Chapter Text
It was a slow day. Painfully so. Dark grey clouds loomed ominously over the city, and though the streets were full of cars, the sidewalks were bereft of people. Greg Lestrade contemplated closing the cafe early; the impending rain would be heavy, and it was doubtful that they'd see any meaningful business for the rest of the day. The dark wooden tables had been cleaned three times, windows washed, displays cleaned and re-organized, and Greg had already perfected next week's specialty drink. All there was left was scheduling and payroll. And homework.
Greg Lestrade both loved and loathed his family's cafe. They made everything in-house; even roasted their own beans and created their own blends of tea. Cafe Lestrade was filled with the warm, rich smell of coffee, complemented by the warm, rich colors on the walls and plush leather seats in front of the hearth that gave an atmosphere which was comforting and welcoming. He loved crafting new drinks by balancing different flavors, seeing customers brighten as they took their first sip- those were his favorite parts. He enjoyed the work, he truly did. However, his family's constant pressure they placed on Greg to take over almost made him want to leave entirely. At his family's insistence, he went to college and was now three years into a business degree so he could properly run the cafe. At his family's insistence, he worked whenever he wasn't in school. And, now that sales were down, his family kept insisting that they would pay him for his efforts 'when things were better.'
One look at the young man made it clear he didn't like being forced into anything. Greg's hair was dyed black, streaked with blue and green and styled into a short mohawk. The only shirts he wore were band shirts (although he always favored The Clash and had several different shirts from them), his jeans and boots were well-worn with age. He had several piercings in each ear, a tattoo running down one arm, and a belt hanging uselessly from his hips. Hanging in the back office was his studded leather jacket and his motorcycle helmet. Greg didn't care that he was a walking stereotype; his parents hated it, which was why he loved it.
“Oh great, The Freak is here.” Sally Donovan's voice interrupted Greg's thoughts. He turned, seeing the tall figure outside in the pouring rain, nothing more than a silhouette on the sidewalk. Philip Anderson's scowl was enough to explain.
“You mean that blogger who wrote the review that got Phil fired from his last job?” Greg asked. Anderson had been on the receiving end of a particularly scathing review from the so-called 'coffee expert,' and the cafe had to let him go after a sharp decline in sales threatened to close their business. Lestrade hadn't been keen on hiring him, but Sally- who was incredibly reliable- had vouched for him and they needed someone who could work for bottom pay. And honestly Anderson's coffee wasn't bad; that alone made Greg's stomach flip at the thought of having the blogger in his own cafe.
“He's just an arse who gets off on writing bad reviews,” Anderson muttered. “Check his blog, he's never given a good review to anyone. He claims he can tell, just by taste, where you get your beans from- what a load of bollocks, I don't know how anyone can take him seriously.”
Greg was certainly taking this very seriously. Whether or not Anderson was exaggerating, this man had some pull in the industry-- that much was obvious. It could be the end of his cafe. Suddenly the bell rang, and the man was both everything Greg thought he would be and nothing he expected.
Before him was the pale, tall, impossibly thin rake of a boy from his university, his unruly mop of dark curly hair weighed down with rainwater. Lestrade had never spoken to him, but he was familiar with the anti-social genius who, as a freshman, was already taking advance courses usually reserved for graduate students. Everyone knew Sherlock Holmes. Of course this was the infamous coffee blogger who knew everything there was to know about coffee. Those piercing blue-grey eyes of his swept over the cafe, only pausing slightly as he took in each employee.
“Finally found work again, Anderson? And here I thought I made it quite clear that the only use for your brew was as a torture device.” The rich baritone voice was luxurious enough that Greg almost completely missed the insult. “Ah, yes, your girlfriend; how nice of her to convince this man to hire you against his better judgment.”
Lestrade swallowed hard; genius indeed. “How the hell did you know that?” He certainly wasn't scoring any hospitality points.
