limbs against the door-frame and sucked in a lungful of cigarette smoke in lieu of an answer. The rasp of his exhalation was loud in the subterranean depths of this abandoned old canal-side London stable. Lecter’s face was smooth as he took up the conversational gauntlet left dangling by his cohort. ‘One male cadaver, of reasonable health.’ ‘Still warm,’ observed Dr. Watson. ‘Fresh, Doctor Watson,’ corrected Lecter. ‘Ex-sanguinated. It will keep longer.’ He stood with his hands clasped behind. The cuffs of his grey tweed were darkened, but he otherwise appeared perfectly turned out. ‘And…’ John prodded at the unfortunate’s torso. ‘Missing his liver?’ He dropped the cloth. ‘God help me, I said I wanted cadavers, and I haven’t asked questions about your methods of procurement.’ His soft Scottish burr became stronger as his outrage grew. Lecter watched with the detached calm of a scientist observing protozoa under his microscope as John flushed. ‘But mutilation –! The damage to the inner systems of humours! Would it be too much to ask why?’ John found himself trapped against the wooden cart with Holmes’ dry breath wafting over his face. The man’s pupils were huge with some drug, swallowing up the strange pale irises. ‘Too much, Doctor Watson, no, not too much at all,’ the young man sing-sang in a rapid patter. ‘I could tell you why, but you wouldn’t like it, no. Maybe you’d feel it wasn’t worth the price of knowing.’ He grinned, a wide toothy gash splitting his thin face. ‘Or maybe you would. Very satisfying, liver. Root of heat, after all.’ He pressed closer, a quivering line of warm body and smoky wool burning against John’s front. A stray splinter was stabbing John’s back. He didn’t have time for this. He had to get the cadaver safely away and locked up before his vulturine rivals at the university sniffed it out for their own purposes. He drew a quick breath and blew hard into Holmes’ face. The young man flinched and John shoved him off. He pulled his rubber apron on, effectively concealing his arousal. ‘Grow up. Learn some manners. Or I’ll slab you myself.’ Sherlock’s mouth turned down. ‘You wouldn’t.’ Lecter reached out and pulled Sherlock away by an elbow. ‘Don’t forget, he is a doctor.’ He nodded to John before steering his partner to the door. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, the smirk back on his face. ‘Seen lots of violence then, doc? Death? Why do you need all these bodies?’ John grinned, unamused. ‘Could be I dealt it. I had bad days. And none of your business.’ Beyond the gas-lamp, the pair were reduced to dark shapes. Lecter’s near silent laugh reached John’s ears. Sherlock stage-whispered, ‘He must think we’re idiots. Building a Creature? Obvious. He could consult with the best and only about the resurrection game.’ ‘Narcissist,’ Lecter returned. ‘Whatever.’ John waited until their footsteps had retreated. Their presence always made his neck prickle, which was why it was a pleasure to do business with them. A token reminder of better times when John hadn’t needed to create his own excitement. He sighed a little and heaved his leather case onto the cart, the bottles within rattling. It was time to salvage what he could.
Zoom
jessamygriffith: Hanlock AU - Sherlock/Hannibal Hannibal thinks he found someone who shares interest with him, but he is mistaken. Perfect fusion. I can envision an unholy steampunked alliance of fandoms between Burke and Hare, Sherlock, Frankenstein, Hannibal and the Old Firm of Croup and Vandemar from Neverwhere. O’er rooftops and alleys they roams The New Firm of Lecter and Holmes Lecter’s the slaughterer, Holmes is the thief Watson’s the doctor that dissects the beef. Doctor John Watson’s lips tightened. He twitched the bloody cloth further down. ‘What is this?’ Holmes arranged his lanky limbs against the door-frame and sucked in a lungful of cigarette smoke in lieu of an answer. The rasp of his exhalation was loud in the subterranean depths of this abandoned old canal-side London stable. Lecter’s face was smooth as he took up the conversational gauntlet left dangling by his cohort. ‘One male cadaver, of reasonable health.’ ‘Still warm,’ observed Dr. Watson. ‘Fresh, Doctor Watson,’ corrected Lecter. ‘Ex-sanguinated. It will keep longer.’ He stood with his hands clasped behind. The cuffs of his grey tweed were darkened, but he otherwise appeared perfectly turned out. ‘And…’ John prodded at the unfortunate’s torso. ‘Missing his liver?’ He dropped the cloth. ‘God help me, I said I wanted cadavers, and I haven’t asked questions about your methods of procurement.’ His soft Scottish burr became stronger as his outrage grew. Lecter watched with the detached calm of a scientist observing protozoa under his microscope as John flushed. ‘But mutilation –! The damage to the inner systems of humours! Would it be too much to ask why?’ John found himself trapped against the wooden cart with Holmes’ dry breath wafting over his face. The man’s pupils were huge with some drug, swallowing up the strange pale irises. ‘Too much, Doctor Watson, no, not too much at all,’ the young man sing-sang in a rapid patter. ‘I could tell you why, but you wouldn’t like it, no. Maybe you’d feel it wasn’t worth the price of knowing.’ He grinned, a wide toothy gash splitting his thin face. ‘Or maybe you would. Very satisfying, liver. Root of heat, after all.’ He pressed closer, a quivering line of warm body and smoky wool burning against John’s front. A stray splinter was stabbing John’s back. He didn’t have time for this. He had to get the cadaver safely away and locked up before his vulturine rivals at the university sniffed it out for their own purposes. He drew a quick breath and blew hard into Holmes’ face. The young man flinched and John shoved him off. He pulled his rubber apron on, effectively concealing his arousal. ‘Grow up. Learn some manners. Or I’ll slab you myself.’ Sherlock’s mouth turned down. ‘You wouldn’t.’ Lecter reached out and pulled Sherlock away by an elbow. ‘Don’t forget, he is a doctor.’ He nodded to John before steering his partner to the door. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, the smirk back on his face. ‘Seen lots of violence then, doc? Death? Why do you need all these bodies?’ John grinned, unamused. ‘Could be I dealt it. I had bad days. And none of your business.’ Beyond the gas-lamp, the pair were reduced to dark shapes. Lecter’s near silent laugh reached John’s ears. Sherlock stage-whispered, ‘He must think we’re idiots. Building a Creature? Obvious. He could consult with the best and only about the resurrection game.’ ‘Narcissist,’ Lecter returned. ‘Whatever.’ John waited until their footsteps had retreated. Their presence always made his neck prickle, which was why it was a pleasure to do business with them. A token reminder of better times when John hadn’t needed to create his own excitement. He sighed a little and heaved his leather case onto the cart, the bottles within rattling. It was time to salvage what he could.
Zoom
jessamygriffith: Hanlock AU - Sherlock/Hannibal Hannibal thinks he found someone who shares interest with him, but he is mistaken. Perfect fusion. I can envision an unholy steampunked alliance of fandoms between Burke and Hare, Sherlock, Frankenstein, Hannibal and the Old Firm of Croup and Vandemar from Neverwhere. O’er rooftops and alleys they roams The New Firm of Lecter and Holmes Lecter’s the slaughterer, Holmes is the thief Watson’s the doctor that dissects the beef. Doctor John Watson’s lips tightened. He twitched the bloody cloth further down. ‘What is this?’ Holmes arranged his lanky limbs against the door-frame and sucked in a lungful of cigarette smoke in lieu of an answer. The rasp of his exhalation was loud in the subterranean depths of this abandoned old canal-side London stable. Lecter’s face was smooth as he took up the conversational gauntlet left dangling by his cohort. ‘One male cadaver, of reasonable health.’ ‘Still warm,’ observed Dr. Watson. ‘Fresh, Doctor Watson,’ corrected Lecter. ‘Ex-sanguinated. It will keep longer.’ He stood with his hands clasped behind. The cuffs of his grey tweed were darkened, but he otherwise appeared perfectly turned out. ‘And…’ John prodded at the unfortunate’s torso. ‘Missing his liver?’ He dropped the cloth. ‘God help me, I said I wanted cadavers, and I haven’t asked questions about your methods of procurement.’ His soft Scottish burr became stronger as his outrage grew. Lecter watched with the detached calm of a scientist observing protozoa under his microscope as John flushed. ‘But mutilation –! The damage to the inner systems of humours! Would it be too much to ask why?’ John found himself trapped against the wooden cart with Holmes’ dry breath wafting over his face. The man’s pupils were huge with some drug, swallowing up the strange pale irises. ‘Too much, Doctor Watson, no, not too much at all,’ the young man sing-sang in a rapid patter. ‘I could tell you why, but you wouldn’t like it, no. Maybe you’d feel it wasn’t worth the price of knowing.’ He grinned, a wide toothy gash splitting his thin face. ‘Or maybe you would. Very satisfying, liver. Root of heat, after all.’ He pressed closer, a quivering line of warm body and smoky wool burning against John’s front. A stray splinter was stabbing John’s back. He didn’t have time for this. He had to get the cadaver safely away and locked up before his vulturine rivals at the university sniffed it out for their own purposes. He drew a quick breath and blew hard into Holmes’ face. The young man flinched and John shoved him off. He pulled his rubber apron on, effectively concealing his arousal. ‘Grow up. Learn some manners. Or I’ll slab you myself.’ Sherlock’s mouth turned down. ‘You wouldn’t.’ Lecter reached out and pulled Sherlock away by an elbow. ‘Don’t forget, he is a doctor.’ He nodded to John before steering his partner to the door. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, the smirk back on his face. ‘Seen lots of violence then, doc? Death? Why do you need all these bodies?’ John grinned, unamused. ‘Could be I dealt it. I had bad days. And none of your business.’ Beyond the gas-lamp, the pair were reduced to dark shapes. Lecter’s near silent laugh reached John’s ears. Sherlock stage-whispered, ‘He must think we’re idiots. Building a Creature? Obvious. He could consult with the best and only about the resurrection game.’ ‘Narcissist,’ Lecter returned. ‘Whatever.’ John waited until their footsteps had retreated. Their presence always made his neck prickle, which was why it was a pleasure to do business with them. A token reminder of better times when John hadn’t needed to create his own excitement. He sighed a little and heaved his leather case onto the cart, the bottles within rattling. It was time to salvage what he could.
Zoom

