It had been quiet in the year since Sherlock's death. For Greg Lestrade, however, routine became the catchword: there were still murders and other crimes yet to solve, consulting detective or no. There had been times he absently scrolled through his mobile to pull up Sherlock's number, having a case the younger man would have called "interesting." It took a few seconds thought to remember that that line now had no owner.

The thick manila envelope that graced his desk this particular morning made him actually made him ignore his donut in mid-bite. While the packaging was plain, the name scrawled across it was not. Nor was the large white envelope that accompanied it.

Lestrade sat down to his desk, setting aside his coffee and morning snack. He examined each parcel, finding no post marks or stamps on them.

He poked his head out of his office—the one he somehow was able to keep given the events of his last case with Sherlock. The DI firmly believed that Sherlock's creepy brother had something to do with that, though the theory, like most concerning Mycroft Holmes, could never be proven. It was early yet, and the only face he saw was that of the cleaning woman who would be off shift in about an hour.

Puzzled, he opened the white envelope first. It contained two different letters—one typewritten, one in an elegant script. Picking up the handwritten one, Lestrade began to read:

I know you have had many questions concerning my brother's actions during that last case. I hope this might put a little light on the subject. This information is, of course, given in extreme confidence, though I can appreciate you might like to share it with those closest to Sherlock. I will come for these notes as soon as you have finished.

The letter was not signed. Lestrade knew who wrote it anyway. He set it aside, grasping the other, thicker document. The paper had yellowed with time, and the typeface was similar to those found on early printers. It was a statement taken during a kidnapping case some twenty years earlier, and as Lestrade read, it had a lot of similarities to the case of the American ambassador's children. Both crimes involved abductions from expensive public school dormitories, both involved the use of an abandoned factory site, both had the use of linseed oil as a means of…

Oh, God help me, Greg said half aloud as he read the name attached to the file. Forgetting all pretense, and even the time, he snatched his coat from its usual resting place and bolted for the door.

"All right! All right! I'm coming!" a voice called out to his front door. The new flat was smaller than the one on Baker Street, but it still took forever to get from a dead sleep to the front door in a means presentable. "Give us a minute, yeah?"

John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he admitted the detective inspector. He hadn't seen much of the man in months—the result of the inquiry regarding Sherlock's death—but of late he had been meeting the man for a round at the pub. Losing Sherlock made John all the more determined to hang onto the people that mattered most, and it was as good a place to start. "What's got you all worked up?" he asked as the older man spread a file onto John's kitchen table.

"Remember we couldn't figure out why Sherlock was screaming at that housemistress, that last case?"

John's muddled mind clawed back to that particular incident. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I remember wondering how he knew so much about that case…"

"Me too. Until today." Lestrade pointed at the file. "Have a read. I'll boil the kettle. You're gonna need something stronger than tea when you're done."

Looking at his friend in disbelief, John settled into the kitchen chair and picked up a yellowed typewritten letter, reading the first few lines. "No," he said. "This can't…"

"Finish reading," Lestrade urged. "You still keep the Scotch by the fire, yeah?"

John finished reading, taking his time. There were diagrams and photographs as well, and he looked at each. "So that's how he knew," he said after a time. "I always thought he'd learned about the oil from some book…"

"More than likely did. But to put it to practice, that's something else." Lestrade had half-finished his second cup of tea, and had even popped down to the baker's on the corner for more donuts. "Didn't get my breakfast this morning," he said through a mouthful of custard.

"Still, though, it does explain a lot. The bit about the housemistress, especially."

"Well, if you'd had a housemaster that had all but sold you off to God-knows-who, you'd think that way too. Sherlock didn't speak highly of the man, at least not in here."

"Which makes his treatment of the housemistress after his outburst all the more interesting. He knew she wasn't behind it." John shook his head. "Good thing I'm off this week—don't think I could focus on patients after this."

"What gets me is that I should have known that," Lestrade said. "Toby Gregson was my CO when I made DC; he and I got on well. Took a transfer up to the Scots border about a year after I got there. We kept in touch."

"You spoke about cases?"

"Only the interesting ones. He was like Sherlock in that regard—liked things that were out of the ordinary. Now that I think about it, I do remember him talking about this case. Said it was something to see a twelve year-old be so self-assured about what he knew—not cocky, but convinced of his being right." Lestrade let out a chuckle. "He'd have done a runner all these years later, with how Sherlock was near the end."

Even John had to concede that point. "He could be an insufferable git. But still a good man."

"Yes. Yes, he was." The DI picked up the file, stood up and started toward the door. "I wonder, though, if they ever caught this 'Zeck' fellow? File doesn't say."

"I wondered that, too," John said. "It almost…" He shook his head. "No, it can't be."

Heaving a sigh, Lestrade turned to face his friend. "Okay, gimme."

"Apart from the accent, the man Sherlock describes—in great detail, I might add—doesn't he remind you of anyone?"

The dawning of realization spread across Lestrade's face. "No…"

"I'm not saying it was him…too young, I would think. Remember, I saw him—he and Sherlock were about even in age, almost but not quite mine. Maybe a relative?"

"Or a mentor?"

John nodded. "More likely, given the difference in accent. Sherlock would have known an Irish one, surely."

Lestrade smiled as he crossed the threshold of the flat. "We'll never know for sure, will we?"

"No. No, I suppose not. But thanks," John said. "At least one mystery is put to rest. Fancy a trip to the pub tonight?"

"Sure. I could drink to a great man," Lestrade said with a grin. "Why not?"