Greg slept like a log. He could have done with a couple more hours, but he felt as refreshed as he was ever going to be while they had a crazy killer on the loose, and if his ringing phone was any indication, there was another body to take care of.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"Sorry to wake you, but there's been another. A woman this time."

Sally. She didn't sound all that well rested either.

"Okay, just text me the address, I'll be there as soon as I can."

Greg stretched and got up. He could do with a quick shower too, the body wasn't going anywhere. Greg picked up his suit he had left to hang on a chair, glad it didn't look too rumpled and went downstairs to check on John, hoping he hadn't gone and drunk himself under the table again as soon as he'd had his back turned. He should comb through the place for his bottles. And soon. Greg knew Mycroft had paid off a lot of the shops and pubs around Baker Street so they wouldn't sell John any alcohol, but even he couldn't cover the whole of London.

When Greg leaned over the sofa to spy on John, he was relieved to find him sleeping peacefully. Nothing like the passed out mess he'd found the last two days, or the times before that.

"John," he called softly, nudging his shoulder.

John shot up like a rocket and their heads collided. Then, they both recoiled, holding their foreheads and cursing loudly.

"Fuck!" Greg repeated. "I didn't know you were such a light sleeper when you don't drink."

"Yeah, well - bloody hell that hurt! - you do now. Congratulations."

Greg snorted at John being so snarky when he got up on the wrong side of the bed, or sofa in his case.

"Okay, I'm going to take a shower before I leave, if you don't mind. Sally called."

"Another?" John asked, perking up.

"A woman this time. Want to come along?"

"I'm not grounded anymore?"

"You already missed out on number two. I'm not that cruel."

"Right then, I'll get- Wait, is that my tee-shirt you're wearing?" John asked giving him the strangest of looks.

"I wasn't going to wear my suit to bed. There is such a thing as being overdressed. I didn't think you'd mind, so I just picked one from your drawers."

"No, that's okay," John said, a giggle escaping him before he slapped both hands over his mouth, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Greg looked down at the shirt but it looked bland enough, light grey with some faded black letters on it. He's thought it was just an old shirt but it obviously wasn't.

"What?" he asked, annoyed.

"S'nothing," John said, his mouth quivering as he strived not to burst out laughing again. "It's just... That's the shirt my girlfriends used to borrow when they slept over. Always that one. I don't know why. I think it might have magical powers."

They stared at each other for all of a few seconds before John dissolved into laughter again. Greg huffed, and left for the bathroom, pointedly slamming the door shut behind him, but he was secretly pleased he'd managed to make John laugh so much, even if it was completely by accident and at his expense.

ooo

John wouldn't let him leave before he'd eaten something, so they stopped by Speedy's on their way out for a muffin and take away coffee. John helped him juggle between the two as he drove them to the crime scene.

"What took you so long?" Sally asked when he stepped out of the car, then spotted John and shook her head in annoyance. "Okay, forget I asked. It's this way," she added striding off on her high heels.

"You sure I shouldn't..." John motioned towards the car.

Should he come to the crime scene? Probably not. Did Greg give a fuck what his colleagues thought? Nope.

"No way, you're coming. You helped a great deal last time and I need all the help I can get before this gets completely out of hand."

John smiled and walked alongside him, continuing the conversation they were having in the car about the rarity for a serial killer to choose indiscriminately amongst men and women.

"I doubt that's gonna help us," Greg pointed out. "I bet you anything those were the most difficult killers to catch."

John didn't know but promised to look into it.

"Linda Hill," Sally announced while they suited up into the unflattering protection gear. "Thirty-eight, widowed ten years ago from some rich guy after a short mariage. Everyone suspected foul play, of course, a woman that young and pretty marrying a wealthy old geezer, but nothing could be proven. No children, lives alone. Her maid found her this morning."

Greg only needed to glance at the victim to know she was another one. The bloody tears were unmistakable, but he accounted for the cut hand and two perforations at the neck just to be sure. He sighed. A third victim... This was going to make things difficult. His superiors would be pressuring him, not that it would make him find the killer any faster, he'd just lose time listening to their whining. And then, there was the press. He could only pray they never got wind of this, or they'd make the investigation all that much more hellish, not to mention he positively loathed the obligatory press conference meant to appease people. It was a farce. The press only wanted the gory details, to blame the police for the lack of results, to find a scapegoat, eventually. Just look what happened to Sherlock. Fucking vultures.

"Looks like she went down fighting," John commented, gaining his attention. "Her nails."

Greg looked at the long, polished, purple monstrosities crowning her fingers while John turned her hand around so he could see better.

"She scratched him?"

"Looks like it. I doubt she'd be going around with her nail job in that state. Look at her make-up."

John looked around, seemingly searching for someone.

"Where's Anderson? Didn't see him last time around either, now that I think about it."

Sally shifted uneasily next to him and Greg wordlessly told her to take a hike.

"He didn't take Sherlock's… fall, well."

