A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood (Sherlock)

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade experienced a good ten seconds of panic as he woke up, before realizing that the reason he was not in his own bed was because he was in the second bedroom at 221b Baker Street. Sherlock's street. Sherlock's extra bedroom. Lestrade groaned and rubbed his wrists against his eyes, remembering yesterday morning's unpleasant surprise.

He hadn't minded Sherlock teasing him about being so pathetic, because he was. And he hadn't minded Sherlock sleeping over, because the man was tired and when Sherlock was tired, Lestrade knew he should probably take advantage of that fact and just let him sleep. And then Sherlock had gone and used his kitchen, and he had minded that, seeing as when he woke up this morning, his house was devoid of two things it had had twelve hours previously. One, was Sherlock Holmes, and two, was a kitchen.

After a series of heated texts and a rather shouty argument on the phone, a decision (or rather, a truce) had been made and Lestrade was to sleep at 221B until his house was alright to live in again (the damage happened to extend slightly further than the kitchen, seeing as Sherlock, in process of exploding his microwave, and also ruined his sink, which had in return dripped all over the kitchen floor and right into the living room. Sherlock, though initially very against Lestrade coming to live here, didn't have all that much of a choice when Lestrade threatened to call Mycroft. Besides, he had a nice time getting slightly drunk at the bar (very surprisingly, he hadn't overdone it) before coming to Sherlock's with his one suitcase full of just enough clothes to not seem like a hobo (he decided he'd just use Sherlock's soap and such and didn't bring his own) at twelve midnight. He unlocked the flat with one of the keys he'd nicked off Sherlock last month, let himself in, and said nothing more then, "Hi," as he walked directly to the room he'd be staying in.

It seemed like so much worse of an idea now that he was here in the light of day. Still, the room was nice, seeing as Sherlock didn't use it. The rest of the house that Sherlock did use, however, was rather in less of a impressive state. Lestrade knew he'd probably end up picking Sherlock's crap off the floor sooner or later, the mess driving him crazy. Grudgingly (he wished he hadn't woken up; thank god he didn't have work today) he got dressed in a simple t-shirt that said, Coldplay across the front in fancy but inconspicuous lettering, and went into the living room. Which was so messy Lestrade immediately wondered if Holmes even owned a vacuum.

Sherlock, of course, hadn't moved from the kitchen where he'd been when he'd entered last night, still doing some sort of experiment on his kitchen table. "Yes, good morning to you too, sunshine," Lestrade muttered grumpily, before opening the refrigerator to see if anything was in for breakfast. He did not find any food. He did, however, find an assortment of body parts nicely organized in a mini, discombobulated morgue. Lestrade shut the door.

"Sherlock," he said, trying not to sound like he might hit the man at any moment. "Why is there a head in your refrigerator? And a spleen? And a liver? And a heart?" He voice broke slightly at the end of the word 'heart' and Lestrade made himself stop talking, because if he didn't, he wasn't sure he could stop himself from completely freaking out at Sherlock.

_{OOC: I was having trouble starting, it was easier this way. I took a few liberties with Sherlock, if that's alright; I can change it if you mind.}

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[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock really didn't see the logic in it at all.
It was, in retrospect, painfully obvious how far the distance of likeliness was between Holmes and Lestrade - and so naturally he knew it to be a purely ridiculous notion that the other man should move in with him. Even if it was down to a certain consulting detective that the man had to leave his own house in the first place.
Not to mention it was entirely unfair.

But it seemed that the lanky man's arguments had been in vain, as it hadn't been long before Gregory Lestrade had simply decided to move in anyway. Apparently the detective inspector was under the impression that there was some sort of arrangement.
Perhaps Sherlock hadn't been clear enough in his intentions to not have the man in his flat.

