CouldBeCannibal

An AU where Will need to leave the FBI for a while, and Hannibal need a new secretary. Someone to fetch coffee, answer phones, file paperwork, log patient appointments, and be at his beck and call. It’s simple. Clean. Safe. At least, that’s what Will tells himself, until it isnt. Day by day, it gets harder to ignore the way Hannibal watches him, harder to refuse his requests until they become demands. What happens when Will makes too many mistakes with the type writer? Based off of the 2002 movie Secretary

This fic isn't done, but I'm planning to release it on my Ao3 when I'm able to I'm already at 10,000 words of scrambled scenes so I'm getting close but just for you guys here is my Ao3 for you all in the meantime. I might post snippets of the progress here on Tumblr if this gets enough attention.

Sherlock fandom. Part 1 Part 2

A Girl’s Touch

Thunder and lightning wakes John. The wind is making the windowpanes rattle. He is icy cold. On his left wrist an icicle feels his pulse point.

“That’s insane and you know it,” he scolds himself.

“John.”

He knows that voice. Would recognise it anywhere.

“Sherlock?” he croaks and opens his eyes. “What the hell happened?”

To John’s astonishment he’s lying in the bed where he found Sherlock, who sits crossed legged by his side. The icicle is in fact Sherlock’s thumb, still holding on to John’s wrist. John tries to focus on that beloved face, but his vision is quite blurry.

“It takes a while getting used to. Close your eyes and rest,” Sherlock says softly and squeezes John’s hand.

“But what about – “

“Later, John.”

***

His shoulder is on fire. Not literally but it certainly feels like it. John didn’t see the sniper. The pain is a shock. It’s a violent sort of pain. He can almost hear the damage the bullet did to him.

The cane. Where is his cane? He needs it. Instead, his gun is in his hand. What does he need a gun for? With narrowed eyes, he peers out of the window and over to the opposite building. Sherlock! He is about to take that bloody pill. The cabbie is watching him intently, holding a similar capsule. John fires the gun.

Sherlock is standing on the roof of Barts. He stretches out his arms. The image of a gigantic bat fills John’s mind. Sherlock jumps.

A fourposter bed with green curtains. Like a male Snow White, Sherlock lies on the bed. Dark curls against white pillows. His pale face is reminiscent of marble. Sherlock’s lips aren’t pink anymore, but pale like his face and tinted with blue. Dead.

***

John wakes with a cry, but although he lies in a comfortable bed, he’s cold. To the bone. Still, he doesn’t freeze or shiver. Sherlock’s chilly presence is comforting. He’s still holding his thumb over John’s pulse point. John tries to steady himself, which takes no effort at all, surprisingly enough. There’s no racing heart or thudding pulse to fill the silence. Only serene and eerie soundlessness.

“Have you figured it out yet, John?” Sherlock asks.

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” 

“Observe,” the detective commands.

Cold, but not freezing. Feeling a calmness that should be unsettling but isn’t. No heartbeats, ergo no pulse. Dead.

The panic that normally would rise in him, is blessedly absent. He looks up at Sherlock, who smiles at him. Fondly. Which should be terrifying but isn’t. 

“I knew you’d get there,” Sherlock says and lies down beside John.

“We’re dead,” John states flatly.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees.

“How did it happen?” John wants to know.

It’s liberating and a tad bit unnerving to feel so calm. Like, there’s nothing more to worry about. Which is true. Nothing can hurt him or Sherlock anymore now. 

Lightning strikes, illuminating Sherlock’s face. A smile forms on his lips, and John knows that if he was alive, a flood of relief would’ve washed over him.

“The little girl’s touch did it,” Sherlock says. “She must have touched you too after you realised it was me lying here.”

“What little girl?” John asks bewildered.

“The East Wind, John. Do keep up!”

The exasperation in Sherlock’s voice almost makes John laugh.

“Nobody’s called that, Sherlock! Besides, there was no girl.”

“Yes, and yes, John. She told me it was her name. You should know better than to think I'm making stuff up like this.”

Sherlock looks indignant and withdraws to the other side of the bed.

“He truly believes what he’s saying,” John thinks to himself.

He reaches out his hand to touch Sherlock’s upper arm. Sherlock is stiff like the poles surrounding the bed.

“Hey,” John says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, but I haven’t seen anyone but you since we sat foot in this godforsaken place.”

“She likes to sit in the rocking chair in the nursery,” Sherlock mumbles.

John startles when the wind increases. Outside something cracks, followed by a heavy thud. It sounds like a large branch has fallen to the ground. Hit by lightning possibly.

John plays Sherlock’s words in his head once more: “She likes to sit in the rocking chair in the nursery.”

The chair that moved. The girl sat in it when John was in there!

“I saw the chair move, but I couldn’t see her,” John explains.

“Pity. She’s quite mischievous. Reminds me of myself when I was a boy. The name too. Peculiar, like mine and Mycroft’s,” Sherlock muses.

“The East Wind is even more – “

“Not that. What it means in Greek. Her name is Eurus.”

THE END

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I will not be elaborating on this point.