The concrete where Will Graham lay was wet; the driving rain meant it would only get worse. He tried to force himself to get up. Abigail Hobbs lay beside him, unmoving. What seemed like an eternity ago she had tried to cover his wound with her hand. He wished he could join her as he fought the stabbing wounds in his chest and felt himself grow faint and weak.

Only his hatred drove him on. For the man that had ruined his life and that of countless others, Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps his fate had been worse than Abigail because, at least she had died an innocent. As he tried to push himself up on his shaking legs he knew he was definitely not an innocent. He had colluded in Hannibal's depravity. He had eaten the 'gourmet' cuisine that Hannibal insisted on cooking for him at every opportunity. The plan with Jack Crawford to catch him had only resulted in him reaching greater depths.

As he stood up on wobbly legs and took a few steps the nausea and blood loss began to take their toll. The once beautiful Stone staircase that had once symbolized the friendship of an esteemed psychiatrist now seemed like ornamentation for a tyrant. He crawled up the steps, wanting to turn round and look at Abigail Hobbs, the daughter he had never had. The agony in his chest told him otherwise.

Hannibal comes running down the stairs. He grabs me. I push him so he cracks his head on the stone. This is my design.

That design wasn't going to happen any more. With every last remaining bit of strength he pulled himself to the top of the staircase and towards Hannibal's beautiful marble flooring. He could see the blood trailing behind him. He couldn't walk.

Fishing with Abigail Hobbs. Casting the line across the water. Abigail smiled at him. It was a beautiful summer's day. The water was so calm and picturesque. He felt a tug at his line. And then he couldn't see anything at all.

He snapped himself awake. If he was going to die then it should not be here. Not now. Every bone in his body stung as he pushed himself along the floor and attempted to move his useless legs. The fact that he was ruining Hannibal's carpet and his magnificent table on which they had shared so many "delicious" meals, with bloody smears from where the man had wounded him gave him a sense of satisfaction. At least he could die happy.

"You are back, Will. You wanted to see me for one last time, I see." He twisted his neck in the direction of the simpering voice of Dr Lecter.

"I didn't come back to see you," Will gasped.

Hannibal simply laughed and watched him struggle. Will almost wished that he would say something or do something, even if it was to put him out of his misery. Hannibal did none of those things. He simply looked at him and smiled.

The beautiful lacquered floor was now sticky with blood. A tidal wave of nausea filled Will's chest as he slithered towards the kitchen like a wounded slug. Something cut into his stomach. He wasn't far now. He turned his head towards the side and saw the cupboard close by. Something was sticking out of it.

Jack's hand.

"Will," Jack groaned from inside the cupboard. "Will, is that you."

"It's me, Jack," Will managed to spit out. He jammed his nose into the cupboard door and attempted to prise it open while not moving his hands. Outside he could hear Hannibal's footsteps.

"What are you doing here?" Jack forced himself upright despite the pain in his chest.

"I wanted to say goodbye to you."