Chapter Text
The room was still familiar, but in an unfamiliar way; John Watson had not lived in the spare bedroom of 221B for almost three years. His conscious mind knew it, and had fitted himself back into the old routine with barely a hitch, but his subconscious was a little slower on the uptake.
So when the door burst open with a loud bang far too early one morning, John found his hands scrabbling beneath his pillow in search of a weapon that was not there, before he registered where he was and who had woken him.
"John!"
Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, and John felt the familiar swoop in his stomach; he was starting to think that the thrill of remembering every morning that Sherlock was not dead was never going to wear off.
"Whuzzgoinonthen?" he mumbled, tongue lagging several yards behind his brain, adrenaline rush dying away to leave him still distinctly sleepy.
"Get up -- we need to go to the Yard, they've made a blunder. As usual. Come on, we're leaving in five minutes."
John sat up, blinking blearily, just in time to see Sherlock's dressing gown flutter down the stairs. He yawned, wide enough to crack his jaw, and tried to focus his sleep-befogged mind enough to make a decision between shower or breakfast, as it was clearly going to be one of those days. God, how he had missed this.
Six minutes later, having barely had time to shave and throw on whatever clothing was cleanest and fell most readily to hand, he was on the street being bundled into a cab by an impatient (and, as usual, perfectly dapper) Sherlock, on their way to Scotland Yard. John had not yet made the effort to ask him what they were doing, still mostly occupied with staying awake; he assumed that eventually, Sherlock would explain himself.
Sherlock crouched in silence at the other end of the cab, several newspapers spread out across his knees. He flicked back and forth between them, intent and focused. John watched his eyes scanning across paragraphs faster than most people read short sentences, and did not doubt that he took in every word.
Upon arrival, John followed his regal back through the halls of Scotland Yard in comfortable silence, nodding greetings at those who called to them. It had been six weeks since the return of the Consulting Detective, and two weeks since he had started showing up with his unofficial medical expert again, and the novelty was wearing off. They didn't attract all that much attention any more, bar the usual friendliness (towards John) or wary respect (towards Sherlock.) Sherlock cut through the bustle and noise like a tall ship in a busy harbor, and John followed willingly in his wake.
Sherlock stalked into Lestrade's office without knocking. Lestrade looked up from his paperwork, devoid of surprise, but still slightly irritated. "Well, good morning, gentlemen. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You missed one," announced Sherlock, tossing the neatly-folded newspapers onto the desk. Lestrade rescued his coffee adroitly.
"Care to explain?" Lestrade asked, looking from the newspapers to Sherlock, and then to John, who could only shrug.
"Don't ask me," he answered, "I haven't even had any caffeine yet."
Lestrade waved him towards the miniature coffee-maker on top of the filing cabinet. "Well, Sherlock? Missed one what?"
"A murder, of course," replied the detective, reaching out and tapping the top newspaper with one long finger. Lestrade frowned, leaned over and read out the title.
"What, this? 'Fatal heart attack in Oxford Circus station'? How is that a murder?"
"He miscalculated," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "It was never supposed to lead to death."
"Ooo-kay," Lestrade sighed, leaning back in his chair. "For the sake of us mere mortals, I'm gonna need you to lay it out from the beginning. And don't skip any steps, it's too early for your leaps of logic."
John finally figured out which buttons to push, and ended up with a steaming cup of something that vaguely resembled coffee. At least, it was dark, hot, and hopefully contained caffeine. He perched on the side of Lestrade's desk and watched Sherlock lay out half a dozen folded sheets of paper like a card trick.
"Four weeks ago," Sherlock began, "Liverpool Street Station. A man falls onto the tracks due to a sudden dizzy spell. Rescued by a passer-by. Grateful family still seeking to contact the good samaritan. Three weeks ago: Notting Hill Gate. Elderly woman takes a tumble down an escalator. Broken hip, comforted by a passing paramedic. Name not mentioned. Two weeks ago: Bank. Middle-aged man, sudden cardiac arrest, successfully revived by off-duty doctor in the crowd. No one caught his name. Six days ago: Oxford Circus. Elderly man, unexpected heart attack. A passerby performed CPR, he was rushed to the hospital, but unable to be resuscitated. Do you see the pattern now?"
"No. Well, I mean, yes," admitted Lestrade, "but how can you be sure -- "
"Oh, come on, look at them, really look!" Sherlock stabbed his finger at the trail he had laid out, exasperated. "Every station is a junction on the Central line, assuring lots of traffic, lots of potential victims. All of the attacks occurred just after the peak of evening rush hour: space to work, but enough people around to guarantee a range of targets and a sizeable audience. All the victims are random and unrelated, targets of opportunity, but none of them suspicious: no unexplained heart attacks in twenty-year-olds, he chose his victims well. All of them on a Thursday night, assuring the story would be the focus of water-cooler gossip the next morning, then forgotten by the time the weekend was over."
