Rating: PG (pre-slash really)
Summary: This is entirely the fault of capt_spork, who laid the following bunny!trap for me... "I would personally love Sherlock to espy Lestrade dancing/singing to a favourite track. In just a towel. Because he just got out of the shower. And Sherlock broke in about a case. (and if it was...say...Queen you could have my first-born)" So this daftness is ENTIRELY HER FAULT. Yes. I'm glad that's clear. XD
Sherlock had been blessed with a number of gifts, but patience wasn't one of them. So after a fruitless minute or so banging on the door of Lestrade's flat, he rummaged in his pocket for the set of lockpicks he habitually carried and set about opening the door.
If the thought occurred to him that breaking into the home of a policeman might not be terribly sensible, he rationalised that he was simply speeding things up a little. The man was clearly in - there was a light on and he could hear music. Plus, this was Lestrade, he'd hardly arrest him.
The thought that Lestrade might be ignoring his knocking wasn't even given headroom.
He heard the lock give a satisfying click and allowed himself a brief yet smug smile. New personal best time, as far as this particular door was concerned, anyway.
Sherlock stepped into the living room, and found it empty. Pizza box on the coffee table, next to an empty beer bottle.
"Hel-lo?" he called. There was no answer. He flipped the lid of the pizza box up consideringly and after a second picked up the remaining slice.
"Lestrade?" he tried again, flicking olives off the pizza into a pot plant. Pushed the door to the inner hallway open and took a bite.
The music was louder out here, and he could hear the sound of rushing water. Explained why Lestrade hadn't heard the door, if he was in the shower. Sherlock congratulated himself on his decision to let himself in, he could have been banging there for ages.
Over the sound of water and music he could hear snatches of a slightly hoarse and out of tune voice singing snatches of the song. Either Lestrade didn't know all the lyrics or he had water in his face half the time. Probably both, Sherlock decided.
He caught the line "caviar and cigarettes" and felt a brief pang of craving. Took another bite of the pizza to dispel it and poked his head into the first door he came to.
A crumpled suit and shirt lay discarded on the bed. He wandered in and felt in the pockets, giving a grunt of satisfaction as his fingers pulled out an ID card. He slipped it into his coat. It was less of a challenge when the trousers weren't actually on the man, but he'd given the last one he pinched to John.
Somewhere on the other side of the wall the water shut off, making the gruff accompaniment more audible.
"Insatiable an appetite,"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and absent mindedly chewed more pizza.
His foot snagged in something on the floor and he looked down to discover he’d got his shoe caught on a pair of boxer shorts. Frowning, he flicked them up from his foot and caught them in his free hand without thinking, just as the door was pushed wide to reveal a wet-headed and bare-chested Lestrade wrapped in a threadbare towel, still obliviously singing along.
"Fastidious and precise - "
They both froze.
Lestrade went a faint shade of mortified purple.
Sherlock stared. He was a careful and automatic study of any new sight, and he’d certainly never seen Lestrade half naked before.
Finally Lestrade found his voice. And it was indignant.
"Is that my pizza?"
"Mmmn. Next time don’t get olives? I don’t like them."
"You bastard, I was saving that piece."
"Well think of it as me doing you a favour." Sherlock put his head on one side and gave a commiserating smile.
Lestrade tucked the towel slightly closer around him and tried to suck in his stomach unobtrusively. "I thought you didn’t eat when you were working? Does that mean you're here to annoy me purely on social terms?"
Something else rather more disturbing occurred to him.
"Are they my pants?"
Sherlock looked down in faint surprise. He'd forgotten he was holding them. He tossed them across.
"Don't tell me, you broke in to help me get dressed? Your opinion of the Met's sunk so low you think we need help with buttons these days?" He threw the boxers onto the bed and snatched back the remaining pizza from Sherlock’s hand, turning away.
He knew his face was still burning from being caught singing - to Queen of all things - and figured attack was the best form of defence. Plus, being pissed off meant he could avoid thinking about the fact he was naked in front of Sherlock or that Sherlock was in his bedroom and he was naked, or that Sherlock was staring at him and he was naked, or -
"What are you doing here?" he demanded irritably, turning back in time to get the distinct impression Sherlock had been staring at his arse.
...no. This was Sherlock. Not going to happen.
"I need your help."
Lestrade gave a scoffing laugh and Sherlock sighed. "I need your resources," he amended. "Are you going to be difficult about this?"
"Oh no, I like you breaking into my flat and stealing my dinner and - and - whatever it was you were doing with my underwear, which I’m not at all sure I want to know."
Lestrade snapped off the CD player which had started playing something about fat bottomed girls.
The sudden silence was if anything more awkward. He fidgeted.
"Are you going to stand there and watch me get dressed?"
Sherlock pursed his lips and looked thoughtful.
"That wasn’t an offer!" Lestrade clarified with horrified haste.
"Shame." Sherlock shrugged. "I'll wait outside then."
He'd gone in a swish of coat before Lestrade realised what he’d said.
The second thing he realised was that Sherlock had somehow contrived to take the rest of the pizza with him.
The third thing he realised was that his towel had slipped open at an indeterminate point over the last few minutes, giving Sherlock an unparalleled view of his cock.
He closed his eyes and tried to decide which of them he wished was dead most.
When he opened them it was to discover Sherlock had come back in and was holding out a fresh bottle of beer to him.
"Thought you might need it," Sherlock said, apparently guilelessly.
Lestrade decided it really wasn't worth the effort to berate Sherlock for nosing in his fridge on top of everything else, and reached out for it silently.
A second later it became apparent it had been a really bad idea to take his hand off the towel.