The real trouble started in the storage room of a funeral home—after Sherlock had reduced an entire wake to tears.

Of course, he'd been right about everything. The patriarch of the Sampson family hadn't died of natural causes. And by making everybody cry, he'd somehow figured out who killed him. But that was beside the point.

Greg was fuming.

Sherlock had a calm, rather amused expression on his face, even though Greg had him backed against the wall and had been yelling for a good five minutes about what was appropriate behavior at a goddamned funeral. Couldn't Sherlock have waited until they at least had the body in the ground? Couldn't he have some respect for the dead?

There were old, dried-out roses in vases, and empty serving plates stacked around them. Chairs piled onto each other—a dusty piano in the center of the chaos. He and Sherlock were right by the door. Standing in the only free space.

Greg's face was red, and he was still in the middle of a rant, and Sherlock broke into a smile.

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" Greg snarled.

"Do you scold the rest of your team out this thoroughly when they make somebody cry?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"I don't have to, because you're the only one that's ever funeral crashed with the express intent of upsetting a room full of the wealthiest people in London."

They were already standing fairly close together. Greg was caught a bit off guard when Sherlock grabbed him by the front of his coat and pulled him forward. Their faces were mere centimeters apart. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek.

It was rather difficult to discern whether Sherlock leaned in and closed the distance between their lips, or Greg pitched forward just enough to mash their mouths together. Perhaps both things occurred at the same time.

Whatever the cause and effect relationship happened to be—the facts remain the same.

One minute Greg was in the middle of a heated chewing out, and the next minute he was heatedly snogging a certain infamous consulting detective.

Their tongues swirled together and it sent strange sparks of electricity through Greg's nervous system. His hands were on Sherlock's hips, and he was pressing the taller man into the wall. The kiss may have started on Sherlock's initiative—but Greg was quickly in control. Nipping and sucking at the taller man's lips like he was starving.

When Sherlock moaned into Greg's mouth, all bets were off. Greg growled, and found himself grinding his hips into the taller man. He could feel Sherlock's erection, burning though the thin cloth of those doubtlessly expensive trousers.

And damn. Greg's cock was throbbing. Sherlock's fingers were running through his hair. Well, some of them, anyway. Because Sherlock also definitely had a hand on Greg's arse, and he was squeezing, and pulling him closer, even though it wasn't actually possible for them to be pressed together any more firmly than they already were.

Perhaps reality tried to check in at some point between Sherlock seductively whispering Greg's name, and Sherlock leaving the beginnings of a rather awful hickey on Greg's collarbone. It occurred to him that what they were doing was a spectacularly bad idea. The very thing he'd been trying to avoid for months. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to pull away. Sherlock was panting and flushed, and whimpering as Greg's cock slid against his through the fabric of their trousers. And it was fucking intoxicating.

On a whim, Greg moved his hands from their position on Sherlock's waist, and grabbed a hold of the other man's wrists. Pinning them firmly over his head. Even though Sherlock was taller, even though it was an entirely impractical position, Sherlock squirmed and let out a breathy, "oh" and Greg was on the verge of coming in his pants like a teenager.

In the heat of it all, they'd rather lost track of their surroundings. One of them, probably Greg, knocked the table next to them and there was a loud crash as one of the numerous vases full of dead flowers fell to the floor and shattered. Greg pulled back abruptly at the noise.

The moment had broken. Greg tried to take a deep breath and will his erection away. Probably for the best. The floor of a storage room was no proper place to shag. Especially considering they were still technically in a funeral home.

Greg took another few steps back and cleared his throat, suddenly quite embarrassed. Because damn it all to hell. Sherlock was biting his lip and wearing that same I told you so face he always put on at particularly frustrating crime scenes.

It seemed like he should say something, but Greg's brain had stopped working. So instead he just let out a frustrated grunting noise and exited the room so he could try to collect himself elsewhere. Preferably a place where he wasn't directly under the gaze of those frightening blue eyes.

In retrospect, Greg probably should have chosen that moment to clarify that he did not want to peruse some sort of tryst—that involved handcuffs, and leather, and far too much insanity.

Then again, Sherlock probably wouldn't have listened anyway.

Teeeeehhhhheeeeeee. See you on Saturday :D