A/N: This was something cute and fluffy that I wrote to break writer's block. No spoilers for S3. Just cute and fluffy Sherstrade.
Greg peeked around the corner and drew back as the person turned to look his direction. His back was to the wall, and he planned his next move. He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through the notes, pulling some out and slipping the wallet back into its pocket. The notes were folded discretely into his hand where they couldn't immediately be seen, although they stuck out against his gloves. London was bloody cold this time of year.
He turned around the corner and walked nonchalantly up to the other man. It was one of Sherlock's homeless network - a scraggly teenager named Wiggins. He also served as one of Greg's informants, although that was something he kept from Sherlock. It was good to have some people in the loop, making sure that the berk was okay. Especially when Sherlock was acting oddly.
It had started with a case, an interesting one, a locked-room murder. Sherlock loved those, loved the odd complexity and the clues that he got to puzzle over. This time, he had taken one look, rolled his eyes, and stormed off. Not a single deduction, nothing. John had turned to Greg, apologised, and left, irritation, anger, and concern mingling in his features. Even John hadn't known what was wrong.
So weeks and escalating odd behavior later, Greg cashed in some favours, and there he was. On the trail of the consulting detective, tracking him through London, in the middle of the freezing afternoon. He slipped Wiggins the note. "Don't need to tell him about this, yeah?" Greg said quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the wind. Wiggins inspected the bank note for a second and shook his head, stepping aside so Greg could pass him.
"About a half-block down, on the right," the teen told Greg, and the DI could have sworn there was amusement lurking somewhere in the seemingly bored tone. He continued along his way, checking cautiously for anyone following him. There were glimpses of other homeless folk at the very edge of his peripheral vision, but nothing concrete. He was alone. It was a deserted part of town, and Greg was starting to worry exactly what Sherlock was doing this far away from 221B.
He was obviously paying his network to keep an eye out for intruders. Was he back on drugs? Doing something illegal? There were few reasons he would need guards. Well. Few legal reasons, anyway. Greg could think of numerous situations where Sherlock might have a look-out, and none of them filled him with any sense of joy. Spotting the door, Greg made sure that no one else was around when he pulled it open and slid in.
Greg heard the music first. A soft, classical melody, something sad and sweet. His heart twinged in sympathy, and he narrowly avoided flinching when the music grew dramatically, swelling into something more vibrant. Stepping forward, Greg froze, just as the music died down. Sherlock was - Sherlock was dancing. In tight black tights, and a loose steel grey tank top with a low-cut chest. He had grey leg warmers keeping his calves and ankles protected from the cold. It was a - it was quite a change from the suits Greg saw him wear in public. Even from the clothes he wore around 221B, the dressing gown and pyjamas. This was - it was like Sherlock had bared everything, was hiding nothing. He was baring his soul for the watcher's inspection - for Greg.
Sherlock's movements mirrored the music, soft and delicate when it was quiet, loud and dramatic as the music swelled. It evolved into leaps and twirls, flamboyant and as vibrant as Sherlock could be when playing the violin but in a completely different way. His hair was tied back, the curls that wouldn't fit pinned in place so that he could see without them in the way. Sweat coated his upper body, and as he turned and leaped, bent and stretched, Greg could see that the cotton shirt would occasionally stick to his back or get plastered to his stomach.
He was utterly captivating, and held Greg's attention the entire time he was dancing. Sherlock looked smooth and effortless, even through a complicated series of pirouettes that left Greg feeling slightly dizzy. There was no way he hadn't noticed Greg, no way he had not figured out that there was someone else in the room. But Sherlock had chosen to not say anything, to not acknowledge him. Greg pondered leaving and saying nothing, but he couldn't force himself to go. Couldn't make himself miss the magic that was happening in front of him.
Finally Sherlock came to a halt, breathing heavily, and then his arms dropped to his side and he turned to face Greg. "Gavin?" he inquired, his lips quirking up in a faint smile.
"It's Greg," the DI replied, matching Sherlock's expression. It was a running gag at points, now. Sherlock just trying to mess with him. It warmed Greg, every time Sherlock did it. It showed in his own way that he cared. That he tried.
Sherlock wasn't very good at saying things. Not out loud, at least. His lips would never say what his body could. Would never clarify the meaning. Greg was good at nonverbal communication, could read a witness's emotions from a kilometre away. But Sherlock. Sherlock was different. His movements, his motions, his meanings were different. So Greg always doubted himself. Always read too much into something, in his opinion, or too little.
There was something electric in the air between them, something that had been growing for weeks. Greg knew what it was, knew what the lurch in his stomach meant, the way he felt warm around Sherlock - all the little signs that he wasn't sure that the consulting detective was familiar with. Still, Greg didn't move as Sherlock stepped closer, lithe and dangerous, like a panther on the hunt.
His sharp blue eyes were focused solely on Greg, and they were curious, dark, pupils dilated, although from what Greg was hesitant to say. He didn't think Sherlock was high - there were no signs of it, nothing he could see. His skin shone from perspiration, and Greg had to tear his eyes away from the contours of Sherlock's well-defined chest. The consulting detective came closer, until he was mere centimetres away. He cocked his head to the side, arrogant as ever, but there was a questioning tone to the movement that tugged at Greg's heart.