“Obvious, really. I observed it.” The young Sherlock Holmes turned to face Greg now, paralyzing him with those eyes. If Greg weren't so mesmerized, he would have been tempted to throw Sherlock out for the condenscension in his tone. “I'll have a macchiato.”
The order took Lestrade by surprise; he figured the younger man would have some needlessly complex order like some of his more particular regulars did. But the more he thought about it as he began to grind the beans, the more it made sense. A macchiato was a simple drink that tested the two most important skills of a barista; the ability to pull a shot of espresso, and the ability to steam milk into a perfect froth. No flavorings to mask imperfections in technique.
Greg, however, had been doing this since he was a lad and in spite of his nerves, the motions were second nature to him. He tamped down the ground beans once, twice, then with a twist finished the espresso puck and started pulling the shot as he steamed the milk. By the time he had counted to twenty-three, the shot was finished and the milk foam perfectly glossy. He combined the two in a simple white ceramic mug, not bothering with the fancy pouring that left a leaf or heart that Sally loved to use as a flourish. Sherlock had taken a seat by the hearth, but Greg was well aware of his gaze on him while he prepared the beverage and brought it out. As an afterthought, he paused to get a dry, clean towel and tossed it to the young man.
“Here. Dry yourself off a bit before you get sick,” Lestrade said, setting the drink down on the small end table next to the cozy leather chair. Up close, he could see Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot and dark rimmed. The man seemed to shiver through the thick wool coat he wore; maybe it was too late and he already had a cold. Sherlock merely glared at him, snatching the macchiato up as Greg went to clean out the espresso machine. In an all-too-scientific manner, the 'coffee expert' examined the drink and wafted the scent into his nose. Just before he took a sip, those steely blue eyes flicked over to Anderson.
“Turn around, Anderson, you're putting me off.”
“I'm what?” Philip was outraged. Greg tried to step between them- though Sherlock was being ridiculous, they couldn't really afford to piss off the man.
“Putting me off. Your halitosis could ruin the appetite of an entire city block.”
“You can't be serious- Lestrade, he can't-” At Greg's helpless expression, Anderson turned on his heel and stomped off to the back of the store, Sally behind him muttering something about freaks. Sherlock smirked, amused, and finally took a sip as Greg went back to the machine.
Lestrade had barely finished dumping the used espresso puck when he heard the door opening, shocked to see Sherlock leaving in a hurry, coat flaring out dramatically as his long legs carried him through the door before Greg could say anything. It took another moment for him to go collect the mug; even more surprised that it was still nearly full. Sherlock had only taken that one sip, and left. The young barista swallowed and looked up at Sally and Anderson as they came back out to the storefront.
“We're doomed.”
Greg sat out on his balcony that night, a smoke in one hand and a beer in the other as he tried to undo the knot in his gut. They had closed up shop shortly after Sherlock had left as the storm continued to worsen. He hadn't told his parents about the critic's visit- they were inside, too busy arguing about money anyways. The young man turned up his music as he tried to block them out- there was no reason to add to their worries, not when Greg already was worrying enough for everyone. Sherlock had hated the drink, and the review tomorrow would certainly be the end of the cafe.
As he took another swig of his beer and a long pull from his cig, he wondered if that would be such a bad thing after all. Sure he loved the place, but he'd been raised and groomed to take over the family business. Without all the pressure on him, Greg could do anything he wanted- it was terrifying and liberating at the same time. What would he even do?
Morning came sooner than he anticipated; Greg hadn't slept at all, spending the whole night alternating between worrying about the cafe and dreaming of other careers. With his above-average singing, Rock Star wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility. As he got ready for work, he kept forcing down yawns. It was unfortunately a Saturday, otherwise he could have caught at least some sleep while at school.
