"How can you eat that?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. Mycroft asked him this question frequently and every time with the same bewildered tone. Whether Greg was scoffing chips in the park or devouring last nights Chinese take-away without bothering to reheat it first, Mycroft was genuinely confused.
Of course, that was mainly due to the politician's pretentious tastes. He was forever dragging Greg out to restaurants and cafés with private dining rooms and eight pieces of cutlery on either side of the plates. It drove Greg absolutely crazy.
This time, Mycroft was questioning his choice of peanut butter.
"It tastes good," Greg told him, taking a large bite out of the piece of toast smeared with crunchy peanut butter. They were sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast in their dressing gowns. Mycroft was grimacing at the toast over his newspaper as if it were covered in pond scum.
"We do have smooth peanut spread," he said, nodding at the pantry.
"I like crunchy."
"Why?"
Greg put the toast back on his plate and frowned at Mycroft. "Why does it bother you so much?" he snapped. "I like crunchy peanut butter, is that such a crime? I don't know why I like it, I just do. Is that a problem?"
Mycroft raised his eyebrows and turned his attention back to his newspaper.
"No problem," he mused, flipping the page over the cartoons. "I just don't like not knowing things about you. Knowing you prefer crunchy peanut butter that's fine, but knowing why you prefer it gives me something new to catalogue about you. You know how I love doing that. Now eat up, you'll be late to the station."
Greg didn't stop smiling the rest of the day.