jessamygriffith:

Hanlock AU - Sherlock/Hannibal

Hannibal thinks he found someone who shares interest with him, but he is mistaken.

Perfect fusion.

I can envision an unholy steampunked alliance of fandoms between Burke and Hare, Sherlock, Frankenstein, Hannibal and the Old Firm of Croup and Vandemar from Neverwhere.

O’er rooftops and alleys they roams

The New Firm of Lecter and Holmes

Lecter’s the slaughterer, Holmes is the thief

Watson’s the doctor that dissects the beef.

Doctor John Watson’s lips tightened. He twitched the bloody cloth further down. ‘What is this?’

Holmes arranged his lanky limbs against the door-frame and sucked in a lungful of cigarette smoke in lieu of an answer. The rasp of his exhalation was loud in the subterranean depths of this abandoned old canal-side London stable. Lecter’s face was smooth as he took up the conversational gauntlet left dangling by his cohort. ‘One male cadaver, of reasonable health.’

‘Still warm,’ observed Dr. Watson.

‘Fresh, Doctor Watson,’ corrected Lecter. ‘Ex-sanguinated. It will keep longer.’ He stood with his hands clasped behind. The cuffs of his grey tweed were darkened, but he otherwise appeared perfectly turned out.

‘And…’ John prodded at the unfortunate’s torso. ‘Missing his liver?’ He dropped the cloth. ‘God help me, I said I wanted cadavers, and I haven’t asked questions about your methods of procurement.’ His soft Scottish burr became stronger as his outrage grew. Lecter watched with the detached calm of a scientist observing protozoa under his microscope as John flushed. ‘But mutilation –! The damage to the inner systems of humours! Would it be too much to ask why?’

John found himself trapped against the wooden cart with Holmes’ dry breath wafting over his face. The man’s pupils were huge with some drug, swallowing up the strange pale irises. ‘Too much, Doctor Watson, no, not too much at all,’ the young man sing-sang in a rapid patter. ‘I could tell you why, but you wouldn’t like it, no. Maybe you’d feel it wasn’t worth the price of knowing.’ He grinned, a wide toothy gash splitting his thin face. ‘Or maybe you would. Very satisfying, liver. Root of heat, after all.’ He pressed closer, a quivering line of warm body and smoky wool burning against John’s front.

A stray splinter was stabbing John’s back. He didn’t have time for this. He had to get the cadaver safely away and locked up before his vulturine rivals at the university sniffed it out for their own purposes. He drew a quick breath and blew hard into Holmes’ face. The young man flinched and John shoved him off. He pulled his rubber apron on, effectively concealing his arousal. ‘Grow up. Learn some manners. Or I’ll slab you myself.’

Sherlock’s mouth turned down. ‘You wouldn’t.’

Lecter reached out and pulled Sherlock away by an elbow. ‘Don’t forget, he is a doctor.’ He nodded to John before steering his partner to the door. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, the smirk back on his face.

‘Seen lots of violence then, doc? Death? Why do you need all these bodies?’

John grinned, unamused. ‘Could be I dealt it. I had bad days. And none of your business.’

Beyond the gas-lamp, the pair were reduced to dark shapes. Lecter’s near silent laugh reached John’s ears. Sherlock stage-whispered, ‘He must think we’re idiots. Building a Creature? Obvious. He could consult with the best and only about the resurrection game.’

‘Narcissist,’ Lecter returned.

‘Whatever.’

John waited until their footsteps had retreated. Their presence always made his neck prickle, which was why it was a pleasure to do business with them. A token reminder of better times when John hadn’t needed to create his own excitement. He sighed a little and heaved his leather case onto the cart, the bottles within rattling. It was time to salvage what he could.

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