Chapter 21

A Great Man

"You know, I pretended to like Mary's dog."

Professor Kingston smiled at him like the cat who ate the canary. John tilted his head side to side, wondering why he admitted that. Tom had a way about him and he'd be spilling his thoughts before he realized. It was different than Sherlock or Jim. With them, he didn't have to say a word and they would decipher everything.

He found both types were equally annoying.

"Yes, that's right. You met Mary not too far from this university, isn't that so?" He knew it was so. "Missing her beloved Gladstone. You help people, John. It's in your nature. Explains the medical profession."

It was impressive the sharp memory he had to remember the pet's name and how he met his wife. That would be ex-wife soon enough. His friend became a kind of therapist for him, however healthy it might not be. The man seemed to enjoy listening and providing advice, so why wouldn't he take full advantage?

"You could say I steered you to her. Cute dog. You had an appointment with me that day and then you bumped into her on the street. A pity it didn't work out."

A topic other than reminiscing on a failed marriage was a good idea. He was tired of moping. "How are your criminology lectures going, professor?"

"Hm. I gave a psychology one on the criminal mind this morning. You should sit in on a lecture one of these days, John. I think you'd find it quite enlightening."

"I get enough crime in my life, thank you very much."

"Ah, so you do. I know I'm always saying this, but I don't care for crime either." He leaned forward. "Putting my mind to it, involving myself. Now that is-"

"Endlessly fascinating," he said through quirking lips. "I remember."

"Mary Morstan loved you. Everybody loves you, John."

He spoke bluntly. "Tom?"

The man leaned back in his chair, cupping his elbows with the opposite hands. He wore the typical ensemble of a v-necked black sweater over a white undershirt, blue jeans and belt, brown boots, and a dark suit jacket to dress up the look. His slightly graying brown hair was short and neatly kept, brown eyes examining him with delight.

"Met Mary because her dog got snatched. A match up of love. The end result amounted to nothing, did it?"

He was a few years older than John and extremely likable. John saw him with students and fellow professors. He was the charming sort and intelligent. Tom always had something to say and it was always intriguing. He believed in assessing all the facts to find the truth, the reality of any given situation. A useful and also irritating quality if he was being honest.

He sighed. He felt as though he was reassessing everyone these days.

"I met Sherlock because we happened to be looking for a place to live on the same day."

Professor Kingston waved his hand and crossed his arms again. "Yet you don't shy away from danger."

His friend didn't like Sherlock as most people didn't. He never said a word against his feelings for the man though, how well they got along. But wait. Danger? What were they discussing now?

"You had a brush with death. This serial killer Holmes is investigating. Calls himself the Professor, or did the police label him as such?"

"No no, he gave himself the title. I think. You must hate that, huh?"

"It is of no consequence to me."

John supposed it wouldn't be. A university professor teaching criminology and psychology wouldn't take it personally a criminal was calling himself "The Professor". It must be obnoxious though, surely. The killer wasn't a professor, he was an insane person using the claim of experimentation to hurt people.

"Thinks compassion prevents someone from being pure, worthy of living in a good world, is that it?"

"You've been following the papers, the web. Considering your studies, you probably know better than I do."

"Self-deprecation is a weakness. It's unnecessary humbleness to make other people feel comfortable. Do try to avoid it in the future."

He changed the subject. "You're not eating again? You really don't eat very much it seems like..."

They ate lunch several times a week together. It was really all the time Professor Kingston had with his busy schedule. Often he'd see the man fussing with his food but not eating. Only today was he noticing that he'd been noticing this for at least a month of visits.

"I don't have much of an appetite at lunch. A large breakfast is to blame. Ah well."

Huh.

"Now, what are your thoughts on this Professor criminal? Entertain me, John."

He frowned, not appreciating how he added the desire to be amused. Sometimes he felt that was all he was to Sherlock and Moriarty. He knew it wasn't true. They felt something..deeper for him. John was far from establishing what it was they hoped for in him. It was pure frustration all right, unlike the criminal they were discussing. He didn't frustrate him. He just wanted him dead. Was that bad of him to think? He wouldn't care.

Sipping his water, his features tightened. "He's a monster, surely. Hurt my sister. I hope the police find him soon."

"Do you think a man like him would be taken alive?"

His frown returned. "Why not?"

"I want to know what you think."

John put on his best Sherlock mind-set. Observe, draw conclusions, make connections. The murderer sought pure hearts and teaching the public what sort should be alive to create a good world. He kidnapped people and provided sadistic choices in an effort to prove they weren't capable of choosing the correct choice, whatever his addled mind considered "correct".

"I imagine if the police attempted to arrest him he would interpret the decision as compassion. We know how he feels about compassion." Brainwaves struck him as he scratched beneath his chin. "He wants people to be selfish. To him, selfish is the choice to make in any given situation. Self-preservation is natural, not evil. He won't be satisfied unless he can make people see-"

"How to be great men. Are you a great man, John?"

"No, Tom. Definitely not." He heard the Professor's voice at the masquerade ball sound in his head. "He called me an angel pretending to be a man. I am not that good a person. Plenty of women could attest to that."