Unbelievably, there was a line at the door when he arrived at the cafe. There were usually one or two customers waiting, but closer to opening and the line never stretched half a block. Lestrade texted a quick “Work NOW” to Donovan and Anderson before unlocking the doors. With a quick apology that he'd need at least ten minutes before he could help customers, Lestrade rushed inside, throwing his leather jacket and helmet onto the office chair. At the bare minimum, he needed to prepare the money for the day and start roasting more beans. Greg had a feeling they would be busy all day, and the beans from yesterday weren't going to last through the morning. But where did all these- no, Greg didn't even have to ask himself where the customers had come from.
Sherlock.
Clearly whatever review the coffee expert had given his cafe, had been positive. He'd have to remember to find the article whenever he had the chance. But there wasn't time to think about that now, as he finished his final preparations and unlocked the door.
Thankfully, the customers were (mostly) understanding that it was just him and he had opened the store almost an hour early for their sake. It was moments like this when Greg felt he was in his element; splitting his time between taking and making orders, working as efficiently as possible. Phil was first to arrive, and Greg thanked him profusely for coming in on what should have been his day off. Sally was in ten minutes later, and then he could finally catch his breath. The beans he roasted that morning were cool enough to use, so he added them to the grinder and started a new batch before disappearing into the back to do some dishes.
He wasn't five minutes into the task before the customers out front started raising a din, and Anderson came into the back. “I'll wash, they want you making their coffee,” he said as he clapped a hand to Greg's back. “Only you.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand across his face and in his surprise forgot it was wet and soapy. Philip looked mildly annoyed, but there was nothing malicious in his expression. Giving the other man a quick nod, dried his hands and face, then went out front to the madhouse.
The three of them set up an easy routine that had them working like a well-oiled machine: Sally took orders, Greg made them, and Philip made sure tables were clean, necessary ingredients were refilled, and dishes were washed. Once Sam Brown came on shift, Anderson was sent home to enjoy the rest of his day off after Greg thanked him again for his help. Since the busy day had been completely unexpected, Greg stayed the entire day so that the evening shift wasn't understaffed for the sales they had. In addition to opening early, they ended up staying open late as well until Lestrade was too tired to continue- he handed out a few discount vouchers to the protesting customers, so they would hopefully come back the next day.
After working both shifts, the young man was exhausted, starved, and practically rigid with tension. It had been one of the most stressful days he'd had at the cafe in a long while, and definitely warranted some food and the rest of the evening at his favorite club; he'd earned it. Greg grabbed his coat, went out to his motorcycle, and started towards his favorite Thai place. After spending the last of his money on dinner, Pipeline was only a few doors down. He was pleased to see the sign advertising their kareoke night, since it was an easy way to score some free drinks- after all, Greg Lestrade wasn't one of the worst looking blokes in London and he had a decent singing voice, but his parents hadn't been paying him so money was tight.
In retrospect, Greg thought hazily from the back of a police cruiser, doing kareoke for drinks wasn't such a grand idea. He hadn't expected to be as popular as he had been, and too polite to refuse the drinks delivered to him. Without money for cab fair, and it was too late to call his parents, his motorcycle had been the only option. Unfortunately he didn't get far before he was pulled over and arrested. After being signed in, finger-printed, and locked up in the drunk tank, the weight of what he'd done hit him.
“Fucking Christ,” the young man muttered to himself. He was just in a holding cell for the night, but after his hearing next week he could have his license revoked, pay a fine he couldn't afford, or worse- be imprisoned for months. And he'd certainly be expelled from university. “Fuck, fuck fuck.”
“Hmm... but we barely know each other,” a familiar baritone purred from the other side of the cell. Greg hadn't even looked at his surroundings when he was placed in the room, he had simply put his back against a wall and slid down to a sitting position as his world came crashing down. Now, though, he looked up and took in the lithe Sherlock Holmes sprawled out on the bench in the white-tiled room, smirking at him. “Well,” Sherlock paused, his expression widening into a stupid grin, “you don't know me. But I know everything about you.”
Greg's eyebrows furrowed as he grimaced, still a bit too drunk to think properly. What the hell was the other man going on about? “Sorry, what?”