In total the number of reasons for him specifically not to was probably uncountable. But Holmes had previously been subject to a short space of time in which there was nothing to do, and had composed somewhat of a short mental summary. Or a list, as others would put it.
Number one, there was a great number of things he didn't particularly fancy a member of the police force stumbling upon accidentally. Not that he wouldn't be able to talk his way out of it should such event occur, of course. In fact he was rather relying on that.
Number two, it was more than likely that another person in his flat would probably only get in the way. The last time he had been forced to share living space with anyone (the Holmes estate in which he resided during his youth was rather large, and he had been able to avoid most people during that time) had not ended particularly well.
Number three, Sherlock's own habits were often cause of tremendous arguing over the fact that he 'simply couldn't be a normal human being!'. This too was bound to not end well for all parties involved.
Number four - well, when considering the above, it is safe to assume that there doesn't even need to be a number four.

It wasn't long before two of these factors were promptly tested.

"Yes, good morning to you too, sunshine,"
In all fairness, Holmes hadn't even noticed that it had turned morning.
After finishing the experiment he had been conducting at the kitchen table the previous evening, and making sure that the detective inspector in the other room was definitely asleep, the man had rummaged through his apartment for any and every item of any sort of suspicious nature, or object that could be the cause of arrest - before hiding them thoroughly in places throughout the various rooms, in locations that Sherlock was proud to say would give even his elder brother difficulty to find.
It had taken a surprisingly short amount of time.
That done, the consulting detective was then left with numerous caffeine-powered hours on his hands before the other man would wake up and begin the confrontation he assumed was necessary. Holmes had briefly considered playing the violin (when played just so, at such an hour in the morning, it was enough to drive anybody firmly out of his life), before promptly realizing that to do so, he would first have to find it.
In the end he had settled for creating an accurate sketch of the section of human hand partially hidden under last month's newspaper on the kitchen table. Which meant, in theory, he was practically back where he had started.

The lanky man grumbled something incomprehensible in retaliation, pencil tucked behind his ear in a somewhat discarded manner as he began to scrawl the spidery lines of muscle and bone into his drawn hand anatomy.
Due to the clear noises of the refrigerator door being opened, he knew what was coming far before it did.

"Sherlock, why is there a head in your refrigerator? And a spleen? And a liver? And a heart?"
Not bothering to look up (what was the point, when the expression that was due to be on Lestrade's face was already projected so well by his voice?), Holmes responded with a singular word.
"Research,"
Standing up swiftly - thus causing the chair to scrape back against the floor before colliding with the kitchen sink - he set to work making two mugs of coffee. Holmes would have to work out how instead to get Greg to make them in the future, though.
He seemed to have forgotten the pencil still tucked behind his left ear.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade had lived with flat shares before. He was, being a personable man, usually sociable and polite with them, but rarely did he really speak to them enough to become much more than casual acquaintances. He'd lived with Lena, but that'd be little less than a disaster, and so, all in all, Lestrade was simply unpracticed in the art of peacefully coexisting with someone you were actually supposed to talk to.

But he really didn't have to know much about social niceties in the art of flat-sharing to know that people weren't supposed to have to find organs in the fridge. Or that living with Sherlock would be in any way normal. He really hoped that whatever fixer-upper of his house he could get with however much money Sherlock was giving him for his kitchen would be quick. He really didn't fancy a stay with Sherlock for any prolonged period of time. And he missed his house! Or rather, he missed the fact that his house didn't have bio-hazards in every corner.

"Research," Sherlock said flatly, unceremoniously scraping his chair behind him to stand. Oh, research. That's right, Sherlock, Sherlock the bloody scientist. Because that was just such a good excuse. Lestrade sighed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Well, at least Sherlock was now putting on the kettle for tea or coffee or whatever Sherlock drank in the morning. Actually, knowing Sherlock, it was probably coffee. It would be a little worrying if it wasn't coffee, to tell the truth!

Lestrade closed the fridge and sat on the large, floppy-ish chair that Sherlock had in his sitting room, between the kitchen entrance (well, the two rooms were sort of connected) and the telly. He picked up a newspaper that was sitting on the table. It was from last month. Lestrade put it down again and glanced over his shoulder to look at the stupidly tall consulting detective behind him.

