A/N: So, hello! Just a bit of an introduction-of-a-prologue, I realize. This is an AU fic (just to get that out there) where Lestrade was never a DI. He owns and runs a diner/cafe... yep. But not Speedy's, as fun as that would be. The story follows the BBC Sherlock storyline with Lestrade taking a different role in the story, but it may deviate otherwise from cannon when - and if - I decide (which, I haven't yet) Also, I don't think the story will really focus on Sherlock and John as I'm sure you've all already watched the series and know exactly what happens. This is a story that dictates the things that you DON'T see on TV. Meaning, you'll see mostly Mycroft, Lestrade, Anthea, and Donovan as the main focus.

And, just a warning to those who are used to regular updates, I am currently stuck in writer's block so (preemptive sorry!) don't panic if the updates turn out totally irregular. I may make you wait on a cliffhanger for AGES, okay? Just warning you!

Anyway, end of (whatever this long, probably-won't-be-read thing is, thank you patient people!) enjoy!

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Prologue

Down in an inconspicuous niche in Central London there is a small cafe that I own and run myself.

Well, when I say 'cafe' I only mean in name. It started out as a cafe that served food, but now it's more of a diner that serves coffee, which is a pity because my flatmate tells me I make the coffee of gods.

Then again, she says the same thing about my food.

I am an early waker, it's an occupational hazard, really. I wake up at six in the morning and leave my flat, which stands on the second floor of my diner, and begin preparing to open shop.

I tend to start with coffee, both because I am still only half awake, and because I must prepare for my first customer of the day.

She wakes up a few minutes after me unless she gets called out on a case. Her name is Sally Donovan, she's both my flatmate and a detective sergeant of the New Scotland Yard. I've known her since ages ago.

She sounds like she's in a hurry today, probably a case, then... I'd better put her coffee in a disposable cup.

"Morning!" Donovan calls out as she rushes down the stairs in the back of the diner, throwing on a jacket as she goes. "Coming through!"

A hand drifts out leisurely holding a disposable cup of steaming hot liquid caffeine and Donovan just barely manages to snag it.

"Thanks!"

"Good luck today!"

"You too!" And she's gone like a whirlwind.

It's still a good hour before opening time and I am thoroughly busy with preparations when my second customer comes knocking.

Or - well - pawing and scratching.

I open the back door from the kitchen and she is sitting there, prim and expectant, like she does everyday.

It's Tuesday, which means it's tuna day.

"Hey, girl." Her coat of fur is clumped together in some places, I notice as I pet her. And her left ear is a little scratched. "You getting into fights again?"

"Mrrr." is the only response she deigns to give in between mouthfuls of tuna.

"You're hopeless."

I leave her to her food, she'll finish it in her own time. Meanwhile, I have a oven full of breakfast foods that will soon begin to burn if left too long.

"Yoohoo!" an elderly lady calls out.

She's early, by five minutes. No harm in that.

That is Mrs. Hathaway, she lives right across the street, she's been living here since before I built this diner. She always comes over for breakfast, since the passing of her husband and son in a car crash, she can't stand to eat alone at a table for three.

I can't blame her.

"Morning, Mrs. Hathaway!" I call out, "I'll be just another moment!" Because breads coming straight out of the oven is too hot to handle. Since opening up this diner, I think I have become quite the skilled juggler.

I always eat breakfast with Mrs. Hathaway, and Donovan, if she's not rushing about by then. I always try to tell Mrs. Hathaway that breakfast is free, a special just for her, but she won't have any of it, she always manages to pay me monthly by some trick or another.

She loves small talk. Seriously, there is nobody on earth who likes small talk more than Mrs. Hathaway. She is also an avid gossiper, one of the small joys in her life. She always has a new story or two that she heard from one of her bridge partners, Mrs. Hudson, about her tenants.

And they're such ridiculous and far-fetched stories that Mrs. Hathaway barely believes them, but she enjoys them anyway. They're very exciting. And Mrs. Hudson is not one to make things up like that.

Half-an-hour till opening time and Mrs. Hathaway has to go meet up with her girls for bridge and gossip which gives me just enough time to finish up in the kitchen.

"Hello, are you open?" A young lady calls out. She looks like a college student.

There are always a few of those who call in a bit early. I glance at the clock on the wall. It's a few minutes before opening time, but what the Hell.

"Come on in." I beckon her genially.

She buys a coffee and a croissant. How quaint. It suits her.

And a steady stream of customers keep me company until three o'clock in the afternoon. Seriously, there's no resting for me until then. I always consider hiring workers but it just feels a bit funny so I'm not pushing anything.

Although, Donovan's been known to wait a few tables and wash dishes when she's not working. She's an angel.

Four o'clock rolls around and a suited young man staggers in. I pull out a chair before he falls down. The bags under his eyes are black holes.

"Rough day, mate?" I ask curiously as he drops his head in his hands.

"Umphhh." he grunts, then lifts his head haggardly. "I mean, 'yeah'."

That earns him a chuckle because I am a simple man who is easily entertained. "Okay, what'll it be, then?" I ask.

"Um-... lunch - well - dinner, I guess." he garbles out, waving vaguely at the clock. "Coffee." he decides. "Coffee first."

"You sound like you could use it." I tell him honestly and brew him one of my stronger blends that is usually reserved for Donovan. "You didn't eat lunch, I take it?"

"Mhmm. Work." the man grunts out. "Donovan told me to get suitably fed and coffee-d, told me this was the place to come for it."

"Ah, a policeman, are we?" I smile.

"Inspector." he sighs. "Trust me, the title's not worth the paperwork."

"Well, let's get you fed and coffee-d." I propose as I slide a mug before him.

"Let's."

"Pasta sound good?"