“Fucking, Lestrade. You're the one who brought it up.” The younger man stretched his long legs, then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Although such activities are generally frowned upon in public spaces.”
“What?” Greg nearly shouted as he finally understood what was being discussed. “Oh! God, no, Sherlock!” The lanky man merely hummed absently, seemingly not paying attention. Lestrade was absolutely baffled. The Sherlock Holmes he saw at uni, and the one who had been in his cafe the previous night, had been rigid and quiet, except to insult- as though simply being around others was a burden he had to bear. The man before him was so relaxed it was almost as though he were liquid, spread out to fill the space of the bench with one arm spilling down onto the floor. Gone were the severe, calculating eyes and the overwhelmingly smug expression, replaced by that silly grin and eyes that didn't seem to focus on anything. Greg moved closer- still ignored by his cell mate, close enough to see that his eyes were almost completely dilated. “Shit, you're high!”
Sherlock's response was to giggle, finally meeting Lestrade's gaze. “You should be a detective!” It was unclear how sincere the remark was. As rebellious as Greg was, for someone who dressed and listened to certain music to annoy his parents while still being quietly resigned to the life they had decided for him, his wild streak really ended at having a few drinks and partying to blow off steam- he'd never considered hard drugs. But here was posh, fancy Sherlock Holmes, high as a kite. His alarm cut through the alcohol haze in his mind.
“What the hell are you on?” Greg blinked and jerked away as Sherlock held a finger against his lips.
“Shush. Can't say, would be incriminating.”
“I think the fact that you're already blitzed is incriminating enough. Most people in your state would be at least a little worried.”
“Mmm... you'll see.” Sherlock grinned widely again, seemingly perfectly content with where he was. He suddenly sat up, bringing his face within centimetres of Lestrade's. “I could get you off, you know.”
“Not interested!” Pulling away in disgust, Greg tried to figure out how exactly they had gotten back to sex. Even if Sherlock was good looking in a Victorian way, he was out of his mind and Greg had already made one bad alcohol-fueled decision too many for the night.
“No no no,” Sherlock shook his head, giggling again. “Not that- I could do that though, but I won't. I meant I could get you off on your charges. Make them disappear.” For emphasis, he waved a hand around as though he were doing a magic trick. “Poof! Gone.”
It was an incredibly suspicious offer, coming from a mad genius who apparently had no qualms against illegal substances. How exactly would Sherlock go about it? Then again, he thought as he ran a hand over his spiked hair, he had nothing to lose at this point. There was no money to pay the fine, so he'd likely be jailed, and of course expelled from school. Greg would have been better off letting one of the women or men who flirted with him at the club take him home with them. He noticed Sherlock grinning at something behind him, but when Lestrade turned he saw nothing but the bars of their cell and a security camera hanging from the ceiling in the hall. Turning back, he found Sherlock's lips pressed against his and a hand fervently started trying to get down his trousers.
“No! Fuck no!” Lestrade pushed Sherlock away, holding him at arms' length. Sherlock didn't appear to be upset at all by the rejection, laying down again on the bench and rolling so that he faced the wall, his back to Greg and the rest of the cell. The movement was so sudden it was almost as though he expected Greg to push him away. Incredulous, Greg went to sit on the floor again. The bench was long enough for two, but he wasn't going to get close to the other man again. He hugged his knees to his chest, trying to figure out what he was going to do. Eventually the stress of the day combined with sobering up, and he drifted off into sleep.
Until Sherlock woke him up, that is. Holmes was still on the bench, apparently asleep but caught in some sort of nightmare that Lestrade chalked up to coming down from his high. The man trembled, writhing and thrashing against the hard surfaces around him. Sleepy, and a bit hung over already even though it had only been a couple of hours, Lestrade still recognized that Sherlock needed help. He went over, taking off his jacket and folding it before placing it under Sherlock's head so he wouldn't hurt himself with his movements. Greg then gripped his shoulders for a moment, not hard, but enough to still the other man, before running his hands up and down the bony arms in a soothing motion.
