Greg put the phone back on it's receiver, rather harder than was necessary. The fourth murder in two weeks, M.O. Exactly the same. Even Sherlock was having a hard time catching the culprit. Every body exactly the same. No deviation at all, nothing Sherlock could use. Greg hadn't slept properly in several days and it showed in his dishevelled appearance, bags under his eyes, rumpled hair, tie askew. He desperately needed to catch the bastard. The press had already nicknamed him for God's sake. The Carrion Killer. What a stupid name, Greg wondered who they'd left in charge for that one. Although, it wasn't entirely inaccurate. The killer went after old ladies, two had been in the final stages of cancer, one who had a severe heart condition and the final woman, who seemed to have been fine. It was all incredibly frustrating. All had their throats cut with a knife that the killer brought with him and took when he left. There was no sign of sexual assault. Unsurprising, he thought, given their age. The killer had also, more disturbingly, carved a clumsy heart into each of their chests. Greg stared at the case files, rereading them for the umpteenth time, before stuffing them back into his desk and grinding the heels of his hands into his face. He decided that he would go to 221B the moment work got off and pay Sherlock a visit to see how the case was going. Greg leaned back in his chair, reconsidering. It was a sign of how tired he was that he hadn't immediately jumped to the possibility of sneaking off for a few moments to see the Consulting Detective. After all, it was work related. He just needed to make sure Sally and Anderson didn't see him slipping off. Lestrade stood, opening the door a crack and peering out to assure himself that neither of them were hanging around. He wasn't in the mood to listen to them whine about The Freak and avoiding them was much easier. He opened the door fully and strode towards the exit, looking as weary as a man can while walking quickly.

"Sir there you are, I was meaning to ask you-" Greg shut his eyes tightly for a moment, before opening them and turning around to face Sergeant Donovan.

"Go on then," he prompted, folding his arms.

"Are you going out sir?" She asked, noting his heavy winter coat.

"I am Sergeant Donovan, so unless it's urgent I'll be going now." Greg was aware that he was being a little curt, but he wouldn't be able to focus on his work properly until he'd seen Sherlock and heard, yet again, that there were no new leads.

"Oh alright then, I guess it can wait until you come back," Sally sounded vaguely annoyed. Greg wondered if it was directed at him, then dismissed the thought. Sergeant Donovan always sounded annoyed.

"Right then," And with that Greg had stepped out the door, down a flight of stairs and into the brisk January air. He stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets and breathed shallowly, the cold air biting into his lungs. A quick cab ride and a short walk brought him to Sherlock's door. He knocked briskly, shuffling to warm his feet while he waited. Eventually after another knock and a ring on the buzzer, Mrs. Hudson let him in. Lestrade tromped upstairs after thanking her for rescuing him from the harsh wind. Sherlock was leaning over a table that had the crime scene photos scattered over it.

"Please tell me you've found something."

"Nothing new," Sherlock muttered, not taking his eyes from the photographs. "Killer is left handed, uses an all purpose kitchen knife, fairly easy to find, nothing we can do there. They're sold almost everywhere."

"Do you have anything?" Lestrade asked half desperately, half annoyed.

"Well," Sherlock trailed off for a moment, deep in thought. Lestrade waited for him to reply. He knew better than anybody that trying to rush one of Sherlock's deductions was like trying to make the sun rise faster. It would happen when it happened. "Oh!" The Consulting Detective gasped softly several moments later. He dug around in the papers for a moment, before pulling out a map, pinning it to the wall and jabbing several tacks into it. Lestrade saw the four crime scenes in thumb tacks. Then Sherlock was sticking pins into it, faster than he could really follow and Greg wasn't sure what he was marking anymore. Two final- what had Sherlock even stuck to the map? And he stopped, staring at the map.

"YES!" He shouted, leaping into the air, "It all fits don't you see?" Sherlock's shouting brought John in from the kitchen.

"Sorry, what's happened?"

"Sherlock's found something."

"Evidently,"

"Yes, yes! It all makes sense."

"Sherlock, what exactly is going on?" John asked patiently.

"He works at a hospital! There are only two possible hospitals that coincide with all of the evidence,"

"Sorry, what? A hospital, where'd you get that from?" Lestrade asked, trying to get information out of Sherlock was worse than pulling teeth sometimes.

"Elderly ladies, almost dead, all with fatal conditions,"

"Now just wait, the last one was fine."

"A minor detail that I'm sure will be resolved soon enough. John get your coat, we're going to pay a visit to the hospitals." And with that, Sherlock swept out of the room and John, after casting Greg an apologetic look, trotted after him. Greg swore and followed them out. Sherlock better not get himself killed because he still hadn't properly explained himself and Greg needed his evidence.