"I should clean up," Lestrade mused, knowing saying it would yield nothing but annoying the younger man. He smirked, "And we need to go shopping."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

When he wanted to, Sherlock really could make a spectacular cup of coffee. Though he had rarely enough spare time to do that, and so usually tended to either buy it from a cafe or persuade somebody else to make him one. He also usually tended to not be the one making coffee for other people, aswell. But apparently there was a first time for everything.

"I should clean up, and we need to go shopping."

The consulting detective glance over his shoulder at the statement, noticing at once that Lestrade had moved the newspaper from where it had previously lay (he felt only mild disappointment in the fact that it eliminated possibility of finishing the sketch). He saw this because the hand was now half-waving to him as it sat next to the fruit bowl. The man scowled, before nodding slightly towards it.
"Watch the hand. I'd rather not need to start that one again."
He had been measuring the decomposition rate of a human hand in air compared to one submerged in water (there was a matching hand in a fish bowl somewhere in the living room) for the past day or two.

Having finished the cups of coffee, Holmes made his way to the living room. He seemed to expect the detective inspector to immediately take the mug from him, as the lanky man shoved it in his direction. He didn't bother to see if the other had taken hold of it before letting go, and near-throwing himself onto the couch.
Somehow he managed not to let a drop of the hot liquid spill from his own mug.

Sherlock frowned, as Lestrade's words seemed to sink in to the socially responsive section of his brain (it was rather neglected, in all honesty, for the other sections that the man actually cared about).
"There's absolutely no reason to clean up," he looked almost offended at the very thought, "Nor do 'we' need to go shopping."
The man took a long drink of his coffee, before scowling at the other. It was probably going to be a long day.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Sherlock simply glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade's words and said, sounding like he was dying of boredom, "Watch the hand. I'd rather not need to start that one again."

"Sure," Lestrade snorted, rolling his eyes. He cleared his throat - he really wasn't a morning person - and crossed his legs, leaning his chin on his outstretched palm. His elbow rested on the arm of the chair, and he hummed shortly, amused by the turn of events.

Sherlock came in from the kitchen and shoved a steaming hot mug full of coffee at Lestrade. "I prefer tea," Lestrade commented, but took it anyway. He watched with disbelief as Sherlock somehow managed to gracefully flop onto the couch with his own mug and not spill anything. Bloody inhuman man.

"There's absolutely no reason to clean up,"Sherlock said after a moment, as if he was just taking in what Lestrade had said before now. "Nor do 'we' need to go shopping." He took a sip of his coffee angrily and scoffed, as if him going shopping was completely out of the question. He wondered how Sherlock got anywhere near enough food to survive. He probably got his nourishment from pure intellectual intake, somehow. Or maybe he got Mycroft to do if for him. That'd be a laugh. Mycroft going grocery shopping for his younger brother. Right.

Lestrade chuckled softly to himself under his breath at the thought - and the whole situation of right now, really, and took a sip of the coffee. It was good, even if he didn't really like the stuff all that much in the first place. "Hmm, thanks," Lestrade said, giving Sherlock a small smile. For some reason, it almost felt a little bit shy. It wasn't as if he was shy around Sherlock by any lengths, but being in his house, being made coffee by Sherlock, seemed a bit domestic for the two of them.

"You know," Lestrade said, "Buying food isn't all that bad. It's kind of like, I don't know. Being a normal person?" Lestrade suggested with an amused tone, and shrugged nonchalantly, still smiling. "Come on it won't be that bad."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock seemed unaffected by the lack of sleep, twitching impatiently on the couch as he drunk his coffee. The fact that it was scorching hot didn't seem to bother him either, as the consulting detective had downed the entire mug within a minute or so. It was caffeine, and caffeine was energy. That was all that mattered, really.

Lestrade's murmur of thanks and accompanying slight smile fell on a man unfortunately deaf, blind and completely unknowing of general social niceties. The Detective Inspector may as well have dedicated a sonnet to the cup of coffee for all the notice his gratitude recieved. After all, it's unlikely for Holmes to ever care about (or listen to) the opinions of other people.
He deposited his own empty mug on the solid wood of the coffee table, before reaching into his jacket pocket for his phone.
Which, as it turned out, was not where he had expected it to be.