"Or maybe Thursday is just his day off," Lestrade suggested, frowning, drawn in despite his natural skepticism.
"Could be," Sherlock allowed, "but the psychology of it is important, too. All the attacks are within a single zone -- the most populous zone, true, but it suggests that he doesn't have the cash to spare on an extended ticket. He clearly has medical training, but he's not one of the more visible or well-paid branches of the science: not a researcher, and certainly not a surgeon. I'd venture to say not even a trauma worker, but possibly a paramedic, more likely a nurse. He might be a med student on his way up the ladder, but that's least likely of all; he has access to drugs, knowledge of how to use them, and sufficient practice with lifesaving techniques to be comfortable assuming authority in a panicking crowd. But he feels marginalized. Ignored. He's been saving people for years, but feels no one has noticed him because he's always behind the scenes, overshadowed by more impressive figures. He thinks he's a hero," the detective sneered, "and deserves recognition. He craves it."
"Drugs?" John asked, picking up the obituary and scanning it. "You think he's drugging them?"
"Definitely. Oh, possibly not the first two: the first might have been genuine, given him the taste that lead to the craving, and the second could have been accomplished by a simple shove in the right direction. But heart failure, twice in two weeks? That has to be chemically induced."
"Huh." Lestrade was convinced, but still frowning. "How do you propose to prove any of this?"
"Get me the CCTV feeds from the stations, the ones they use to spot potential suicides." Sherlock leaned back, vindicated and practically preening. "I'll pick him out for you."
While Lestrade made a phone call, John read through the other three highlighted articles. When he looked up, Sherlock was studying him. "What?"
"You're nodding, so I assume you agree with my chain of reasoning."
"Yes," John agreed, "although I doubt I'd have been able to put it together if you hadn't explained."
Sherlock waved an airy hand. "Of course not. But that's not what's bothering you. What are you not following?"
A lot, probably, given the elevated train of thought Sherlock usually persued. But specifically... "You've convinced me how he's doing it," John said slowly, "but not why. I mean, if he wants to kill random people, the tube's a good place to do it, but why does he stick around to save their lives?"
"Because he's not doing it to kill," Sherlock insisted. "Oxford Circus was a mistake, not an escalation. He's not a murderer, he's a saviour -- or that's how he sees himself, anyway. A guardian angel. But the opportunities to genuinely save a life in public are few and far between, so he's resorted to fabricating them because he wants the recognition, the power. You've saved lives," Sherlock reminded him, sliding into his personal space, pale eyes penetrating. "How did it feel, the first time you realized that the only reason the person in front of you was still alive was due to you? That rush, the pride, the victory -- you still remember it, don't you?"
"Yes," John admitted.
"Irresistable," Sherlock all but purred. He stepped yet closer, looming over John, relentless. "Unforgettable. And it happens every time, with every soul you save. It's why you were drawn to medicine, and to war. You could, all by yourself, make that much of a difference. He craves that feeling; he wants what you have."
John shifted back, his discomfort growing. Sherlock's peering interest slowly faded into a frown, but as he drew breath to speak, Lestrade interrupted, and John turned to face him, stepping out of Sherlock's shadow with reluctant relief.
"All right," announced Lestrade, hanging up the reciever. "The stations don't keep footage beyond a week, so the only tape I can get you is from last week at Oxford Circus. It should be pretty obvious who we're looking for, right? I mean, he'll be the one doing CPR."
"Yes, but what I really want to see is how he administers the drug," answered Sherlock, "and how he picks his victims. I should be able to theorize from one instance, but it is a pity we can't see the others."
"They offered to post it, but I said I'd send a courier. We don't have the time to wait." Lestrade looked up, meeting Sherlock's faintly impressed glance with a grimace. "I'm not a complete idiot, Sherlock -- I know why you rushed over here at seven o'clock in the bloody morning. Today's Thursday."
Horror dawned on John. "You think he'll strike again tonight."
"I don't think -- I know." Sherlock looked excited rather than grim. He spun to face John. "Think about it: his mission is to save lives, and last week he failed. He didn't get his emotional fix, so the craving will be stronger than ever. He'll have perfected his method by now; it's the only opportunity to catch him, now, before anyone else dies by accident." He strode away and began pacing. "We'll need to be in place at least an hour before the rush begins -- he probably gets there early, too. That leaves us until four, so we have nine hours. How long until the courier arrives?"
