#beenamedwatson

M E M E

Send "✖" If you think that I'm playing my character properly.

Send in a ❝❞ ...

(41)

✧ for our muses having dinner together

       "For the next course," Lecter said with a winning smile as he returned to the table, plates balanced on one arm and a gravy boat in the other hand. "venison fillets with a crème de cassis sauce, served with watercress, fresh Belgian endives and grilled morel mushrooms."

       He poured the dark maroon sauce over the two fillets on Joan's plate - generous but not excessive - a touch slower than was, perhaps, necessary, taking the extra moment in close proximity to take in her scent. Were she a different woman, he'd have likely taken the moment to comment on her perfume, but Joan Watson more often bore the aroma of gunpowder and mixes of volatile chemicals than the soft scents of flowers and spices. Lecter found it quite charming, but certainly not something to be brought up in polite conversation.

       He watched Joan with satisfaction as she took her first bite of venison (truly venison, in fact - a rarity in and of itself, but fillets were a cut of meat so terribly difficult to substitute, and the gamey flavor of a slain stag was one that couldn't be replaced though the stock used in the sauce was from less conventional sources,) her expression betraying before her words that she enjoyed it immensely.

Send me anons as my kid.

       ”I’ll get you one in a moment, little one.” Lecter looked up briefly from his cooking to his son, a second’s warm glance before he looked back to the quite finicky work he was doing. He was long past questioning the things Sherlock put Joan up to in the name of solving cases     he was plenty familiar with unusual mental exercises, of course, but there were occasions where Sherlock Holmes’ methods even went over his head.

              If there was one thing he respected about the man     and he would be hard pressed to find more than one     it was his mind.

       What he respected considerably less was Sherlock’s attitude towards his cooking. Lecter had long suspected that Joan’s companion was more aware of what being served than he let on, if his utter refusal to even touch anything resembling meat when he was at the dinner table (despite his eating habits being far from vegetarian on regular occasions) was anything to go by. But he had had a matter of years now to raise his suspicions and had done nothing.

             And, well, disposing of him was consistently too conspicuous.