Birthdays: V. Breakfast of Champions

[willow_41z]

Title: Birthdays
V. Breakfast of Champions
Rating: PG-13/R
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, OCs
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 2,360
Warnings: Description of graphic violence, blood, death of OCs
A/N:
1.) Not beta'd or Britpicked
2.) PLEASE CHECK the ratings, warnings and pairings on each individual chapter, as they will be subject to change.
3.) More extensive author's notes will follow at the end of the last chapter.

December 29th
The flat was dark and quiet when John woke early the next morning. The water in the kettle was cold; no telling when Sherlock had left, or whether he had managed to figure out who the next victim would be in time to save them. It was past the time of morning when the other bodies had been found. John shook his head, gulped down a quick breakfast, and walked to the Tube station, trying not to worry. It wouldn't do anyone any good, and Sherlock could demonstrably take care of himself.

But that John had had to save his life from his own stupidity thirty-six hours after meeting him, well, that had left an impression.

Emergencies often came in a row, even when it didn't make sense; he'd once fixed five dislocated shoulders in a row on a day when none of the patients had seen combat. Civvie street was no different, and today it was four cases of alcohol poisoning. For several hours his world was one of dialysis machines and stomach pumps, and yelling for them to get another machine down here, now, and of vomit and hypothermia. Finally they stabilized the fourth patient and sent her upstairs, and then he stitched up a little boy who'd ripped open the lower half of his calf falling off of the swings. Then there was a lull and he took advantage of it to make himself a cup of tea in the staff room.

The telly was on but muted; he watched the rugby results as the kettle heated, and then rummaged through the drawers trying to find where the night shift had relocated the tea bags. He happened to glance up, and his hands froze. The headline: “Five-time Olympic gold medalist found strangled in home.”

“Bloody hell!” John found the remote and turned the sound on.

“... in Willesden,” the announcer said, looking solemn. “Police are investigating, and ask anyone with information about the murder to call this number.” Briefly, there was video of a building surrounded by police cars, with officers going in and out, but he couldn't see if Sherlock, or anyone else he knew, was there.

“Dr Watson!”

Then he didn't have time to think about it any more, because three ambulances were discharging patients from a gas explosion.

It was the middle of the afternoon when he got five minutes of breathing room again, and by the time he came back from the W. C. there was a child waiting for him to remove a pencil rubber that was jammed up her nose. After that it was a diabetic man with hypoglycemia, and an elderly woman with stroke symptoms, and then a stabbing victim in danger of bleeding out. John winced at that one-- but Sherlock had said it would be a strangling today, and they'd already had that, hadn't they? They got a transfusion started, and then the man who had stabbed her crashed through the doors wielding a very large and very bloody knife, and everything went to hell.

Later John would remember yelling for everyone to get down. He would remember that the physician's assistant had hurled an oxygen tank at the man and then grabbed a broom from the corner and stood between him and the nearest three patients. He would remember screaming and someone calling the police, but when he found himself on the ground with the man pinned under him and the knife two meters across the floor, it felt at first like the past moment had gone too fast for him to remember.

Two burly orderlies restrained the man until the police came. A flock of administrators descended on the department, and someone well-meaning told John to go home, until someone else pointed out that there was no one to replace him. They made him go take a break, however. He turned on the telly to see if he could find out any more details about the strangling, but there was nothing. He made himself another cup of tea and wondered how long it would be before he could go back on duty without looking like an adrenaline junkie. He also wondered how the woman was doing; he hoped she hadn't noticed her abusive ex-boyfriend storming the department to find her.

He frowned, something tugging at his memory. Stab wounds; couples; something that had happened at the crime scene yesterday...

Oh. Oh.

He called Sherlock. For once, the man actually answered.

“Sherlock Holmes.” There was conversation in the background, wherever he was.

“It's me. I found the turtledoves,” John said. “One of them's still alive.”

Sherlock was there in fifteen minutes, and he'd brought Lestrade. “I treated her two days ago,” John said, leading them towards the lift. “She and a man, both dressed like they'd come from a concert, both with stab wounds matching yesterday's. She said--” He frowned, trying to remember the exact wording. “She said, 'He said we'd have to mourn.'” They got in, and John gave his flatmate a once-over, relieved to see no obvious injuries. “He died, she lived. What Cyrus said about the concert being canceled-- I looked up their names while you were on your way. The missing lead soprano and tenor.”

Sherlock was busy on his mobile. “They're romantically linked. Turtledoves-- mate for life, kept for their voices.” He nodded once. “Well done, John.”

The lift doors opened and John led them to the room. The woman-- Lisa Regan-- was awake. She looked a lot better than the last time John had seen her, when she'd been pale and grey and half-dead; now, there was pink in her face again, and she didn't look quite so... haunted. She frowned, looking from John to the men behind him. “I... I think I remember you,” she said hesitantly, “but...”

Lestrade pulled out his badge. “DI Lestrade,” he said. “I just have a few questions, to help us catch who did this to you.”

“I've already talked to the police,” she began. “I'm happy to, to help...”

Sherlock stood at the end of the bed, and Lisa looked up at him. “It's a serial killer,” he said, looking at her intently. “He's killed six people since he went after you. You and Mike.” The woman stifled a sob. “Anything you can tell us will help us stop him.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them and nodded once. “All right.”

Lestrade took out a notebook. Sherlock simply watched her fixedly.