"What?!" John exclaimed angrily, as expected. "He didn't take it well?! I could have sworn that's what he wanted."

Then John closed his eyes, took two deep breaths, and just like that, it seemed John had managed to let go of his anger, as if he'd turned a switch off. It was kind of impressive, but also very worrying. That, whatever he'd just done, was not a good way to deal with his emotions.

"So who's your new forensic? I hope he's better than the last one."

Tone neutral but with a little jab, just for the sake of it. John had always had a way with words.

"Porky!" Greg hollered over his shoulder.

The man who came forth should by no means have been nicknamed "Porky". He was wiry but graceful, and had shrewd green eyes that made you think twice about asking why the hell he was called Porky. Greg grinned at John's confused expression while Porky looked him up and down before offering his hand, making an irritated sound at the back of his throat when he recalled it was gloved, took it off, then offered it again.

"You're doctor John Watson, aren't you? I used to read your blog. I'm Will Porkington, but just call me Porky, like everyone else."

Greg cringed at the sudden mention of something Sherlock-related so soon after he'd gotten angry about Anderson's involvement in his suicide, but John just took off his own glove and shook the man's hand. The curiosity on John's face was obvious though, because Porky added, without any sort of prompting.

"I'd rather everyone call me Porky to my face than behind my back, because they will regardless. Besides, I like bacon," he said with a straight face, which startled a laugh out of John.

He seemed to like the bloke already a hell of a lot better than Anderson and they'd barely exchanged a few words. Greg had to admit he did too, not only because there was a lot less snide comments being flung around, but also because Porky was damn good at his job. John asked him about her nails and his forensics crouched to have a better look, nodding in agreement at the very likely possibility.

"Only, it looks like whoever she got her claws into tried to clean it away," Porky pointed out, taking the time to show John as if he was teaching a class. "See these scratches inside here, and it chipped all the nail polish on the other side even though this is not her dominant hand, which is in a much better state by the way."

John compared both hands and gave a low whistle.

"That's impressive," he said and Porky beamed.

"Thanks. That's high praise coming from you. And don't worry, I'll make sure her hands are taken care of."

"Are you two quite finished with the flirting? This is a crime scene, you know?" Greg said.

John snorted and told him not to be jealous, that he was brilliant too, and returned to his inspection of the body without batting an eyelash while Greg was still trying not to blush at what he'd just said. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had said anything that nice to him, even if it was just in jest.

"I wonder what the message is?" John said.

Greg blinked.

"What message?"

"The tears. It serves no purpose, but it obviously means something to the killer or he wouldn't bother to do it, would he? A ritual? Or maybe he's trying to tell us something? The police, I mean. Either way, there's a message here we're not getting."

"Oh, right, of course," Greg almost slapped himself for not even having looked into it yet, but to be honest, they were already drowning in the amount of data from the various crime scenes and it had just seemed to be part of the killer's deranged mind. However, if, as John suggested, there was some hidden meaning to the symbol, he definitely had to look into it.

"Something religious? Biblical maybe?" Greg suggested because that was the first thing to come to his mind and he generally had a good instinct.

John nodded thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised. That might give us his motive too. I'll add it to the list and we can look it up when we've gone through the usual investigation?"

We. Greg smiled at that, glad to see John was opening up a bit, including people instead of holing himself up all alone.

"You mean the boring part?" he teased.

"It's not boring... There's the fridge, that was fun. I'd say I'll race you to it, but I think we're being watched."

Greg glanced around and sure enough, several SOCOs and even Sally were staring at them… No, not them… they were staring at him, not John, which didn't make any sense since they saw him every day. He couldn't have that though, so he used all the force of his DI persona to glare at them and they promptly found something to be busy with.

"That was weird," John whispered as they walked to the kitchen.

Greg grunted, then frowned at the fridge. It was a gleaming silver monstrosity without so much as a magnet on it. Completely unhelpful, except to tell him Mrs Hill was filthy rich and a neat freak, which he already knew from the rest of her flat.

"Let's hope it's more helpful on the inside," he muttered.

"Given the size of the thing, our murderer could be hiding in there," John joked and pulled the largest of the two doors open.

No killer hiding in there but an impressive amount of alcohol: bottles of all sizes, shapes and colours. A vibrant rainbow of alcohol. Greg slammed the door shut.

"Right, don't know what I was expecting, but my fridge theory still holds true," Greg said uneasily, trying to laugh it off.

"Doesn't she eat anything?" John wondered, going through the cupboards and not finding much food in them either except for a few crackers and low-fat biscuits.

"Lives off takeouts like Sommers maybe? I hope we don't end up with something lame like the takeout-killer," Greg groaned because the media would have a field-day with something like that once they got hold of it. He checked the bin, but no sign of empty takeout boxes. "On a diet maybe?"

John chuckled and they inspected the rest of the place: a huge, luxurious flat in an upscale building but the thing was filled sparsely with modern furniture, all gleaming plastics, metal and glass, and everything was kept utterly spotless to the point that it lacked any kind of personality. If Greg had been led there without information to go on, he would have thought it was a set-up for a magazine photoshoot, not a real home.