“Ssshhh, Sunshine,” Greg murmured softly, repeating the same soothing motions and words his father had used for him when he was small and had nightmares, “it'll be alright, I've got you.” Sherlock did not wake, however after a few minutes he seemed to calm down even though he continued to tremble. The wool coat that was his signature had been nowhere in sight, so Greg carefully took his coat out from under Sherlock's head and used it to cover him instead. It wasn't much of a blanket, but better than nothing.
When the first rays of morning began to show through the window, Greg Lestrade was absolutely miserable. His head was pounding, legs cramped from sitting on the floor, and he had been unable to sleep thanks to having to soothe Sherlock several times throughout the night. Stretching slowly, Greg tried to think of what to do next. His motorcycle would have been impounded, but he didn't have the money to pay the fee. He'd have to go to his parents- which meant telling them what happened, and hadn't he already been punished enough?
The sound of a door opening and footsteps distracted him; someone was coming down the hallway. It didn't sound like his parents, so they must have been coming for Sherlock- there was no one else in Scotland Yard's 'drunk tank.'
“Gregory Tobias Lestrade,” came a highly cultured and highly bored voice slowly progressing towards their cell, still out of sight; “male, bisexual, good health in spite of smoking and drinking, twenty-two years of age, third year of study at the University of London for a business degree. Average grades at best, employed at Cafe Lestrade, no criminal record but that has certainly changed, now hasn't it?”
As the man finished speaking, he came into view. Greg didn't know what to make of him; the man was about Sherlock's height, but a few years older than greg and a few stones heavier. Dressed in a thinly striped, three-piece charcoal suit with an umbrella hooked over one arm, it was almost as though he were trying to appear older than he really was. His auburn hair was combed back neatly so not a single hair would be out of place- but it was the eyes that really caught Lestrade's attention. A dark blue, but the same piercing, dissecting gaze as Sherlock's. Couldn't be a coincidence.
“What, are you his brother or something?” A slight nod and thin-lipped smile was his confirmation. Christ, this guy got on Lestrade's nerves. It wasn't just the fact he knew very personal details, it was his posture, the way he looked down his nose at everything, the way he seemed to own the place. There was a sort of threatening air about him, even though Greg knew he could take him in a fight.
“You're in quite a predicament, Mr. Lestrade. Within a few days you will be expelled from school, and with the recent tightening of penalties for driving under the influence of alcohol, I'm afraid your future is not heading in any direction you may have wished.” A cold smile accompanied the elder Holmes' words. “How unfortunate.”
Greg clenched his fists, trying not to let this guy intimidate him. “What do you care anyways?”
“I don't. I do, however, have a vested interest in my wayward brother.”
It took a few moments before Greg finally understood: fancy suit, fancy job. “His drug problem will affect your career- whatever it is- if it gets out.” Greg had seen Sherlock high and been groped by him, something this man obviously wanted to keep secret. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up; what, was this guy going to have him 'silenced' somehow?
“Indeed. Although I occupy but a minor position in government,” there was a gleam in his eyes as he spoke, “I do plan to advance and any embarrassments must be avoided. As such, I will offer you a deal.”
This sounded much more dubious than the offer Sherlock had made the previous night, but he didn't have any other options. Greg was worried that refusal might land him at the bottom of the Thames. “What sort of offer?”
“Your freedom in exchange for your discretion in this matter. I can make this all disappear, Mr. Lestrade. There will be no record of your arrest, nor of your stay here. You may return to your cafe and your studies. However, if you refuse, I assure you that you will suffer the full legal consequences of your actions.”
“Well it doesn't seem like I have much of a choice then,” Greg muttered, having to swallow his pride enough to not point out that he would never extort someone else for his own gain. It was insulting that this man- who apparently knew almost everything about him- didn't know that.