He'd told his friend about thinking he met the Professor on the street. Saved him from getting hit by a car. Should have let the damn car hit him. But, no, supposedly he was an angel of a man. Ugh. He was not.

The professor smiled and leaned in his chair, left hand resting on the table. "Well, I don't believe he wants people to be selfish. You can't create a better world if everyone is out for themselves, now can you?"

John made a guess. "Perhaps he's too intelligent. Geniuses have been known to be unstable."

Professor Kingston's smile widened, knowing he was speaking from personal experience when it came to geniuses in his orbit. "Don't make the mistake of thinking an intelligent opponent can't be a physical opponent as well."

He sighed. "I suppose that's true."

An idea occurred. "He seems narcissistic. So I guess I think that about him too."

The man tilted his head to the right, studying him, smile leaving his face. "Perhaps he is better than everyone. It's not delusion if the Professor is truly better in every way."

John poked fun at the ridiculous notion. "Is such a thing possible? Really? A perfect person?"

Tom didn't speak in response, merely looking at him in an odd manner. He shrugged it off internally and adjusted his seated posture. Taking a bite of his sandwich, chewing and swallowing, he gestured to the man.

"I don't like him. He's another criminal obsessed with Sherlock because he solves crimes. That's that. What's your opinion on the guy?"

"A person would suffer to be their purest self or cause someone else to suffer to do the same. If the choice is who they are, it isn't selfish. If everyone was who they truly are, the world would be a better place."

"Uh." He was confused.

Professor Kingston laughed and pushed his untouched plate aside. "This is my conclusion on what the Professor is after. He wants people to act how they want to act, and the pure will be left. It would create a better world."

Frowning, he was still rather confused. "Does that make sense?"

He really wasn't sure. Tom put the arm not resting on the table behind his chair, leaning back. John could tell his mind was working things over, a change of topic impending. Good. He hated the criminal they were discussing. While he didn't have a case to bring to him for advice today or any talk of his undercover days firmly in the past, the case Sherlock couldn't break was not something he desired lingering on.

"Sense. A faculty by which the body perceives an external stimulus. It's not sense. It just is." Professor Kingston rubbed his smooth jaw, pointing at John a moment. "Did they ever resolve that super soldier project nonsense? Guilty parties arrested and all that?"

"Um, Sherlock's brother is working on that. Should be fine."

A ghost of a smile on his friend's face. "Should be."

/

By the time he returned to London from Cardiff, the city was in chaos. He was imagining what to watch on TV that night once he worked his shift at hospital. Maybe he'd have some sweets. Jim was usually partial to sweets while watching a show, if he wasn't chewing gum. The taxi braked suddenly, jolting him in his seat and out of his thoughts.

Leaning forward to ask why the sudden stop, his mouth hung open when he saw a floor of a building ahead on fire. It was the upper floor of a flat. He sat against the seat back contemplating if he should go and see if anyone required a doctor. An ambulance drove around them on the street. They didn't seem to need his aid. He only had an hour to make his shift and he had to go home to change clothes.

"Can you go round?"

"Street's blocked," the cabbie replied. He peered over his shoulder and the seat to look through the rear window. "Cars are piling up here. Shit. Apologies. It may be a bit of a wait."

What sounded very much like an explosion drew his ear. The cabbie rolled down the driver's side window, peering out. He looked through the front window the best he could but couldn't see anything amiss.

"Christ! Did you hear that?"

John pulled out his wallet and passed folded money through the divide. "Here. I'll walk the rest of the way."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He opened the car door and climbed out. "Thanks."

Turning away from the taxi after shutting the door, he went to the pavement where people were grouping. Onlookers trying to see what were the disturbances. This was when the chaos truly erupted.

A definite explosion sounded a fair distance away. Another blasted a flower shop to pieces in sight of his position on the sidewalk. Somebody screamed and a man in front of him declared to his girlfriend or wife that they were under attack.

"Terrorists?" the woman asked.

Seemed probable. John started pushing his way through the people standing around staring. The building on fire was coming up and when he reached the corner, there was the destroyed shop diagonal from him. Baker Street was five or six streets on.

Dread rolled in his gut. What if he returned home only to find it gone? Moriarty caused the flat below theirs to blow up once. Was he responsible for this?

He said he wouldn't do his old sort of business anymore, but what did a promise from him even mean? John wanted to trust him, he did. There was a long and ugly history between them. It wasn't easily forgiven, no matter how much better it felt to put things in the past and move on anew.

Picking up his feet, he started to jog. He didn't know whether Sherlock was home or still out on the Professor case. The London police were working overtime to identify and arrest him. Despite what Jim Moriarty did to embarrass them, there was no question they hated the Professor criminal more. He targeted one of their own and nearly succeeded in killing her. She had a healthy dose of PTSD to show for it. Two of their own counting John, since he'd done enough consulting with Sherlock to make an impression. They vastly preferred Sherlock's assistance if John showed up with him. It was both amusing and silly, but it was nice to be liked.