Interrogating the neighbours yielded nothing new. Either they claimed not to know her, or they sniffed at them, literally, as if talking to the police was so far beneath them they couldn't be bothered to try.

"This is getting ridiculous," Greg groused after yet another dismissal. "I'm starting to think the killer is just picking them at random. "We don't even know how he got in this time. I hope he's not getting smarter or we'll never catch him."

"Lestrade!" Sally called urgently, running towards them from the other end of the hallway on the floor above Mrs Hill's.

"What is it now?" Greg asked, knowing she only ran in her heels when she absolutely had to, so it had to be an emergency of some sort. God, I hope it's not a fourth victim.

"The press," she hissed.

"What? How did they even get wind of this?"

"I have no friggin idea, but they're barking at the door. I called another team over to keep them off limits but they're already raving about a serial killer and demanding answers. You know how they are. Think we bloody owe them the truth."

"Someone tipped them off, has to be. Fuck! This is going to make everything so fucking complicated. If I can find the one who blabbed, he's going to have an earful, at the very least."

"Could be the killer," John said.

"Why would he do that?" Sally asked, unconvinced.

"Isn't that what serial killers want? Attention? Show off how fucking clever they are?" he explained tersely, and there was an eery echo in his words of what Sherlock had been accused of. "It just seems convenient they were alerted now, with the third murder and while we're still on the crime scene."

"Right, I'll go sort out that mess then, try to get them to tell me who tipped them off. John, I think you'd better leave through the backdoor, I don't want you to be dragged into any of this."

John sighed, but agreed readily enough and bid them goodbye before disappearing down the end of the hallway, then Greg and Sally made for the lobby downstairs.

"What?" Greg asked after a couple of minutes spent in tense silence.

"Nothing. I didn't say anything," Sally said defensively.

"No, you didn't but you're almost vibrating with the urge to say something I'd rather not hear, and I know you, it's going to come out sooner or later and I'd rather sooner. Can't be any worse than the pile of shit I'm already wading through."

The lift doors closed and, on cue, Sally bluntly asked:

"What's the deal with you and Watson?"

Greg sighed. This again. Why was she so bothered by John's presence? He'd been nothing but helpful and courteous, even to her.

"If it bothers you so much I brought him along, you can stop worrying. With the press hounding us now, there's no way he's setting foot on a crime scene again," Greg narrowed his eyes at her. "Should I suspect you of calling those vultures over?"

"What? No! That's not what I meant," she replied hurriedly, waving her hands in denial. "No, I meant… personally, between you two…"

Greg was glad the lift pinged open because it allowed him to hide some of his shock. However, he couldn't let this kind of rumour run amok in his division, so he pulled her out of the lift and back around the corner, out of view of the milling crowd peering in through the lobby's glass windows.

"What kind of question is that? John and I are friends, as you very well know. Can't you people just leave him alone instead of gossiping about his private life all the time?"

"The gossip is more about you, actually."

Greg groaned. That was even worse. He was supposed to be their boss, not the focus of the rumour mill.

"Explain," he ordered.

Sally shifted on her heels, not meeting his eyes.

"Now," he growled.

"It's just that… after your divorce, well, you never dated…" she began uncertainly as if there was so much gossip about him, she wasn't sure where to start.

"This job is kind of demanding," Greg pointed out. "It's why my ex-wife cheated on me so often, or so she claims, and why she demanded a divorce. It can't really be a surprise, not to mention it's none of your business, that I haven't found time to date."

"You always find time for John though," Sally pointed out.

"He's a friend, and he needed all the help he could get after Sherlock jumped off a bloody building."

Sally grimaced, but courageously ploughed on. She had guts, he had to give her that.

"Yeah, and I didn't really give credit to those rumours before… not that it's any of my business," she added quickly. "But… you should have seen your face earlier when you were with Watson. Never seen you look at anyone like that, fairly knocked a decade off of you too, and I'm not the only one who saw it. You were positively glowing."

Greg stared at her while trying to play the events back. There had been that moment when half his team had been staring at him instead of working, when… he'd just been happy to see John was opening up more, and they were teasing each other. It was just… nice.

"You're all imagining things," Greg said flatly. "Besides, I'm not gay, Sally, as you very well know since you just mentioned my ex-wife."

"Yes, ex-wife, so-"

"That's not why we divorced. I'm not gay."

"Well, neither is Watson from what I heard… except for Holmes. He would have made an exception for him, I'm sure."

"That's… ridiculous," Greg said but knew there was some truth to it. "Just more silly gossip. If you're all so bored down at the station that you find nothing better to do than wag your tongues all day, I'll make sure everyone gets longer shifts and more paperwork than they can carry," he warned and turned on his heels to go deal with the journalists trying to break through the police line and who went completely berserk when they caught sight of him, the flashes already half blinding him.

Damn vultures.