It was so irritating when that happened.

"You know, buying food isn't all that bad. It's kind of like, I don't know. Being a normal person?"

Sherlock only scowled further, before standing and casting a sweeping gaze around the flat. He really needed to stop losing his phone so much.
"Normal people are tedious, I'd much rather not join them thank you very much," the man responded almost absentmindedly. He jumped onto the back of the sofa (it was a wonder how he remained balanced, with all of his awkward limbs), peering toward the bookshelf on the far wall.

"Come on it won't be that bad."

The DI spoke at almost the same time Holmes began to cross the living room toward the bookcase - using only pieces of furniture as he did so. He seemed to be unwilling to tear his gaze away from the small shining object on the top shelf, amidst a pile of books, that just may be his beloved BlackBerry.
Sherlock scoffed, arms flailing for a second when his foot slipped.
"It will be awful, Lestrade! Supermarkets are awful. The obnoxiously laid out shelves and rows, and that terrible lighting that's practically violent in it's persistent brightness. It's an assault on the senses - not to mention a waste of time."

The man was teetering on the edge of the arm of a chair, peering determinedly up into the shadows of the top shelf. He reached up, making a grab for the object he had suspected to be his phone, before tumbling through the air and only just managing to catch himself on his feet.
Sherlock strode back toward the middle of the room, waving his BlackBerry triumphantly.

"By all means feel free to go yourself. I shan't, however, be joining you."


OOC: Just saying, if they do end up going to the supermarket there will be a lot of complaining from Sherlock. XD I hate supermarkets. e__e

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

"Normal people are tedious, I'd much rather not join them thank you very much," Sherlock said, and Lestrade smirked and watched as Sherlock jumped into another impossible position on the couch, looking at his bookshelf for something. Lestrade sipped at his coffee, now feeling much more awake. In truth, he really only needed the smell of coffee to get him going; it was probably some sort of messed up mental thing, out of habit, that it wasn't the caffeine, but the presence of coffee that made him wake up. Well, that, and Sherlock was being rather entertaining this morning.

As he told Sherlock it wouldn't be terrible, he realized he was probably lying, because it would be predictably horrendous for both of them if they went together. Lestrade didn't mind shopping at all - the mindless activity was admittedly sort of relaxing to him - but he didn't want to get food that Sherlock wouldn't eat. Not that he thought Sherlock would eat things he liked that much anyway (wait, did Sherlock even like any type of food at all?) but if he was going to live with Sherlock, well. He'd make Sherlock eat at least once, right? God damn it, he was a father after all.

"It will be awful, Lestrade!" Sherlock... well, whined, really. He was seriously a five year old, and Lestrade had to fight to keep a somewhat serious face on as Sherlock nearly fell off his chair trying to reach what appeared to be his beloved phone on the book shelf. Why Sherlock put his phone in a place he couldn't actually reach was beyond Lestrade, but some things, especially when it came to Sherlock, really weren't asking. "Supermarkets are awful," Sherlock elaborated as he stretched his arm, trying to grab the mobile, finally succeeding only to basically fall over. He looked happy enough with his phone in his hand as he showed Lestrade, though, so Lestrade really didn't worry that Sherlock had hurt himself or anything.

"By all means feel free to go yourself," Sherlock said, as if he hadn't just potentially broke a rib, "I shan't, however, be joining you."

Lestrade laughed warmly, placing his mug of now half-drunken coffee on the table near him. "Oh, you shant, won't you?" Lestrade asked, amused. Sherlock did always speak in such a hilariously formal manner. Not that he could really say that without being much of a hypocrite, but Sherlock wasn't working right now, so Lestrade didn't see the point. He stood and walked over to Sherlock, comincally patting the taller man on the head, because if he was going to do this, he might as well get some amusement out of it. (Jesus, Sherlock's hair? Kind of adorably fluffy.) "Come on, boy-o," Lestrade said fondly, "Just a bit of Morton William's, eh? I'll make it fun," he urged convincingly.

