The next morning Greg woke with a pounding headache. He couldn't quite pinpoint the source of the sensation and spent several moments lying with his face firmly pressed into the pillows, a burgeoning feeling of dread, and a desperate desire to go back to sleep. After five minutes, he gave up all pretenses, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and shuffled to kitchen with half-lidded eyes.

Sherlock was not on the sofa when he passed the sitting room. Odd, he thought, but not unusual. He had overslept, and Sherlock was not one to have a lie in even on Saturday mornings. Though Greg would typically be quite worried by Sherlock's absence and the types of mischief he was undoubtedly getting into, after a night like last night Greg was happy to have a few moments' peace to collect himself, especially first thing in the morning. He grabbed a carton of milk and a jar of jam from the refrigerator and turned around to—

"Gah!" the DI jumped backwards hitting his head against the freezer door and somehow managing to juggle the items in his hands, barely preventing the milk from spilling and the jam from smashing all over the floor. He clutched the two elements of his breakfast, trying to catch his breath. If he wasn't awake before, he certainly was now. Going into the fridge in an empty flat and turning around to nearly walk into Sherlock, standing in the center of the kitchen with two cups of steaming coffee and a very peculiar smile on his face, was enough to give Greg a shock to his system and a wakeup call.

"Good morning, Lestrade," the consulting detective said, offering a cup. Greg considered the steaming beverage, then Sherlock's face, then the mug again. The two things were incongruous; Greg's brain was sluggishly trying to comprehend a situation that seemed incompatible with his experience of having Sherlock as a houseguest. Sherlock didn't make drinks or food. He had to be prevailed upon to consume anything other than cigarette smoke. The only things that Sherlock made, voluntarily, were deductions, trouble, very loud noises, and a mess.

"It's coffee," Sherlock stated, shaking the cup a bit, impatient, though trying to maintain what Greg was mentally referring to as his "creepy" smile. And it was disturbing, didn't quite meet his eyes, and looked a bit like a grimace with teeth. Greg had seen Sherlock smile, really smile, once, when he had been working on the McAdam's case (a very complicated situation that had taken a full three days to work out and involved two types of poison and a very manipulative maiden aunt). Sherlock's ecstatic grin on that occasion, which, incidentally, had been directed at a dead corpse and an orange highlighter, did not look like this. Greg was, therefore, (justifiably) uncomfortable and suspicious.

He raised his brows, "I can see that it's coffee—"

"Oh, good," the consulting detective was pleasantly surprised.

"What are you doing with the coffee?" Greg's thoughts were leaning towards science experiment with him as an involuntary human test dummy, a truth serum to prime him for an interrogation about his "date" the previous evening, or an anti-truth serum to counteract any that Sherlock was sure Mycroft had slipped into Greg's drinks the last night. Maybe it's all of the above: a trial truth serum, truth serum antidote due out in stores later this year…

Sherlock appeared bemused by Greg's question. "Do you not want the coffee? You drink coffee every morning with milk and a teaspoon of sugar. Indeed, your physical response to the mere aroma of the substance is evidenced by the-"

Greg sighed and took the proffered cup. It was too early for deductions and observations. Sherlock smirked. Greg looked down at the coffee, and, though the smell was delectable; the DI refrained from downing the beverage immediately. In addition to the heavily caffeinated drink needing to cool, Greg wanted to ascertain Sherlock's motives before he imbibed anything. Something quite odd was going on here…

"Thanks," Greg said as he put the coffee on the table and bread in the toaster, expecting Sherlock to lose interest in the domestic routine and wander away. The second surprise of the morning? When Greg turned around with a stack of toast, Sherlock was still positioned in the center of the kitchen, apparently bored. What else would he be? It seemed a rhetorical question but Greg was actually curious. If not interested in the mundane, why linger about?

Greg sighed. Sherlock's behaviors and actions were not always foreseeable or expected. Indeed, they were hardly ever either of those things. The consulting detective was, if anything, predictable in his unpredictability. Normal behavior was the anomaly with him. Normal people buy coffee, normal people eat breakfast. If there was one thing that Greg knew about Sherlock, it was that he was not normal, and, any time he attempted to behave to the contrary, there was a lurking hidden agenda involved. On the other hand (putting a positive spin on the situation), perhaps Greg could use this as a way to prevail upon the young man to eat something. On the other, Greg was not sure how long the docile ruse would last, nor was he aware of its purpose, and this lack of information made him hesitant. Sherlock's "creepy" smile was like a placard pasted on his forehead that was meant to say "I am innocent and innocuous. See how friendly I am? Trust me implicitly," but was instead conveying to Greg a message that read "I am clearly up to something. Do not trust me or my motives. Proceed with caution." Greg listened to this advice.

"Would you like some toast?" he asked, proffering the plate and gesturing towards the table with a jerk of his, still sleep tousled, head. While Greg was yet clad in sweatpants, an old t-shirt from Uni, and a robe, Sherlock was fully dressed in trousers and a button down shirt. He looked very very awake. He was clearly in a manic energy phase. God only knows what he's been up to, Greg mused. The DI was not able to make nearly as many deductions as Sherlock would have, but nevertheless he was fully aware that Sherlock had been up for quite some time, definitely had several cups of coffee, and had no doubt been prowling the early morning London streets with his greatcoat and his scarf. Since Sherlock rarely slept, the amount of time he'd been out and about could have been anything from minutes to hours. However, there hadn't been any impromptu Bach at four in the morning, (for which Greg was extremely thankful) and this led him to assume the former.