"I've only just sent him, Sherlock," Lestrade protested. "It'll be at least a couple of hours."
"Fine," Sherlock snapped, pulling out his cell and texting at the speed of sound. "I'll be back by eleven, then. Come on, John." And he swept from the office without another word. John hurriedly thanked Lestrade for the coffee, and trotted after him.
He followed Sherlock into a cab back to Baker Street, feeling a gnawing sensation in his midsection that had nothing to do with bad coffee and no food.
Upon arrival back at the flat, Sherlock immediately divested himself of scarf, coat, and jacket, and flung himself down on the couch to sink into a brown study. John knew better than to disturb him, so he made himself a long-overdue breakfast, with an actual proper cup of tea, and sat down with what was left of the morning's paper. Sherlock had already clipped out anything with any possible relation to crime, which left him most of the sports section, world news, and the movie reviews. He gave up on reading when the violin made its appearance. As Sherlock moodily plucked and swooped, composing a jagged symphony to mirror his darting thoughts, John poked around on the internet, feeling just as morose.
It was bugging him, the way Sherlock had outlined the killer's motives. John was not immune to Sherlock's barbs yet, it seemed. Nor was he above admitting that Sherlock was right. Yes, he liked saving lives. And yes, occasionally his favorite part of the job was being thanked, being able to tell an anxious family that their loved one would survive, would walk again, seeing the joy blooming in their faces, and the gratitude. Did that make him an awful human being?
No. Probably not.
But did that make him, in Sherlock's eyes, the same as the kind of human being who would drug innocent people on the subway in order to fabricate an emotional high?
"Absolutely not," Sherlock growled from where he was slumped in his armchair, sawing at his violin, which was propped up between his knees as though it were a miniature cello.
"Sorry, what?" John asked, shaking off his reverie.
"You have nothing in common with our killer tube angel."
John stared at him, and Sherlock glared back. Astonishment and amusement warred briefly, and amusement won. John snorted with laughter. "Killer what now?"
Sherlock waved his bow in a dismissive way. "I've never been particularly good at naming serial killers," he groused. "It is the one great failing of my imagination. But you," and here the bow stabbed in John's direction, "are not he, by whatever name we end up calling him."
"How did you -- never mind." John looked away. "Thanks."
"I know you," Sherlock reminded him. "I know how you think, and how readily you empathize -- sometimes with the wrong people. It's been worrying at you since the Yard." He tipped his head on one side, eyeing John down the length of his bow. "You save lives on a regular basis," he went on, voice dropping low in a rare moment of analytical sincerity. "Mine, most frequently. And yet you never ask to be recognized for it; goodness knows I never thank you. If you craved praise as an impetus to do the right thing, you'd have abandoned me years ago. Your ego is not your motivation. You are a hero because it is in your nature to be so; to behave otherwise would be repugnant to you. You are the epitome of selflessness, while he embodies the selfish. He is your diametric opposite." Sherlock presented these facts as if they should be self-evident, as if anyone with half a brain should be able to see the truth.
John found that his mouth was hanging open, his chest was suffused with warmth, his head spinning, and his shoulders were attempting to come to attention. When he could speak, he managed, "Didn't you tell me once not to make people into heroes?"
"I didn't 'make you' into anything," Sherlock retorted, surging to his feet and settling his violin in its proper place at the crook of his shoulder. "You were a hero long before you met me. Now, are we done with this subject?"
"I -- suppose so." John was dazed. If Sherlock had crossed the room and smashed the violin over his head, he could hardly have been more surprised.
"Good, now you can stop thinking about it. You're deafening, it's putting me off." Sherlock turned his back and resumed playing.
Ah. That was more normal.
Sherlock halted in the middle of an arpeggio and looked back over his shoulder. "And by the way," he added, "I find that I'm a little insulted. Offended, actually."
"What? Why?"
"To think that you consider me idiotic enough to associate with the sort of man you were imagining for any length of time." He snorted, bow poised over the strings. "I have better taste in companions than that. I keep you around to be a shining example, not to encourage my own sociopathic tendancies. And to make tea."
John pressed a hand to his face to hide his grin. "I apologize for -- casting aspersions on your intelligence, then." What he really meant was thank you.
The twitch of Sherlock's profile betrayed his own smile. "You're forgiven." You're welcome. The arpeggio picked up where it had left off.
John listened for a minute. "What about 'the Underground Angel'?" he suggested. "As a name for this guy."
The music paused again, suspended, as Sherlock considered. "Fine," he decided. "Your titles improve with practice. You may name all my serial killers."
John smiled, and got up to make tea.