Chapter Three: Assam .
Mycroft raised his head almost reluctantly from the newspaper in his lap and smiled at the newcomer now standing in the doorway of the visitor's room. "Ah, Inspector Lestrade, how good of you to come."
Lestrade did not share this pleasure in the slightest. "I thought we had progressed beyond this sort of thing, Mr Holmes," he said stiffly, arms folded across his chest. "You might've at least waited until I had finished work."
"Don't be morose, Inspector. This won't take up too much of your time, I assure you. Please, sit down."
Grumbling to himself, Lestrade reluctantly obeyed – hating that the chairs of the Diogenes Club were so invited, that the smell of brewing Assam was already making his mouth water, that he was very secretly pleased to have an excuse to leave the crime-scene...
He sunk down into the plush velvet seat with a hidden sigh and watched, relishing the relief of his blood gradually defrosting, as Mycroft set about preparing the tea with the careful consideration of a man proud of his art.
The delicate lid was lifted gently, allowing wisps of steam to escape. Subtle, malty aromas flirted with dark fruity ones and, together, teased the detective inspector almost to the point of torment before dispersing into the greater vicinity of the dimly-lit lounge.
An imperceptible smirk played upon Mycroft's lips as he delicately stirred the blend of dark leaves with his own silver spoon, entirely aware of the effect his meticulous tea-service was having on the older man. That was the beauty of Assam.
Replacing the lid and drawing two pairs of monogrammed cups with their saucers towards him, Mycroft reached for the little jug of milk and added a moderate quantity to each before placing a small dish of silver mesh into one of the cups.
Lestrade unconsciously licked his lips and watched, enthralled, as Mycroft lifted the ornate tea-pot with both hands – the long fingers of one curled around the handle as the other rested gently on top, securing the lid – before tipping it at the slightest of angles and finally allowing a stream of rich, brown liquid to fill the porcelain cup; the light and the dark merging and transforming until they became one perfect shade of mid-mahogany.
There was a light chink of metal against china, then Mycroft leaned forward in his seat and passed the tea across to his companion who tried not accept it was too much enthusiasm.
"So," said Mycroft, attending to his own cup and Lestrade sipped slowly, savouring every note that the tea played upon his tongue, "what, Detective Inspector, can you tell me about Doctor John Watson?"