After reflecting on the matter, Greg decided that he would rather not know what Sherlock had been doing wandering the city since before dawn. He had not been in the best mood the evening before, and, when that didn't result in sulking, it resulted in excessive action. In this instance, Sherlock's method of working out his mood (and heaven forbid you suggest that he's being moody) had probably involved stalking innocent people, violating a good deal of locked doors and "do not enter" signs, not to mention the "keep me posted about your whereabouts" rule, and tasting a variety of things that should not ever touch the human tongue ("Deduction requires the use of all the senses, Lestrade, why should taste be an exception?" "Because that's bloody poison! That's why!").

Sherlock's refined palate had apparently evolved to more sophisticated sensibilities through contact with the delicacies the streets had to offer because he looked at Greg and the stack of toast as if they presented a wholly unappetizing proposition.

Greg sighed, "Fine, well I am going to eat some breakfast. Join me if you like," and he sat down, began to spread jam on the bread and, after sniffing the beverage cautiously, sipped his coffee. Good job buying, or bribing, or calling in a favor for the coffee. It's actually not bad, Greg was vaguely doubtful that Sherlock would know how to make a good brew. Though, one never knew. Sherlock did have a wide array of skills some of which you would never expect.

Sherlock sat down, avoided the toast, sipped his own coffee and examined Greg, as the DI munched on his breakfast. It was quiet save for the crunching, and Greg felt a bit more normal after a few moments. Sherlock's penetrating gaze, however, did not dispel any of the ambiguity that the DI was experiencing.

"All right," he said finally, fed, watered, and resigned for whatever conversation was about to be had, "Let's have it."

Sherlock attempted to maintain his "I'm innocent" face, which was actually a much closer representation of "I am completely guilty," to Greg's trained eyes at least. He had been spending too much time with the bugger if he could start to figure his tells.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock really didn't realize how unconvincing he was or perhaps underestimated Greg's ability to interpret him. Either eventuality was significantly ironic.

"You, getting coffee, sitting in the kitchen, voluntarily. Making faces," Greg raised his brows, inviting confidences and making his skepticism clear, "What are you up to?"

Sherlock endeavored to sustain his politely smiling mask, but it didn't quite contain his look of surliness at having been caught out in a "disguise," by Lestrade no less. The DI could feel his indignation from across the table and he smirked slightly before making his face blank again.

"Look, if this is about Mycroft—"

"Mycroft has nothing to do with my actions, Detective Inspector," Sherlock's offended reaction indicated the contrary.

"Of course he doesn't. That would be ridiculous," Greg took another swig of coffee, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "What's this about then?"

"I need a case," simple, direct, and definitely not what this was really about.

"A case?" Greg's tone suggested a healthy dose of incredulity, "You've never tried to bribe me for a case before."

"It is not a bribe," Sherlock gave a fair imitation of Mycroft as he rolled his eyes. Greg nearly spat out the coffee, but covered the laugh just in time, "It is a beverage, Lestrade. Do keep up."

Greg sighed, "Right. Of course. How silly of me, eh?"

"Don't berate yourself too harshly, Lestrade," Sherlock's tone was comforting, condescending, and dismissive all at once, "No one ever notices things for what they are." Including you sometimes, Greg reflected.

"Right, well I'm sure something'll turn up at the Yard by—" Greg interrupted himself. Sherlock was making the face. The "if you do not give me something to occupy my time, the flat will be a smoldering ruin of rubble by the end of the hour and you will be driven mad" face. The "I have way too much energy right now and I need to have it redirected or I will begin to harass your neighbors as deduction practice" look. The "oh, Jesus, Greg! Think of something to occupy his mind right bloody now!" expression.

"I need a case, Lestrade. Get me a case," Sherlock stated.

Luckily, once Greg had learned to look for this particular tell, he had taken to keeping a few things on "reserve," as it were, in case of emergency lulls between cases or a weekend temper.

"There are three files on my desk. Take your pick of the lot," he said rather quickly and Sherlock fairly skipped out of the room. The consulting detective knew that these were particularly complicated cold case files and present be a unique challenge. Greg only ever brought home a few at once and alternated their hiding places in the flat. It wouldn't do to use up all of his ammunition in one short moment.

The rest of the weekend passed somewhat quietly. Surprisingly, suspiciously, strangely quiet. It was downright eerie, and Greg felt that his forehead was gaining new wrinkles daily from the amount of thinking, misgiving, and pondering that was taking place in his brain. Sherlock didn't mention Mycroft; he kept himself very busy actually and only spoke when spoken to. Greg was concerned by the bizarre acquiescence that was taking place in the flat, surrounding daily activities and behaviors. He knew that he ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he couldn't help but think that all these incongruities were part of some higher goal.

Greg himself hadn't heard from Mycroft since Friday. The elder Holmes' had not been "in touch" as he had said, and Greg had been too busy obsessing over the sudden variance in Sherlock's behavior that he hadn't had the chance to ring Mycroft. Greg wanted to see the man again, but he was also a bit uncertain about it. Was he avoiding Mycroft? The other way around? Perhaps they were avoiding one another?

Greg wasn't sure, and, in all truthfulness, he would be happy to go back into the Yard on Monday morning. It was a chance to escape Sherlock and get out of his own head. When he got into his office, he closed the door behind him, dropped his briefcase and heaved a sigh of relief. When he looked to his desk he found not merely memos, a retro screensaver on his desktop, and a mess of paperwork he had yet to file. He also found a carafe of coffee and three donuts with an attached note:

I do hope that my brother's antics did not lead to your (most untimely and unfortunate) demise. A gift to aid in your recuperation. I shall be out of the country until Thursday. Let's have dinner when I return.

-MH

Greg smirked and sat down, pouring himself a cup.

AN:

Welcome everyone to Chapter 11! What did you think? I do hope that it was enjoyable. If you get the chance, leave a review and share your thoughts.

Thank you to all of you for taking the time to read, review, follow, or favorite this story. You are all awesome and make my day.

The next chapter will be up by Tuesday.