Then he signed to Sherlock in ASL with the cheekiest grin possible, 'I just love you too much dear, we can't be parted.' He simply assumed Sherlock knew ASL since he did occasionally have to use it with clients and such. While there were translators, they were bloody slow and annoying, so he'd learned just for the convenience, and Sherlock seemed the kind of guy to do the same. As long as Sherlock hadn't... erased it, or whatever the hell that freaky thing he did with his mind that made him forget was. There wasn't really any reason for not saying it out loud except he had this boyish instinct to annoy Sherlock this morning. He paused a moment, then smiled and added, out loud this time, "I'll getcha a pack of fags too, yeah?" He was pretty sure he shouldn't be offering Sherlock addicting toxins, but he knew Sherlock already smoked and so did he and what they hey, everybody died eventually, so why stop? They seemed like a convincing argument.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Promptly forgetting his original reason for wanting to find his mobile, Sherlock shoved the device in his blazer pocket.
"Oh, you shant, won't you?"
Sherlock scowled, crossing his arms in a ridiculously defensive manner. The expression only deepened, however, when Lestrade deigned it fit to pat him on the head. In all fairness, it was a rather effective way of catching him off guard. The Consulting Detective straightened his back, though leaned backward in an attempt to move his head as far from the other man as possible, whilst still 'standing his ground' - so to speak.
Honestly. What was the Detective Inspector thinking?

Holmes shook his head childishly, scowl transforming into a pout once he had ducked out of reaching range from Lestrade's hand.
"Come on, boy-o, just a bit of Morton William's, eh? I'll make it fun,"
The man huffed at the name, raising his eyebrow incredulously at the (presumably false) promise of 'fun'. And what on Earth was a 'Morton William', anyway?
"And what would I want with fun?" He responded petulantly, sniffing distastefully.

It was anybody's guess why the Detective Inspector then chose to communication to him in sing language (of all things). It was also fortunate that the Consulting Detective had chosen to learn a basic form of ASL many months ago, upon his arrival to the city - after proving to be something worth keeping stored in his memory, he had chosen to keep the knowledge.
'I just love you too much dear, we can't be parted.
Oh for God's sakes...

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, narrowing his eyes at the man. It really was a poor attempt at humour.
"I'll getcha a pack of fags too, yeah?"
Really, Lestrade was reverting to bribery? If he was that determined, Holmes could hardly protest very much. Who knew how far he would be willing to go in order to drag the man to the supermarket, after all. And if he was going to get a free pack of cigarettes out of it, well... He had been running low.
The tall man spent a moment to cast a speculative glance at the other, before finally giving a curt nod.
"Oh, fine then. But you're not allowed to buy anything that I don't like."
Grabbing his coat from where it lay on the desk, Sherlock strode toward the door.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Sherlock looked continually annoyed and stayed silent, simply giving Lestrade sarcastic looks and eye rolls as Lestrade tried several approaches to get Sherlock to come to the store with him. He really didn't want to go at all and yeah, he understood Sherlock would probably make a mess of things, insult random people and generally act like a horribly behaved child while they were in public, but he was secretly amused with Sherlock's regular antics most of the time.

Finally, once Lestrade mentioned the cigarettes, Sherlock nodded reluctantly and said, "Oh, fine then. But you're not allowed to buy anything that I don't like." Before Lestrade could protest Sherlock was dramatically stalking out the door, whipping his long dramatic coat on dramatically. Yeah, Sherlock really needed to get into theater. Lestrade had seen his honesty terrifyingly good acting skills before, after all. The guy needed some kind of creative output. Maybe finger painting.

"Is there anything you like?" Lestrade asked as he pulled his own jacket on and followed Sherlock down the stairs. He hailed a taxi once they were in front of 221B and once one conveniently pulled up quite quickly (being with someone who stuck out like a beanpole, probably because Sherlock practically was one in height and skinniness, was really convenient) they got in. "Morton Williams," Lestrade called for the taxi driver, and added to his previous statement once the car was moving, "I have the feeling you're a picky eater. As in, you don't consume things besides air and cigarette smoke."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Holmes and Lestrade were quickly seated in the back of a taxi, on their way to 'Morton Williams'. Honestly, was it a supermarket? It must be. Ridiculous name, though.
"I have the feeling you're a picky eater. As in, you don't consume things besides air and cigarette smoke."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, electing to stare out of the window at the light morning traffic. It was past the rush hour (the term should really be changed to plural when referring to New York, however, as the city was clouded by cars almost constantly), and so much less crowded than it would have been only a short while earlier. The boring people would now be busy at their mundane little jobs - the consulting detective was thankful that he wasn't one of them.