Maybe he really was an angel if he could move on from his rapes and choose a kind of relationship with the rapist. It came off terrible putting it that way. But he understood Jim's brain didn't work like the average person's brain. Right and wrong were muddled if not nonexistent. For him, if he wanted to do something, he couldn't comprehend why some things were not okay to do. It wasn't an excuse for what happened, it was just the way he processed information. Rather how Professor Kingston defined sensing.

People interpreted external stimuli differently. Some people fight, some people flee, some people freeze. Some people might help a person stranded on the side of the road, some people might ignore the person, some might hurt them. Humanity was one big mess of a thing. It was a beautiful nightmare or a nightmarish beauty that was created, populated by humans. No wonder this Professor criminal went off the deep end.

Just knowing he was friends with Sherlock Holmes and he could enjoy living and working with him made people view him as an "angel". So good of you, John. It was vastly preferable to living alone wallowing in his army days and missing the rush of adrenaline which came from dangerous situations. It was part of what drew him to being a doctor. He wanted to help people, naturally, and he wanted the rush of the unknown patient problems.

"Dr. Watson."

He drew to a halt, whipping his head around to see Sebastian Moran seemingly forming out of the shadows. Squinting at the dark alley covered by roofing a moment, he paid attention to the..enemy? How many times did Moran aim a gun at him in the past? Supposedly the consulting criminal utilized hitters to kill Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if Sherlock hadn't died that day. He sent Moran to kill John. Wanted to make sure that one happened perfectly. A shot through his heart.

It was still puzzling why the criminal faked his own death that day. Sherlock said it was done to ensure he had to jump from the roof, no opportunity to torture or frighten the criminal mastermind into calling off the hits. That didn't make any sense to him. Moriarty didn't scare and he'd probably find being tortured exciting because it wasn't boring. Plus, Sherlock mentioned a time limit rapidly ending when he shot himself, or well, didn't somehow. John's arrival to the building would trigger the executions of Sherlock's friends. There was zero reason to fake his death that he could figure when there was no time to make him stop the hits.

Sherlock claiming not to be on the side of angels when he faked his own death to save three lives was also annoying, but something he could understand. His friend did love a good line, even if it was while he was busy showing off. Whatever was he thinking that day and how did he manage to die publicly and have it all fake? Molly Hooper had explaining to do and he'd get around to her one day. Maybe. The mystery of it was pretty fun.

John should figure out this thing with Moriarty so he knew how to react in an occasion such as this one.

"Moran?"

"A gift from your not boyfriend."

He narrowed his eyes at the man and then at the item in the outstretched hand. "Why would I need that?"

"You don't have to be a genius to work that one out."

They were similar, he was reluctant to admit. "Is Sherlock in danger?"

Moriarty probably wouldn't tell him if he was. Moran might. He shook the item and closed the distance, pressing it to his chest until his hands rose to grip it.

"Be a good boy," he said, speaking for his boss without a doubt, and saying himself, "Trust us, Dr. Watson."

He backed up to use the alley to make his exit. Before he turned to go, he looked back and nodded twice. "Now."

John sealed his lips and watched him leave, worrying over the panic breaking out when yet another explosion sounded in the distance. This wasn't Moriarty then. He moved to the side of the building and put the gift to use, wondering all the while how his life became this. A thrill ran through him. He was having fun. People were possibly getting hurt and he was having fun. And they thought he was so good? An angel? Yeah right.

Arriving a few minutes later to his front door, he unlocked and passed through. John hurried up the steps and entered the flat. Sherlock was by the window with an arm around a concerned Mrs. Hudson. They turned as he came through the doorway, relief on their faces. It was harder to notice on Sherlock, but it was there.

"John, oh thank goodness you're alright. Terrible business out there. Have you seen the telly?"

"No. What's going on?"

"The Professor," Sherlock replied, bitterness evident. A case he couldn't crack. "They're reporting he gave people choices. Locked in their homes or businesses, trapped by wired explosives, they could blow up the room they were in or blow up someone else's room. The news is still coming in piece by piece."

Facing him fully, he examined him briefly before saying, "He picked a doctor and a flower shop owner, a children's home and a high-ranking government leader. If they didn't choose within five minutes, both rooms would explode."

"That rotten member of the government!" Mrs. Hudson was close to tears, eyes watering. "They had better name them and have them face the consequences!"

John felt sick. "This doesn't prove anything. This is-" It was madness.

"I'm sorry. I need a moment." Mrs. Hudson hurried out of the flat hiding her eyes with an arm.

"He has to be stopped, Sherlock."

"I know. We'll stop him."

Standing next to Sherlock made him feel calmer. He found he couldn't see much from their windows. Nothing exploded or burned near their street. Hard to be happy about it. He glimpsed the sunlight catching on metal and glanced to an open window across the way. He was too occupied recognizing the light blond hair and combat gear to think to move.

He was thrown off his feet and across the room, landing painfully on his back. Gasping and holding still from the pain, he fought to bring his mind around to what occurred. Two shots center mass. Sniper rifle. Sherlock.

"Sherlock." The name was spoken quiet when he intended to yell it. His chest and stomach were killing him.

"Sherlock!" A gasping yell. An improvement.

More gunshots. Oh god. Did Sherlock get shot too? Was he okay? This time the yell succeeded.

"Sherlock!"