It started when Interpol announced the third high profile criminal had been found, dead, in a period of six months. A small announcement, a small clipping in the national paper, easy to overlook or dismiss. Peru this time. The one before had been found in a ditch in South Africa, shot point blank trough his head and this one was no different. Signs of struggle and restraint apparent on the body, but no decisive leads.

The first one with this modus operandi had been found in London and Greg Lestrade had been made aware of it personally. An anonymous memo on his desk, typed, just saying he had to make sure this man was removed from the England most wanted list. A photo had accompanied the note, just the man's face, obviously dead due to the fact that a bullet had found its way into his brain. The man had looked familiar, but Greg told himself it was due to the fact that he must have seen his face before on the list.

Greg had made the report and was then kindly informed keep from further investigating.

But that didn't mean he stopped looking. When the second man had been found, Greg had noticed the matching MO, but dismissed it quietly. Two men across half the world was hardly a pattern.

The third man wouldn't leave him alone. Two, two he could dismiss as coincidence, but three…

Three men, all of them wanted men, restrained and then shot through the head execution style. Looked like a clean-up in the underworld. Deal gone wrong, someone out for revenge? Good Samaritan? Serial killer? Sherlock would have loved this.

Greg rubbed his hands over his face, imagining the extra grey hairs he would find due to his train of thought. It had been six months since Sherlock's suicide and slowly but steadily the amount of evidence to support Sherlock Holmes was growing. In his spare time, few and far in between, he looked at all the reports of old cases they had worked on together, had talked to witnesses, checked on alibi's and he could not find anything to suggest Sherlock had orchestrated the crimes himself.

Not even in the cases where Moriarty's name was first mentioned – Greg's memory immediately supplied him with images the bomber and the man he had found sitting wearing the crown jewels – could he find any proof of Sherlock's deceit.

Richard Brook didn't check out, no family, no friends, nobody who seemed to have heard about the 'storyteller'. His body had been found on the roof of St. Barts, shot through the head, suicide ballistics had told him. Put a gun in his mouth and shot himself.

Something had happened on that rooftop. Something that had made Richard Brook – or Jim Moriarty – shoot himself and Sherlock jump off to his death.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose when he felt a headache coming on and decided to leave it alone for now. He was supposed to have other things on his mind.

When the fourth body popped up in Germany three months later, a woman this time but everything else was the same, Greg refused to believe it was a coincidence and he tracked down everything he could find about this one. Mia Wrasmann, 34, accused of blackmail, fraud and murder according to Interpol. Similar to the others. But there was one photograph that Greg could not keep his eyes from. A black and white still, obviously taken via a security camera, grainy and zoomed in. On it, he could see Wrasmann, hair slick in a low bun, arrogance radiating from her stance. But it wasn't her Greg kept his gaze on. Next to her, hidden in the shadows stood a 5 foot 8 man, dressed in a suit, dark hair and his face kept hidden.

But there was something on the way the man was standing, carried himself, that seemed awfully familiar. The relaxed shoulders, the tilt of his head, his hand tucked away in his pockets. A man seemingly without a care in the world, even in the presence of a killer.

Greg pulled out the old files, the other men that were murdered and then he pulls out the file that Sherlock made himself. John had thrown it at him two weeks after the funeral. The file on James Moriarty.

And while he reads, discovers patterns and links he didn't see before between the four victims, he can't help the small, but o so painful flicker of hope, starting in his chest.

'You can't kill an idea, can you?' he had asked him, the evening when everything went to hell, and Greg discovered that Sherlock had been right. And when he, several weeks later after a taxing day, lies in his bed the image of the first victim pops in his head he realizes, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, why he had recognized the man.

A new employee, impressive credentials from another precinct, assigned to his squad. Or so everyone had believed. When he jumped out of bed, wide awake, his palms sweaty and heart pounding in his ears, and pulled the file he read the story of a trained killer. Appearing out of nowhere, suddenly everywhere, targeting high profile targets, Moriarty's MO all over his file. Jesus, he has had a killer right under his nose! In his office! Why?

And now someone was killing them, taking them out one by one, all over the world. Sherlock would have known. He would have pointed something out and then it would all make sense. He would call him an idiot and…

Oh.

Sherlock.

He would have seen. He would have known, connected the dots before anyone else even realized what they were. He had known Moriarty like no other, his style, his henchmen, how to find them. And now four of them were dead.

Greg dropped down on his chair, his mind reeling. It can't be. He was dead. Jumped off the roof. John had seen it with his own eyes. Molly had confirmed it. Hell, they buried the man!

No, someone else, someone who knew about Moriarty.

Immediately Mycroft sprang to mind. Greg had seen enough of the man to know he would have the means and the motivation to go after the crime syndicate Moriarty left behind.

But it would not leave him alone. A little nagging sensation in the back of his head, trying to convince him that Sherlock is somehow involved.

So when Sherlock reappears in the middle of the Yard – after two more bodies, one broad muscular tattooed, the other long, slim with a slight resemblance to the world's only, not so dead, detective – Greg admits to himself that he isn't as surprised as he should. Of course he is angry, but he only resorts to screaming insults – Sherlock already has a beautiful shiner with courtesy of John Watson – and quiet apologies for doubting him several days later when they are alone in Baker Street.

Greg lets him back on his crime scenes quicker than his supervisor has time to apologize to either of them.

He looks different, still striking and arrogant, but there is something off about the way he carries himself and his eyes appear more haunted. Greg tries not to put the six bodies and Sherlock in the same line of thought and he doesn't press the man for answers.

Sherlock never explains. Not to him, but Greg is fine with that.