“Very good.” The man turned on his heel and casually strolled back down the hallway, presumably to take care of whatever it was that would free Lestrade and Sherlock both. As though on cue, his cell mate had begun to stir.
Greg knew he looked like a mess- hung over, miserable, and two nights with little to no sleep would do that to anyone. Sherlock was a disaster. He was still trembling and shivering with cold, pulling Lestrade's coat tight around his body as his bloodshot eyes with dark circles took in Lestrade. It reminded him of when he first saw Sherlock at the cafe. Clearly the younger man was in a terrible mood, but Greg couldn't stand the uncomfortable silence after just a few minutes.
“Thank you,” he ventured quietly, figuring Sherlock probably had a headache as well, “for, well, everything.” For writing the review that could reinvigorate his family's cafe. For getting him out of jail and his charges dropped- even if he could have done without being groped and later threatened. Sherlock had been high, but had wanted to help him- that was obvious now and Greg wasn't going to hold a grudge simply because Sherlock had gone about it in an inappropriate way.
“Spare me your pathetic gratitude,” the other man's voice was a low, dangerous growl. Lestrade put his hands up defensively, but kept quiet- enduring the awkward silence for another few minutes until Mycroft and an officer came to release them. Sherlock stomped after his brother, and Greg was escorted out by the officer after they returned his belongings to him. Wait, where was his leather jacket? Sherlock must have left with it- Greg would have to find him at school on Monday.
Thankfully, Sundays were his day off from the cafe. After enduring an argument with his mother about where he'd been all night and refusing to tell her, the exhausted young man barely got out of his clothes before collapsing onto the bed and passing out. It was evening before he woke up, stuffed his face with food, then retreated back to his room to study and sleep some more.
Come Monday, Greg had his assignments mostly complete- certainly done enough that they wouldn't affect his grades one way or another. After finishing his lunch, he found Sherlock in the university's chemistry lab, eyes glued to a microscope. It was just the two of them, and the lab equipment. Since the dark-haired man seemed completely focused on whatever it was he was doing, Greg left him in peace for a few minutes while he curiously examined the various jars and vials on display along one wall. Most of it made his stomach turn- small animals preserved in jars, or there was even a few beakers with pig ears in various fluids and varying states of decay. Chemistry, Greg decided, was definitely not his subject.
“Is tonight good for you?” The question came out of nowhere, and glancing back at Sherlock, he saw the other man was still engrossed in his experiment.
“Sorry, what?”
“Your coat. You came to ask for it back. I don't have it with me, but I'll bring it by the cafe tonight.”
“Oh, yeah, that's fine. Thanks.” Greg ran a hand alongside his short mohawk. Since Sherlock seemed to be in a better mood, he thought he'd try to talk about the other day. “And, uh, thanks for bailing me out, too.” He saw Sherlock's shoulders tense a little- great, they were both uncomfortable now.
“I. . . you're welcome.” Christ, Greg thought, you could cut the tension with a knife. But there was something bothering him, and he wanted an answer.
“What did you mean, when you said you 'knew everything about me?' We've never spoken before. Was that just some joke?” Sherlock finally looked up from his microscope, eyeing Lestrade warily.
“I meant exactly that. Perhaps a slight exaggeration, but I know most of the details of your life.” This set Greg on edge a bit. Had Sherlock been- “No, I have not been spying on you. That's more my brother's area.”
“Then how could you know anything about me?”
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, looking Lestrade up and down.
“I know that you don't get along with your parents. Your parents, furthermore, don't get along well either and are on the edge of divorce. You don't want to take over the cafe, but are planning to anyway out of some idiotic sense of familial duty. Your hair is that ghastly mix colours in order to hide the fact that at twenty-five years, you're starting to go grey. In the cafe you use organic, fair-trade Peruvian beans, from the Chanchamayo Valley, shade-grown and roasted on location to a medium-dark roast. You also use Lancashire milk.”