"That's a preposterous accusation, Lestrade. By all means if it were possible I would do - but it is to my understanding that a machine won't run if you don't feed it the correct fuel. Air and cigarette smoke will only work temporarily."
He had, in fact, already tested a theory to increase his knowledge on this particular topic. Back in London, the man had spent a short while living solely on tobacco, coffee and water. Though it must be stated clearly that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing at the time, because his moron of a dealer had somehow managed to give him the wrong little packet.
It hadn't ended too well, but at least he had got results.

He was decidedly not going to mention that incident, however. It wouldn't bode well for himself in the long term, he supposed.

"I like strawberries," Holmes offered after contemplating for a moment. He generally liked all sorts of fruit berries. And oranges, oranges were very good. He tended to eat those on the rare occasions that he was ill.
Though other than that, the man really didn't know what he did and didn't like. It wasn't something he decided to remember, after all. Because honestly it was completely unimportant.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, as if what Lestrade had said was ridiculous. Which really would have been, if it hadn't been Sherlock. And Sherlock was the king of doing things that humans patently couldn't. "

That's a preposterous accusation, Lestrade," he said, and Lestrade thought, I really would have beat a posh kid like you up in Ireland. "By all means if it were possible I would do - but it is to my understanding that a machine won't run if you don't feed it the correct fuel. Air and cigarette smoke will only work temporarily."

Lestrade snorted, and said, "Of course you've tried that, have't you?" Admittedly, he'd tried it before too, but Sherlock didn't really need to know (be reminded? Mind reading idiot) of that.

"I like strawberries," Sherlock said a moment later, and Lestrade had to full out laugh, now. Of all the things the great Sherlock Holmes liked, it was strawberries. That was cheeky, wasn't it? Peachy. Bad fruit puns. Hah.

"Gee, I know you're gonna want to hit me for this, but you seriously are hilariously cute sometimes," he chuckled, and it wasn't really something people were meant to say to Sherlock, but they were SherlockAndLestrade so he thought, Sherlock would forgive him for that.

The taxi stopped a minute later and they got out, Lestrade paying the driver with a nice enough tip. Walking into the building and all it's huge red capitol letters glory, Lestrade glanced at all of the posters hanging in the windows advertising their quite nicely priced food, proclaiming Supermarket God like they all did. Sherlock probably thought he was cheap for buying here. But he kind of was except when it came to things like smokes, so that as okay.

"Hey, don't offend people as much as you can, will ya?" Lestrade asked hopefully, though he had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock would see one man or woman and proclaim their sad, sensitive life story in a second as they walked through the doors.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

The taxi driver seemed fairly amused by the passenger's conversation, if the funny little smirk he kept casting the two in the mirror was anything to go by. Sherlock's gaze drifted to the dashboard, which was adorned with tell-tale signs of the man's character (married twice - first wife accidental on a... memorable weekend in Las Vegas, second a woman he had met only a few weeks after at a friend's family Christmas get-together; two sons and a daughter with the latter; a fan of folk music, the CD on the front seat a birthday gift from his eldest, though he was unable to play it because the cab's audio player had broken somewhere in the middle of February) - allowing the consulting detective to pick up a few little facts before returning his attention to the streets outside the window.

That, however, didn't last very long.

"Gee, I know you're gonna want to hit me for this, but you seriously are hilariously cute sometimes,"
He was unable to stop an incredulous snort that followed that statement. It took a moment of disbelieving staring for the reality that 'yes, he did actually just say that' to sink in. And when it did, Holmes just kept staring.
"You really are a ridiculous man, Lestrade."

