#storms series

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Storms series by Elvendork

Johnlock Love Letters #2081

In pursuit of a murder suspect, Sherlock takes a tumble on the ice, and John must patch him up when he refuses to go to hospital. Some things never change, even when everything around them does.

[lovecrimevariations]

The Feathered-Fangéd-Fawn

Chapter 2

The moment Hannibal meets Bella Crawford, he knows two things. First, he does not want to kill her. Second, she is most certainly going to die.

He finds Baltmoor an adequate place to settle. Still he does his best. He begins to befriend the townspeople, the ones he can stand, and makes himself known as a cultured and respectable man. Captain Crawford introduces them to their resident doctor, a very capable woman named Alana Bloom. She rakes her eyes across his body when they are introduced, and it does not go unnoticed.

“I am glad to be among such good company,” Hannibal tells her. “The last doctor I worked with was not nearly so beautiful.”

He says that last part just to see if he can make her blush, and he does. She presses the back of her hand to her cheek and quietly excuses herself.

“Careful, Doctor Lecter,” Jack chuckles, “she’s married.”

Hannibal masterfully resists from rolling his eyes.

“I may flirt from time to time, but I assure you it is entirely innocent,” Hannibal says, instead of I’m only charming you idiots so I can kill your neighbours without suspicion.

Quietly he begins killing the townspeople. Only the rude ones first, the ones that won’t be mourned when their bodies are found. The first few are groundwork, simple kills that will build hushed alarm instead of instant hysteria. After that he begins to get inventive. Tableaus and sculptures designed to intrigue as well as horrify. A corrupt judge is left in the courthouse with his eyes plucked and his brain scooped out, weighing heavy in the bronze scales he holds in his stiff hands. Justice is Blind. That sort of thing. It's simple, Hannibal knows that, but without Will to add his paintbrush none of these kills can be a great work of art. It feels empty making these designs without him, unfinished, but Hannibal knows there is an end to his means. There must be evidence of a monster before it presents itself, after all.

Rumours of said monster in their midst begin to rise. The conversations usually go something like this:

‘Did you hear?’ ‘Who now?’ ‘It was the cello instructor. Strung up like his own instrument.’ ‘What monster is behind this?’ ‘They say it’s Dr. Gideon. That he broke free from the madhouse to take his revenge.’ ‘Nonsense. This is a real monster. Look at the bodies.’ ‘It’s not natural, what it does to them.’ ‘Whatever ‘it’ is.’ ‘I wonder who’s next.’

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