A/N:If anyone is interested (as some people seem to be) in having a browse through my tumblr - containing an abundance of Mystrade, Mofftiss, musings of a general sort and tea!porn, amongst other things - my user is LadyLilyMalfoy904034. Always nice to chat with new people!

Chapter Eight: A Question of Pronunciation.

For once, it wasn't raining on Dartmoor. It was such a rare, unheard of occurrence that Lestrade was almost certain that Mycroft's seemingly infinite powers actually did extend to controlling the weather. Although it wasn't as swelteringly hot as it had been in France, the early summer sun beat down and blanketed the little cobbled terrace in a gently comforting warmth on which the two men sat on rusted-iron patio furniture, heads tilted blissfully upwards, and basked.

It was almost too hot for tea. Almost.

Greg, as far as he was concerned, had done his duty; he had checked on Sherlock – who had been considerably less than pleased to see him – and had a furtive conversation with John concerning their movements in and around Baskerville, and now it was time to enjoy what was rightfully the remainder of his holiday.

The cottage acquired by Mycroft was small a small, quaintly south-westian granite-built double bedroomer in Widecombe – far enough away from civilisation for peace and quiet, but near enough to the local pub should it prove necessary. Greg was seriously considering migrating south when retirement came, they seemed to have their priorities straight. He fully intended to drag Mycroft down to the pub that evening for dinner; although the generally solemn government official was most certainly in much more relaxed mood than Greg had seen him in before, an inebriated Mycroft was a phenomenon that Lestrade was secretly looking forward to experiencing.

He glanced across at the other man who was sitting one leg crossed over the other with a book in his lap, brow furrowed slightly in concentration. Shirt-sleeve rolled up just beneath his elbows, top button undone, Greg was under the distinct impression that to be in the presence of Mycroft in such informal attire was a rare and honoured privilege that was granted to only the very few.

At this moment, Mycroft glanced up from his book and caught his companion smiling to himself inanely. The grey eyes narrowed, "What?"

Lestrade looked away quickly, lips still quirked. "Oh, nothing. Just a contemplation."

"Hmm." Mycroft regarded him with deep suspicion, eyes falling back to the sentence he had just read twice. Then, without looking up, "Scone or scon?"

"Excuse me?"

"Scone or scon, which do you favour?"

The question was as loaded as the Glock 17 Lestrade kept in his desk and the detective inspector handled it with just as much caution. "Scone," he offered with just the slightest hint of trepidation, fully expecting a sniper bullet blast through an artery in his neck at any moment.

Mycroft seemed unmoved by his answer. "Hmm."

This made Greg feel peculiarly skittish. "Hmm?" he echoed. "Hmm? You can't ask a question like that with 'hmm'!"

A delicate eyebrow was raised as Mycroft granted him his attention. "Can I not?"

"No! You absolutely can't!"

"Might I enquire as to why?"

Greg pondered this, wondering how precisely to articulate what needed to be said, before bursting out with, "Because you are clearly judging me! You are either judging me for saying it wrong or judging me for saying it right and 'hmm' doesn't explain anything!"

With a highly amused smile, Mycroft carefully placed a marker between the pages of his book before laying it down upon the rusted tabletop and giving Greg his undivided attention.

Lestrade was not comforted. With a scowl, he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms defensively over his chest with the sharp demand of, "Well, what do you say, then?"

Mycroft gave a low chuckle which creased the corners of his eyes and lips, "It depends on whichever pops into my head at the time, if you must know," he admitted, smiling with amusement. "And I wasn't judging, I was merely enquiring."

"Hmm."

"Now you're doing it! Really, Gregory, the phrase 'pot kettle black' springs to mind..."

Greg had never been especially adept at forcing a straight face and there was something about hearing his name in Mycroft's smooth yet slightly gravelly voice which sparked a smile on his own face.

"Talking of pot," he said, rising, "fancy a refill?"

Mycroft handed him his cup with a musing, "It's almost too hot for tea."

"Almost."

A/N: I bet most of you thought it would be a row about which goes first, cream or jam ;)