bakerstreetbabes:

Hanlock AU - Sherlock/Hannibal

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

Dying.

The tongues were in the oven, the sauce simmering on the stovetop. A reduction of blackberries and the vitreous fluid from inside the eyeballs he’d found in the fridge.

Mr. Holmes was fascinating, in his own way. Coarse and rude, but Hannibal was willing to overlook that for the time being; it was unusual to be more interested in the workings of someone’s mind than the brain it was housed in, especially when they were so abrasive.

But then he’d found the body parts, all neatly catalogued and organised inside the fridge. He was surprised Mr. Holmes’ room-mate, and a doctor on top of that, allowed it, but they did have a rather unconventional relationship.

He was humming quietly, Donizetti’s “Il Campanello”, when he heard the door opening.

“Welcome home, Mr. Holmes.” He smirked slightly at the silly rhyme. Holmes quirked an eyebrow, acknowledging that they were both above the low-brow humour.

“Dr. Lecter, what a surprise. Why are you here?”

“I took the liberty of preparing a supper for you and Dr. Watson. Does he indulge as well, or just turn a blind eye when you do it?”

For a moment, Sherlock looked off his footing. Hannibal fixed the image in his mind, suspecting it was a rare thing indeed.

“Indulge? In eating?”

“Eating the… finer things.” Hannibal waved one hand over the pot. “I found the tongues and the eyeballs in the refrigerator. It’s rare when one finds people with a common interest.”

The expression Holmes gave him was one Hannibal had never seen. It was an impossible combination of mild revulsion, fascination, and exultation.

“Aha. I thought so.” The detective nearly shouted.

“Thought what?”

“Your interest in a more esoteric diet. From the way you held your knife at the restaurant last night.”

Hannibal looked down at his hands.

“Ah, yes, of course. Well, I do hope this doesn’t make things awkward. It would be a shame to… waste that brain of yours.”

He grinned at this, and for a moment Hannibal was reminded of some predatory cat. Those strange, pale eyes glinted in the dim light.

“And give up the experience of a lifetime?” He leaned over the counter, and dipped his finger into the saucepan. Hannibal had to restrain himself from rapping Holmes’ knuckles with a spoon. “I think not.”

(via randomsociopath)

capt-john-h-watson-md:

sherlockspeare:

Because Sherlock is glancing at John before he answers to Mrs Hudson’s “I wish you could have worn the antlers.” and then John is smiling and looks so happy.
Don’t know what I’m saying as always.

John doesn’t need to use his imagination. He’s seen Sherlock in the antlers.

The soft, broken strains of Sherlock practicing float out of the lounge, drawing John in. He leans against the door for a moment, studying Sherlock in silence. He must shift his weight and cause the floorboards to creak or something, because Sherlock pauses and looks up, smiling at him.

“You’re going to make her evening, you know that? You’re not as cold as you’d like people to think.”

Sherlock huffs, trying (and failing) to hide a smile. “Not for her. She’s different.”

“You going to wear the antlers, then?”

The look on Sherlock’s face is priceless. A mask of unguarded horror. “Certainly not. They’re ridiculous. Even for Mrs. Hudson.”

John grins. “Have you even tried them on? C’mon, humour me.”

Sherlock narrows his gaze, but John continues to smile passively, holding the antlers at arm’s length. He shakes them lightly, causing the bells to jingle. It’s a bit like playing with a cat.

Before John even has time to notice, Sherlock’s snatched the antlers out of John’s hand and pulled them onto his head. They’re mussing his curls in an entirely new way, and he’s right, he looks completely absurd. John can’t help the barking laugh that escapes his lips.

“See?!” Sherlock grumbles and pulls them off, throwing them onto the sofa. “There’s no way anyone is ever going to see me wearing them.”

There’s a playful glint in John’s eye. “Someone just did, Sherlock?”

The irritation melts off Sherlock’s face, fades into something softer, indefinable. “Yes, but you’re different.”

(via sherlockianbatch)

inchells:

The sun and the moon. (er night sky?)

inspired by  this!

Dawn and dusk. Dusk and dawn. Since the beginning of time, that’s all they’ve had. A few scant minutes per cycle, twice a day.

John is drowsy, pink and aflame with oncoming sleep. Sherlock thinks he’s beautiful that way. He warms them both - bright rays of sunset reflecting off Sherlock’s silver surface, casting the faintest hint of pink across his cheekbones.

A more sentimental Moon would say Sherlock was blushing.

As John sets, as Sherlock rises, for a moment they are level in the sky. They reach out to one another, fingertips locked together, as if gripping each other this way will prolong it. And for a moment, everything is perfect. Everything is in balance, their eyes meeting, lips smiling.

And then Sherlock feels the pull, feels the sky calling him. Feels John falling, setting for the night. They cling together, hands tight, for as long as they can.

At least there’s sunrise tomorrow.

(via kissesjohnlockandgrell)