Lestrade showed up right on time, which was one of his more predictable traits. Sherlock ushered him into the flat and offered him tea with an enthusiasm which left the man surreptitiously sneaking glances around the flat.
"Searching for hidden cameras?" John asked.
"Figured something strange must be going on," he answered, plopping down into chair opposite John's at their small table. "I don't think I've ever, in all my years of knowing him, had Sherlock offer me tea. Didn't think he even knew how to make the stuff - don't you usually do that for him?"
John snorted. "I do it for me, and I occasionally offer to pour him a cup since I was in the kitchen anyway. It gives me leverage when I insist he keep his experiments out of the bathtub, though, so it's all good."
"I don't even want to know." Lestrade leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to the side, studying John. "Any idea why I'm here, by the way? Sherlock said it was urgent, but neither of you seem to be bleeding, so . . ."
"It's an experiment," Sherlock called before John could answer with something idiotic. "And it is urgent - I needed you here before John could change his mind. Tea." He set down two cups on the table, John's with milk and no sugar (he knew the correct proportions even though this was the first time he'd made tea since John moved in) and Lestrade's with just a dash of each. No particular reason to memorize the DI's tea preferences, but the man was too polite to complain so it didn't really matter anyway.
Lestrade took a tentative sip. He waited for John to drink first, Sherlock noticed, in what was probably a futile attempt to avoid being poisoned - as if he'd be able to avoid it if Sherlock were so inclined. He cleared his throat and set his cup down pointedly. "Am I going to object to this experiment?"
"Not at all," Sherlock promised. Semi-truthfully. "It's more of a study, actually - practicing my deduction skills."
"What he means is, he thinks he's infallible," John helpfully interjected. "You and I are supposed to text back and forth about whatever we feel like, and Sherlock is going to watch us do it. If he can 'deduce' the content of our texts from our body language, I owe him dinner. If he can't, he's got to clean out the refrigerator and bin everything that isn't food. Needless to say, I very much appreciate your help on this one."
"Ah." Lestrade's lips twitched in the don't-let-Sherlock-know-I-think-he's-about-to-be-shown-up expression he so often tried to hide. "Yeah, I guess I can do that. I'm going to claim a payment too, though - John, if I help you win, you cover our next pub night. Sherlock, if by some bloody miracle you can pull this off, you fill out your paperwork in full next time I call you in. And I mean the day of, not weeks later. However this goes, you both owe me for humoring you."
"Deal." He'd expected Lestrade to demand more than that, actually. One case worth of paperwork - which he'd have been forced to do eventually - wasn't bad at all. "Ready, then? I've provided tea, which means I've fulfilled my responsibilities as a host, which John insists is important. You both have your phones. I'll be on the sofa with my laptop, taking notes. Five texts each should be sufficient, don't you think?"
John cocked an eyebrow. "Five is fine - do you care who starts?"
"You might as well - you've spent the last hour debating which seemingly-unpredictable topic to introduce." Sherlock removed himself to the sofa, pulled up his word processing program, and waited expectantly.
"Right." John caught Lestrade's eye, then pulled out his phone and started typing. He kept it firmly below the edge of the table, low enough Lestrade couldn't see it either, but the movement of his forearms still made it trivial to guess what he was actually saying.
Well, trivial given the clear mental signals he's sending. Sherlock caught a crisp picture of a muddy labrador retriever romping along a riverbank alongside a much younger John, both of them just happy to enjoy the sunshine. The image contained a hint of a question - asking Lestrade if he'd ever owned any pets, then. John must have been consciously keeping his mental static at bay. Sherlock resolved to prod him into further experiments later on the topic.
The exchange went far too quickly to analyze contemporaneously, but Sherlock kept all the data for later. He couldn't see Lestrade's right arm, so couldn't deduce everything he was texting, but the images in the man's head were almost simplistic in their clarity. The wording was immaterial.
"Let's see what you've got, then," Lestrade demanded as soon as he set down his phone after the last text. "Are you looking for exact wording, or just a general impression?"
"General impression is fine." John shot a quick glance at Sherlock, then rolled his eyes dramatically for Lestrade's benefit. "Not that he's going to be close."
