Chapter Four: The Issue with Coffee.

"This is completely unnecessary! I do not need babysitting!" Sherlock protested angrily as John, Lestrade and his brother crowded into the living room of 221B.

They all ignored him, pointedly.

They congregated together in response to one thing – Lestrade called it 'one of Sherlock's patches, to Mycroft it was 'more than potentially problematic', John had christened it a 'danger night', but they were all in agreement that it was something best avoided at all costs. Consequently, an intervention had been called for, much to Sherlock's irritation.

"I'll stick the kettle on," John called from the kitchen as Mycroft and Lestrade divested themselves of their overcoats.

"That would be delightful, Doctor Watson."

"Tea?" It wasn't really a question.

"Milk, two sugars, thank you," respondedMycroft almost as a reflex, settling himself down in his brother's favourite place on the sofa.

"Right. Greg?"

Taking the other side of the same sofa, Lestrade contemplated his response carefully for a moment before replying, "Got any coffee, John?"

"Instant do you?"

"Yeah, all good. Black, three sugars please."

"No problem."

"Cheers."

Throughout this short, seemingly innocuous exchange, Greg was entirely oblivious to the look he was receiving from the man sitting next to him until he turned his head to say something. The full force of Mycroft's glare promptly obliterated any notion of conversation from the inspector's mind. "What?" he asked, feeling very disconcerted. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

It took a while for Mycroft to manipulate his lips around the word, but eventually he managed to expel it in a sharp hiss of disgust, "Coffee."

Lestrade blinked twice. "What's wrong with coffee?"

"Everything is wrong with coffee."

"I'll have coffee too, John," said Sherlock, wandering from room to room with a sour expression and hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

"No," the doctor called back over the noise of the boiling kettle. "You know the drill, Sherlock – no caffeine, no nicotine, no narcotics..."

"Oh for god sake! You've already ransacked my room and invaded my personal space! How many times-"

"Humour me," John muttered humourlessly, setting two mugs down on the low coffee table before Mycroft and Lestrade.

Mycroft turned his whole torso away in distaste as Greg reached forward for his mug, mouth set in a thin line of disapproval.

Lestrade's lips quirked in amusement. "Are you really shunning me because I drink coffee?"

"I was under the misguided impression that you had better taste than that, Inspector," said Mycroft with a sniff. "In answer to your question, yes. I am shunning you because you drink coffee."

Finding the utter ridiculousness of the situation unbearable, Lestrade gave a bark of loud, unrestrained laughter before he was able to control himself. Which was swiftly followed by another, and then a long succession of exceptionally unattractive sniggering, before ending up as a peculiar and very painful-sounding giggling-hiccupping-cough.

With a resigned roll of the eyes, Mycroft removed the mug – the contents of which were mostly everywhere but where they were supposed to be – and gave the choking inspector several hard thumps on the back, trying not too hard not to look smug.

Tea would never do such a thing.

"Well, I did tell you," Mycroft mimicked softly once Lestrade's life was no longer being threatened.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Are you teasing me, Mr Holmes?"

"Not in the slightest."

A smile passed between them before they looked away, each privately wondering it was suddenly necessary to do so and where the stifling humidity had come from.