Not soon after he had said that did the taxi start to come to a stop - Sherlock bounding out of the door before it had even slowed to the beginnings of a halt. He left the other man to pay the fare (he was the one who wanted to go in the first place), and briefly considered walking the other way before following the Detective Inspector inside.

And oh, did he wish he hadn't.

As expected, the lights were horrendous, the ridiculous excuse for overhead music was droning, and monotonous, ad the racket cause by the countless other customers was positively painful. But the only sign the consulting detective made to show his discomfort was the tightening of his muscles, and straightening his back almost imperceptibly.
"Hey, don't offend people as much as you can, will ya?"
Sherlock scowled in response. If he were anywhere else, he would (naturally) rattle off as many deductions about anybody within a ten metre radius as he could (which really was an awful lot). But the consulting detective picked up so many things from so many people that processing them and picking them out would probably only result in him having a meltdown right in the middle of the supermarket.

"You owe me a lot of cigarettes."

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Sherlock looked completely annoyed to be in such a common place, and scowled as soon as Lestrade suggested toning down the him a bit. Truthfully, Lestrade expected to Sherlock to start deducing and insulting people just at the second, simply because Lestrade told him not to, but surprisingly, he simply said, "You owe me a lot of cigarettes."

It was a step in the right direction, he'd say.

"Sure thing, if you want lung cancer, I'll getcha your lung cancer," Lestrade grinned, stupidly proud of Sherlock at the moment; Really, the fact that the man was even in the building was an astonishment. (For the record, Lestrade fully understood the dangers of smoking. He just ignored them anyways.) "Come on then," he said, taking a plastic basket on his arm and walking briskly towards the first section: fruits and vegetables.

"Strawberries," Lestrade states, taking a green carton full of ripe-looking berries off the shelf and nodding when he approved of their state. He glanced around, thinking about if he might cook anything. "So, am I allowed to get carrots and apples to make stir fry, then?" He was kind of joking - he intended to make it anyway even without Sherlock's permission. A man had to eat, after all.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Following Lestrade further into the supermarket (despite every step away from the door being frankly horrible), Sherlock hunched his shoulders up in his coat, as if in an attempt to block out the rest of the world. It probably only succeeded in making him look like even more of a spoiled child, but at that point couldn't bring himself to care at all.
He barely heard the Detective Inspector's small 'joke' (well, that was a lie - he did hear it, but wasn't paying attention), and so simply scowled at the man in response. Whatever Lestrade had said, Sherlock doubted his reaction would be out of place.

Holmes had been walking directly in the middle of the aisle, carefully staying as far away as possible from the shelves. He sincerely hoped that they wouldn't come into any sort of close proximity to people. Lord, how he hated people.
Sherlock sniffed, rolling his shoulders slightly before shoving his hand into his pocket to withdraw his phone. Perhaps that would provide some form of relief from the horrendous ordeal he was being forced to partake in. Well, perhaps it would, if he actually had reception in the bloody supermarket. The consulting detective's scowl deepened further, and he returned the mobile to his pocket with an even fouler attitude.
"Can you hurry up?"

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

"Can you hurry up?" Sherlock snapped, completely ignoring Lestrade's previous question. Lestrade rolled his eyes, and continued down the rows of fruits and vegetables to get the aforementioned ingredients.

He wondered why the heck he was in a grocery store doing a domestic chord like buying the weeks food with Sherlock Holmes. Actually, people were bound to think Sherlock was either his son/nephew or his partner, which was… disturbing. Really, really disturbing.

"We need tea. Tea is imperative. But you like coffee, don't you?"[/b] Lestrade only drank coffee because it had caffeine in it; he didn't really like it that much. Rather, he didn't like relying on it. Walking down the aisles full of coffee and tea and other assorted drinks, not really expecting Sherlock to answer his previous question, Lestrade picked out the tea he liked and said, "Pick out whatever drinks you want. I don't really care. But if you ignore me you'll just have to drink tea and water and milk all week,"[/color] he said warningly. He plopped a gallon jug of milk on the bottom of their cart. "Unlike you I can't read minds."