The rapid-fire, deadpan onslaught of embarrassingly accurate information was too much for Greg. After he remembered to close his mouth, he started getting angry.
“How the hell can you know all that? You've been stalking me, there's no way anyone could know that much otherwise, it's impossible!” He stormed over to Sherlock, slamming his hands on the table, jarring the glass peripherals scattered about. Infuriatingly, Sherlock was completely impassive, as though he expected the reaction.
“It's not impossible, I observed it.”
“Nobody 'observes' that much, you're lying.” This earned him an indignant glare. “Prove it, then. Prove you're not lying.” Sherlock gave Greg a dramatic eye-roll and an annoyed sigh.
“I can tell you don't get along with your parents by the way you dress. Punk, but a very superficial kind of punk, the kind of fashion specifically intended to annoy people. Who else but your parents? It's obvious they don't get along and are considering divorce due to their financial problems. Putting their son through college on the back of a failing cafe? Of course there are financial problems, of course that puts a strain on their relationship, and if they weren't arguing constantly you wouldn't be so willing to work long, unpaid hours at the cafe in spite of being a full-time student. You actively avoid being home, because of your relationship with them and their relationship as well.
In spite of this broken family, you're willing to take over their cafe even if you don't want to. You work unpaid for long hours, and are getting a business degree- both point towards a deep emotional investment in the business with the intent to take over. However I can see you don't really want to by your grades- barely scraping by, I saw your homework at the cafe- and the way you dress while at work. Anyone truly passionate about owning their own business would be applying themselves more to their learning, and would dress more professionally. Why do it then? It's likely the cafe is your parent's livelihood and if it fails, they will lose everything and you could not let that happen- so in spite of them forcing you into a career you're not interested in, you will help them. Ergo, familial loyalty. So very English.
The hair wouldn't have been possible to deduce except for the photo of your parents hanging behind the counter in the cafe, of when it first opened- they were only in their early thirties yet your father's hair was completely silver. Admittedly it was a shot in the dark but considering that you inherited most of his other features, including nose-to-ear ratio and hairline, it was a reasonable assumption to make. A man at your age would surely be embarrassed by silver hair and can dye it inexpensively.
As for your coffee, I have extensively experimented with different beans and can identify the distinctly mild and light-bodied flavour unique to a Peruvian organic shade-grown bean, as well as sixty-four other bean varieties from around the world. The largest producer of a Peruvian organic shade-grown bean is the Chanchamayo Valley; given your cafe's financial problems it is the highest quality bean you can likely afford. Lancashire milk is the most affordable organic, raw milk available and fits in with your cafe's M.O. of carefully balancing quality and cost. Have I satisfied you, Lestrade?”
Greg Lestrade had never been so dumbfounded in his life. Put like that- it was like his life was an open book, and Sherlock had enough background knowledge to read every page in detail. Sherlock went back to fiddling with his microscope slides, leaving Greg gaping and floundering for something to say.
“That was. . . How. . . I mean,” he felt stripped down to nothing, naked in front of Sherlock- there was nothing that could be hidden. It was amazing and infuriating all at once. It felt like a violation of privacy, but at the same time being able to discern that much without actually snooping into Greg's life was incredible. He finally noticed Sherlock wasn't actually using the microscope, in fact he was packing his slides and vials up with practiced efficiency and moving them out of the way, clearing the space between them. Lestrade's stunned mind immediately latched onto the odd behavior- he'd think about Sherlock's deductions later. “What are you doing?”
Sherlock looked up at him, appearing somewhat surprised. “Oh, you're not going to- never mind.” The bell rang, signaling that Lestrade's next class would be starting soon. It was a relief, since the two of them were both incredibly uncomfortable and didn't know what to do.
“I'll, uh, see you at the cafe tonight, Sherlock. It'll be on the house.” Greg flashed a nervous grin and headed out, catching a glimpse of Sherlock's reflection looking back at him in the window. He knew the night would be an interesting one.