"Sounds wonderful."

This man's name is Inspector Dimmock. I've heard about him from Donovan, he's her governor. I feel like I've known him a decade but this is the first time I'm actually meeting him.

It's interesting.

"Hullo there, Dearie!"

Ah, the voice of a nightingale.

"Mrs. Hudson." I grin. "How was bridge today?"

Mrs. Hudson makes herself comfortable in a chair and shakes her head sadly. "Going nowhere, I'm afraid." she sighs. "Went well for the first round until I mentioned the boys and then I had to recount all their adventures. Everyone forgot we were playing."

"So how are the lads?" I ask.

"Oh, horrible." Mrs. Hudson lowers her voice to a conspiratory whisper. "I've got some new battle wounds on my walls, Sherlock and that terrible gun!"

Dimmock sitting a table down, raises his eyebrows mid cow-chew on a forkful of pasta, looking vaguely concerned but not interrupting.

Tea and a few pastries later, Mrs. Hudson goes home.

Dimmock scuttles off the moment his phone goes off with a call from Donovan.

It's been a monotonous day. I only hope that those people won't come along.

And speak of the Devil, the door opens for three very upset-looking men.

"Hey Greg." The blonde greets politely.

"Lestrade." The tall one with the coat nods brusquely.

"Good evening, Gregory." The three-piece-suited man hums, unconcerned.

If they were close friends, I'd tell them to get the Hell out and find a different diner to cause havoc in. Unfortunately, they are my most dangerous, interesting, and prolific patrons and I can only smile and say:

"Hello. Welcome to the Strangers Cafe."

And hope the building doesn't fall down by the time they leave. Which, with them, is a legitimate threat.

"We've come to shake the nuisance off our tail." Sherlock announces without preamble.

The nuisance in question sighs and shakes his head in disappointment. "Brother dear, really..."

My phone rings in my trouser pocket and I already know who the text is from.

The elder Holmes goes on berating his rude younger brother but his coat is hung over his hand. And I know that there is a phone in that hand.

Not a glance in my direction. He's secretive and professional like that.

I take their order and disappear into the kitchen to cook up something and to see what is wanted of me today.

I have a job for you. -MH

As he always does.

I sigh, roll my eyes, and get out the pans.

Looks like I'll have to close shop early today.

Recounting my day today, you may think that I lead a very quaint, boring life filled with cooking and listening to little old ladies gossiping but the truth is, my day starts when I close down my diner.

"Unit 2 approaching the vehicle."

Says the tiny female voice in my ear. I touch my earpiece.

"Copy. I see them."

I'm currently lying on my stomach out on a godforsaken roof in the middle of the night keeping an eye on the black sedan in the street below and the van driving up the road that I know houses four former SAS soldiers. It's less tense up here on the roof away from the action... but it's freezing.

Contact will engage in about five seconds. I duck my head down tight and curl my finger around the trigger of my sniper rifle.

The van barely screeches to a halt behind the sedan when the SAS soldiers are jumping out and full on assaulting the black car.

A baffled-looking man in a suit is promptly dragged out and pinned to the ground, the man's bodyguard is next, the driver last. You'll have to give credit where it's due, and these SAS boys live up to their reputations.

But nobody counted for a rider in the shotgun seat doing a runner. I guess that's my cue...

Just a soft squeeze, barely even a twitch, and the man's head disappears quite abruptly from my cross-hairs.

The SAS soldiers barely even react, they don't bother wasting time. The three captives and one corpse is hauled into the back of the SAS van and they drive off. A minute or two later, the black sedan is also gone.

Mycroft Holmes is nothing, if not quiet and efficient.

"Good work boys." The voice in my earpiece speaks again. "Unit 2, back to base. Unit 1, stand by for interrogation. Unit 0, nice shot out there."

"Glad someone appreciates me." I smirk good-naturedly.

Someone in Unit 2 grumbles petulantly that they could've handled it. Of course they could've. Just thank me for once. But nah, this is Unit 2 I'm talking about.

I pack away my rifle and jog down seven flights of stairs to the street outside and drive off on my motorbike.

I have to take a quick pit stop at my safehouse to dump my gun and motorbike because it isn't public knowledge that Gregory Lestrade owns any of these things. And Donovan would have a fit over the gun.

"You're late."

The lights aren't even on but I know of only one person with a spare key to the safehouse who would see fit to visit, and would lounge around in my sitting room in the dark.

I pull a gun on him anyway... for security's sake, and because I know it's the only time I'll be able to get away with it.

I reach over with my free hand and flick the lights on.

And then I make a show of sighing in exasperation at the man calmly sitting cross-legged in my favorite chair, lowering my handgun, and rolling my eyes. "Don't do that. I could've killed you."

"You knew it was me even before it crossed your mind to pull that gun." Mycroft sighs right back. "Sometimes I wonder why I keep you on. You always seem to like putting me in unnecessary risk."

"And yet you still sneak into my safehouse." I feel the need to point out. "And harass me at my day job. And bulldoze my diner."

"That only happened once."

I saunter over with that particular stride that I know immediately puts him on edge. "Me pointing guns at you in the dark is nothing personal."

Anthea affectionately calls it my 'angry panther walk'. And with good reason.

I only use it when I know I'm going to get something done. I lean down, hands supporting myself on the armrests of Mycroft's chair, quite effectively cornering him.

"You bulldozed my diner on purpose."

Mycroft closed the distance, leaning upward just a little and kissing me. "Once." he repeated smugly.

You may have thought that my life was a quaint, boring little life. I am here to tell you that people sometimes are not what they seem. And I am one of those cases.

Now, you may wonder how things came to be this way.

Well, I'll tell you. Our story actually starts quite a bit earlier, you see...

Cue rewind...