Greg tilted his head slightly, as if he was saying 'what are you waiting for'. Sherlock closed the small space between them, his eyes hypnotic, mesmerising, as his hands came up and cradled Greg's face. Greg's heart was thumping oddly his chest - he couldn't breathe, it was too much, not enough - and then Sherlock's lips touched his.
It was like he had been electrocuted, like every single one of his nerves had lit up the moment their lips connected. Sherlock's tongue tentatively touched Greg's mouth, and he parted his lips, allowing Sherlock to deepen the kiss. His hands had settled on Sherlock's hips, flexing against the soft fabric, testing, feeling Sherlock's lithe, strangely muscular body against his. He felt Sherlock's large hands on his chest, through his coat, as the kiss grew more heated. Sherlock pulled back (far too soon, in Greg's opinion), his pupils blown, breathing shattered. Greg looked at him, satisfied at the thought that mere moments before he'd been listening to the arrogant detective's soft little noises as they kissed each other senseless.
"Let's dance," Sherlock murmured, shifting to pull Greg's hand into the proper alignment. Greg's hand in Sherlock's up in the air, with the DI's hand on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's hand on Greg's back. He felt a bit silly, with his winter jacket on and all, compared to Sherlock's dance clothes, but he didn't balk.
"What? Sherlock, I don't -" Greg protested. He hadn't danced. Ever. Well, maybe once or twice at weddings with his ex, but nothing formal. He wasn't any good at it, either.
"Trust me." Sherlock's eyes were hypnotic. Greg felt almost drunk, and really, trusting Sherlock was probably both the worst idea and the best one, because Sherlock couldn't even be trusted to not poison someone's coffee (really, John told the best stories), but Greg did it anyway. If Sherlock could apparently be trusted to do anything, it looked like it would be dance.
"Okay," Greg said amicably. Sherlock pulled a small remote out of - somewhere - and clicked at the music player. A simple tune - a waltz, Greg thought - started playing. Sherlock counted the beats out for Greg, his low voice hypnotic, before slowly easing him into the steps. It was a simple box step, a waltz, and the steps weren't very complicated. A simplistic rhythm, and for a while they swayed together, Sherlock leading, Greg following.
It was oddly symbolic, Greg mused, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. Wasn't that how it always was? In cases. In life. Sherlock lead the way, and Greg followed, faithful and stalwart, how it always had been. He would be there for Sherlock, had been there for Sherlock, through his drug addiction and beyond. There were countless days he would find Sherlock high, whether in the consulting detective's flat or his own. The long months and years that it took to finally get him off drugs. The worry, for the first several months, that he would come home and find Sherlock high on his sofa, or he would show up high to a case.
That had faded, eventually, but it always lingered. Greg became comforted by Sherlock's odd behavior, his particular lack of social normalities. It was so completely Sherlock that Greg could be assured that he was himself, and not a product of pharmaceuticals nor their strange hold over him. As time went on, and John came into the picture, Greg buried his strange attraction to his friend. Sherlock wasn't interested, and Greg wasn't going to waste time pining over someone he couldn't have.
Then the looks started. Weeks ago. Greg would feel eyes on him, would turn and see Sherlock just watching him. The taller man would smile a knowing smile, and turn back to whatever it was he had been doing. It got under Greg's skin, after a while, since Greg sure as hell didn't know whatever it was Sherlock seemed so amused by. Then - this had happened. And now Greg wasn't sure what to think.
Their moves synchronised, until Greg didn't have to think about what he was doing, didn't have to count. Everything was effortless. It sent a little thrill through him, although he wasn't sure why. Sherlock's face was soft, oddly gentle, and he was looking at Greg as if he was something to be treasured, something precious. It made the world feel too warm, too fuzzy, and oddly uncomfortable at the same time it made him smile.
Finally they slowed to a stop, and Greg was surprised to hear the music fade away, leaving just the two of them, staring at each other. It was almost too much to handle, too much sensory input and too overwhelming. Sherlock had kissed him. Based on both of their physical reactions, Sherlock was very much interested. In him. In the ratty Detective Inspector. Greg had to wonder exactly when he had stepped into an alternate reality.
"Same time next week?" Sherlock asked, and Greg just stared at him, at the knowing little smirk on Sherlock's face.
"What?" Greg realized that he was still holding Sherlock's hand, that they were still in position. But he didn't want to back away. He didn't want to let go. This single moment, he wanted to make last forever.
"For your dance lesson." Sherlock inclined his head, eyes sparkling in a way that made Greg's stomach flutter. "I can start teaching you the basics. The proper way."
"Sherlock, I'm - I'm not a dancer." Greg looked away, at the wall, and nearly jumped when Sherlock's lips pressed gently against his.
"Not yet," Sherlock murmured, kissing him softly, little butterfly kisses. His words were puffs of air against Greg's lips. "But I'm a very good teacher."