Mycroft never frequented cafes for a reason. They placed him squarely between the horns of a dilemma.

Although this was England and therefore there was no chance of encountering anything so vile as what Americans called tea (which he'd tried once before learning to politely decline) even the best of cafes weren't quite up to his standards. So that left coffee, but he was very particular about that too. Much safer to get an espresso. The milk would help mask any peculiar taste to the coffee, but it did also open another can of worms.

Skimmed, semi-skimmed, or whole?

The non-fat option felt like a betrayal of all he held dear, a massive revolt against his principles and, to be honest, decency in general. Whole milk was the temptation of Satan wrapped in foamy celestial clouds, an existential threat to the diet that was going so well. And the middle road pleased nobody, like any compromise worthy of the name, though it certainly was the lesser of two evils.

So what was he doing here? Mycroft Holmes, in his neat three-piece suit and tie (blue today, since he was meeting with [REDACTED] later on) looked about as out of place among the half-starved university students and ordinary mortals taking their lunch break as a whale would be in the Sahara. But there was method to his madness, or at least he hoped so. It had been DI Lestrade's idea, however.

"Couldn't we meet someplace else?" he'd asked, the headlamps illuminating the silver in his hair but not much else of the abandoned warehouse. Mycroft had glanced around, as if just seeing it for the first time. He almost looked surprised.

"What's wrong with this?" he asked. "Perfectly serviceable space."

"For storing things in, maybe— but we're not bloody cargo!"

It was this remark that had earned the DI this concession. It had also earned him a dry laugh.

So here they were. Mycroft at the counter, indecisive; and Lestrade sauntering in the door, which was visible as a reflection in the glass display case to Mycroft's right. He turned his head, nodded in greeting and asked, "What can I get for you, Detective Inspector?"

"That's really not— you don't have to do that," Lestrade protested, but in reply Mycroft just gave him what he'd already started thinking of as 'the look,' and he gave in. 'The look' almost invariably tended to end arguments. "Just coffee for me then, thanks."

They both thought that was what this was about: just coffee. Just shop talk. Just keeping Mycroft up to date on his brother. And that day it was.

The days after were another story.