“It was dress rehearsal,” she said. “For the new concert series. It was supposed to go on the night before last. There's a section that is just the sopranos and altos, the chorus, I mean, so Mike and I...” She took a deep breath. “We stepped out, just for... some air. It was a thing we did, to go out and chat during rehearsal whenever things got too harried. We called it... our smoke break, though of course neither of us smoked.” Tears were gathering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “That night, the director had been a bit rough with Mike-- nothing out of line, just dress rehearsal-- so we went for a walk. They wouldn't need us for a while.” She wiped her eyes. John silently handed her a tissue. “We had got as far as the yard at London City College when I thought someone was following us. It was just... a shadow, really, that didn't behave as a shadow should. I wanted to call the police, Mike was still trying to see what I saw, and while we were talking about it...” She closed her eyes, shoulders shaking, and put her hands to her face.

“Take your time,” Lestrade murmured.

After a moment, she swallowed visibly and opened her eyes again. John handed her another tissue. “He jumped out of the shadows,” she said. “Just this dark thing with a knife-- could see that clearly, I remember...” she trailed off.

“You said he jumped out of the shadows,” Sherlock prompted after a moment.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “He was on Mike before either of us could react, and the knife... went into his stomach. All the way, up to the hilt,” her voice dropped to a broken whisper. “I jumped on his back, clawing at his eyes, trying-- God, just trying to get him off, and he pulled the knife out and there was so much blood and then-- and then he reached back and--” she touched the right side of her chest, below her collarbone. “There. And it hurt, and I lost my grip and fell back, and he stabbed me again, in the ribs, and somehow--” She shook her head. “I don't know how, somehow Mike managed to crawl over and grab him round the knees, and brought him down, and then-- he stabbed Mike in the chest-- again-- and again--”

John's hand tightened to a fist at his side. 

“I had fallen all twisted up, and I managed to get my mobile out of my pocket, it was under me, and I rang 999 and said “London City College” and Mike was screaming-- in the background--” She paused, gulping air. “And he left Mike and yanked it out of my hand and stabbed me in the side, but I got my hand in-- half deflected it-- and then-- he, he bent over us and said-- 'You'll have to mourn.'” Her voice broke. “Then he just, he left. I, I crawled over to Mike somehow, and I managed to get my jacket off and I tried to hold it to his stomach, and then-- then I woke up in A&E.” She was trembling violently. The blankets were down by her feet, and John pulled them up over her legs. She smiled weakly.

“You've been very helpful, Ms. Regan,” Lestrade said. “Thank you. Can you, ah-- can you tell me everything you remember about what he looked like?”

She sank into the pillows. “About my height,” she said after a moment. “I remember that he only came up to Mike's collarbone. Rather slender-- ten stone, I'd say. Dark hair, with a good deal of grey in it. He-- well. Pale, quite pale.” She shook her head. “Dark jumper, dark trousers. His shoes...” She swallowed. “When I was on the ground, and he was... bending over Mike, they were right in front of me. Oxfords, black, shiny. And he had his right ankle wrapped.”

“What hand did he have the knife in?” Sherlock asked.

She frowned. “His left. It was his left hand.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said. “I know this was hard for you, but what you've told us may save a life.” He scribbled in his notebook and tore off part of a page. “This is my mobile number. If you think of anything else, ring me, no matter what time it is.”

“All right.” She folded the piece of paper and tucked it into the drawer of the bedside table. “You're going to catch him, aren't you?” She looked up at Lestrade through eyelashes still damp from crying.

He hesitated. “Yes. We are.” Lestrade gave her a reassuring nod and left the room, Sherlock trailing behind. John stayed long enough to ask if she needed anything, then followed her out.

Sherlock was silent on the lift ride down. “What about this morning?” John asked. “I saw it on the telly...”

Lestrade grimaced. “Broke into the man's flat, strangled him with the bands of the medals, and then left the medallions arranged on his chest like the bloody Olympic rings.”

“Any leads?”

“Five,” Sherlock said.

“Five?” Lestrade said.

“I didn't tell you about all of them.”

“Sherlock--”

“Right, I'd better be back to work,” John said, to head off the pissing match.

“Oh, yeah,” Lestrade said. “Is your boss going to be okay with your having gone off with us?”

“Oh-- he told me to take a break.” John rotated his shoulder. “We had a little trouble with a bloke with a knife.”

Sherlock and Lestrade stared at him. It wasn't often he could take the world's only consulting detective by surprise.

“See you back at the flat,” he said. “Afternoon, Lestrade.”

He convinced his boss he was fine to keep working, and for the next three hours it was a succession of mysterious rashes, infants with high fevers, uncontrollable vomiting, broken limbs, chest pain, seizures, and one memorable workman who'd stapled himself to a goat. The number of patients picked up as people got off work and went home. The woman whose ex-boyfriend had made such an impression was, he was glad to see, sleeping every time he did rounds; better for her to put off remembering as long as she could, he knew. He patched up the victim of a chainsaw accident, told a man that his little girl was going to be just fine, lost a woman who'd taken too much heroin, and saved a diabetic in severe hypoglycemic shock. Just as he treated the last patient at the triage desk, a surge of new urgent care patients swamped the nurses, and he spent twenty minutes making the beds to help them out. They caught up; then one of the paramedics he saw on a regular basis brought in her driver, who was unconscious after having been slugged by a drunk. It was never dull.

Finally his shift officially ended; he took the night shift doctor around, showed her everyone, and sat down to fill out the leftover paperwork. By the time he took the Tube home and stumbled in the flat, it was a few minutes to midnight. The lights were on, and he heard water running in the W. C. upstairs. He filled the kettle, and turned it on.