A/N: In which Sherlock improvises and is adorable. Co-written with Dreigiau (Dreig). This is the Sherstrade half. 'The Cosmo[politan] Effect: Introduction" introduces the premise of this piece. Read it to give it some more context! Prompt in bold!
Trip, fall against a man's chest, and say "Damn, your pecs are so hard, I felt like I was falling into a wall."
Sherlock examined the crime scene, scowling at it dismissively. He had categorized it as a four and now that he saw it in person, it was barely a two. However, John was at work and Sherlock had decided he could use the time to initiate at least one of the tips he had found in an intense google search. He snorted dismissively at the thought of flirting being difficult. For one, there were hundreds of tips online for the inept. For two, Sherlock had the looks of someone who got propositioned often. That his prey was unaware of his intentions made it all the better.
Not that Sherlock was attracted to the DI, not at all. He was just slightly less boring than the rest of the human population, and since the idea of attempting to seduce his flatmate would have given him a slight advantage (and frankly, the jumpers), Lestrade was a tolerable substitute. Sherlock allowed his gaze to sweep Lestrade's body as if he was examining it for something related to the crime scene. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't. He wasn't really sure.
Forcing his gaze back to the dead body in front of him, he let out a sigh. "She was killed by her lover's ex boyfriend. He's guilt-stricken over her death, his first kill. You'll probably find him in his apartment, or he might even turn himself in before you get there, at the rate you're going." His sneer was directed at everyone but Lestrade. "Really, Lestrade, is this the best you can do?" Absentmindedly Sherlock's logical brain pointed out that insulting the target of his flirtations probably wasn't his best move. Sherlock ignored it. He couldn't help pointing out the ignorance; it was like a drug.
Greg smiled as Sherlock explained the case, nodding to Sally and hopefully making this team useful instead of what they were - incompetent morons. Sherlock couldn't help the faint rush of pride that swam through him at the sight of Lestrade's smile. He ignored it, of course - or attempted to. Useless sentiment. Then again, calling them incompetent morons wasn't the best idea when Lestrade was within earshot. Was it? As the team began to file out of the room Greg took a step towards Sherlock, seemingly unconcerned with the jibes the consulting detective had made about Sally and the others. That was a good sign, right?
"John said you've been climbing the walls recently, following something on your laptop. He seemed surprised you weren't using his, actually. I know it wasn't of much interest to you." He shrugged, leaning back against the wall to give Sherlock space to skirt around the body. "We didn't have anything more interesting to offer, and you still worked it out much more quickly than we would have."
It took him an unbearably long time to figure out that Lestrade was talking, and he cued back into the conversation and replayed it in his mind. "John's laptop is too slow," he said dismissively. "Too many viruses from the various websites he visits." Part of him wondered if discussing his flatmate's apparent obsession with porn was a bit not good. Deciding he didn't care, he noticed that Lestrade had arranged himself in the perfect position to test one of his new tips.
"Really don't need to know about John's internet habits, Sherlock," Greg replied quickly, almost cutting Sherlock off. He seemed slightly surprised when Sherlock stopped talking, and he watched him intently as the consulting detective started to walk.
He shifted as if to walk over the victim's body and pretended to trip. If anyone had been carefully paying attention, they would have noticed that Sherlock did not actually come into contact with the victim. Not that anyone was, however. Details. He stumbled until he fell against Lestrade, his large hands sprawled flat over Lestrade's chest. Without conscious thought Greg reached out, catching Sherlock to steady him and. Allowing his hands the briefest caress, Sherlock looked at Lestrade through his long lashes, a slight smile curving up one side of his cupid-bow lips. "You have desirable pectorals, Lestrade." Sherlock paused for less than a second and then improvised. "They are quite sturdy."
Greg took a long moment to work out what it was that Sherlock had said, and he frowned in reply. That wasn't good. "Uh, thanks, I think. Are you okay, didn't hurt yourself, or hit your head?" Sherlock wasn't certain what to make of the look Greg was giving him, but he hadn't removed his hands from Sherlock's upper arms, and he actually seemed worried. That was progress.
He didn't let his expression change as he smiled tersely and righted himself, pretending to dust a molecule of dirt off of his jacket. "I'm fine, Lestrade."
"You just threw yourself half way across the room," Greg reminded him, dropping his hands from Sherlock's arms as the other man took his own weight again. "Sure you haven't twisted an ankle or anything? Can't have my only consulting detective out of action because he can't chase around after criminals." Greg smiled as Sherlock brushed himself off, seemingly amused by Sherlock's movements.
The consulting detective opened his mouth to say something and then his mind caught up with him. He promptly closed it before the only thing that emerged was an undignified squeak. Well that was unprecedented. Did that count? Did Lestrade claiming Sherlock as (ugh how plebeian) 'his' consulting detective qualify under Mycroft's rules? Or was Lestrade just saying that as a natural reaction to someone attractive falling and groping him? The saner part of Sherlock pointed out that it was rather quick, and what did that say about him? Or Lestrade? Did Sherlock come across as 'easy'? From what the magazines had said, that was quite a bad thing.
There wasn't enough scientific evidence! But Lestrade would nonetheless be suspicious if Sherlock arranged for several men to fall and grope his pectorals, so he would have to go with the data he had. Sherlock scowled. "I did not fall," he said stiffly, his pride injured. "I merely - got twisted a bit, is all." Then there was the slightest movement as he levered himself up on each foot to make sure his ankles were fine. "See? Right as rain."
"Most people would call that falling," Greg told him, shaking his head with a smile. He stepped towards the door, pausing to wait for Sherlock to follow him out of the crime scene. "I'll call you if we get anything more than a five, okay? Might even be able to drop by with some cold cases this evening, if you like. I'll bring takeout," he offered, leading Sherlock down the stairs and outside. "Try not to drive John too batty, yeah?"
Sherlock snorted dramatically. "Bring the cases. I am amenable to takeout. Bring enough for three." Adjusting his coat, he looked Lestrade over one last time. He couldn't think of something to say (and he refused to say something as plebeian as 'good bye'), so he swirled in a circle and stormed off to hail a taxi. He had to prepare.