Sherlock cleared his throat. "First text was John asking if you've ever owned a pet. You said you did, a ginger shorthair kitten when you were very young, but you had to get rid of it because your father was allergic. John expressed sympathy and shared about his cat allergy, too - complete bunk, by the way, John. You've grown out of it by now. Anyway, you then changed the subject to the utterly predictable and asked what set me off with this 'experiment' and - despite knowing me better than this - thought it was hilarious I was going to be embarrassed at my own hubris. John gave you a cock-and-bull story about a dramatic bet, which you asked to be clarified and John said happened over an episode of Fawlty Towers. Which is a lie because I have never yet voluntarily sat through that tripe."
"Sherlock," John said, a warning in his voice.
"Right. So that's up to seven. Eight was your astonishment that I've watched the telly at all, nine was John assuring you that I mostly only put up with it when I'm 'in a strop' - his words - and ten was you admitting that sounded more likely and suggesting John make me sit through a James Bond marathon if he hasn't already. Did I miss anything?"
John and Lestrade both scrolled back through their phones, re-reading. Which was unnecessary, because Sherlock knew he was right-
"You know, this explains a lot," Lestrade said, tossing his phone back down on the table. "That was rather impressive, by the way."
John was frowning at his screen. "You were close enough on most of it, but where did James Bond come from? Neither of us mentioned movies - Greg's last text was just that you're often in a strop."
"No, that was right." Lestrade cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "I purposely put the suggestion of a James Bond marathon in the forefront of my mind while I was texting. Figured it would prove my theory right. And it did." He abruptly shrugged and leaned back in his chair, tipping it to balance on the two back legs. "You do read minds, right? I mean, that's what this was all about?"
John's blank, gaping expression would have been more comical if Sherlock hadn't known he was probably doing the same thing.
"I've suspected for a while," Lestrade continued, "but I guess it's kinda nice to find out for sure. How easy am I to read?"
His public mind was awhirl with images of Sherlock - memories of times they were on crime scenes and he made some particularly brilliant deduction. Hints of wariness, never overt, but building over time. "Not as bad as some," Sherlock finally admitted. He'd never picked up on Lestrade's suspicion, after all - not that he'd been looking for it, but still.
"That's good to know, I guess." Lestrade smiled a tight little smile. "Never actually met a telepath in person other than my great-grandmother, so I never was really sure whether she was having me on or not. Funny, the things you remember some forty years later."
The conversation prompted a clear picture of a tiny old French lady, stooped with osteoporosis and nearly blind behind giant trifocals but with incredibly bright eyes nonetheless. A treasured family member, then, judging by the reverence with which Lestrade remembered her. "She died when you were six."
"Yeah."
"You were her favorite. The only great-grandson, and she loved your father more than your aunt anyway."
"Yeah." Lestrade looked away and shook his head. Regret, annoyance with Sherlock (although that one was close enough to a constant that Sherlock had learned to tune it out most of the time), and concern about-
"I'm not likely to go public," he said with a bit more bite than necessary.
John looked from one to the other with a frown. "I feel obliged to point out that I can't bloody well read minds so I'd prefer you keep this conversation verbal, if it's all the same to you."
"Lestrade was concerned I'd announce what he was thinking in situations he'd rather keep his ideas to himself. But I'm not going to advertise my abilities, so neither of you have any reason to worry."
John and Lestrade shared a look - one Sherlock didn't need to breach John's mental shield to interpret. It seemed equal doses of we do know you, you know and bullshit.
"Well then." Lestrade stood, nodding politely to John. "I'm going to do some mind-reading of my own and say yes, I'm willing to come back for the next round of this ridiculous experiment. Next week, same time sounds good. And from now on, you two are buying me dinner whenever we do this - takeaway Chinese or curry are my top choices usually."
"Oh thank God." John's hasty exclamation forestalled the sarcastic retort Sherlock had been about to make. "Although - you know he's only going to get worse, right?"
Lestrade snorted. "Yeah, but it will be a controlled detonation. Less chance for debris. I'll take my chances."
That's the end of this introductory piece - Mycroft (and where he should or shouldn't be poking his nose) is up next :-)
