Defying Expectations: A Sherstrade Drabble

I don't own BBC Sherlock or anything. If I did, this would be canon. Don't sue my ass.

Speechless is so damned depressing I needed a break. So I wrote something cracky.

"Ready?" Sherlock walked into the room, dressed in his favorite purple shirt and skinny jeans. He eyed John carefully.

The doctor was dressed in one of his hideous sweater things again. Not at all what Sherlock expected him to wear on a night out on the town. Of course, he should have known better. He sighed.

"Where's that top we bought you? They'll never let you in the club dressed like that, and I need your keen observation skills if we're going to catch this one."

"I'm not feeling well." John sighed, lowering himself into his chair and pulling out the paper. It wasn't a lie. He'd been extremely under the weather for days. "Don't particularly feel like dancing. I've already invited Lestrade to be your backup."

"What?" Sherlock stared at him incredulously. "That will never work."

"And why not?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Lestrade's useless and old and boring. No one's going to believe he's there to party. He's got cop written all over him. I suppose I'll just have to do this alone then."

As Sherlock stalked out of the room, he failed to observe the a pair of black coattails whisking away down the stairs. He frowned, looking for the right scarf. This was going to be a terrible evening.

Lestrade fought to repress a wave of sadness as he drove away from Baker Street. When John had told him that he was needed to fill in, he had been elated. It had been so long since he and Sherlock had worked on something together that he'd almost forgotten how much he'd missed it.

But then, as he was about to sweep into the room. . . He sighed.

"Why don't you say what you really think, Sherlock?" he whined as he pulled into his own street. It wasn't fair. He wasn't that old. Certainly wasn't useless. Or boring. Right?

"I'll just have to prove you wrong again," he muttered, a strange gleam in his eye. Then he climbed the stairs to his flat.

Sherlock had been at the club a good half hour, and had yet to see anything remotely interesting. Plenty of tragically-dressed young things trying to get free liquor from him, and more than a few men trying to buy him drinks instead. The same old thing. He sighed.

"One more," he muttered to the barman.

"I'll take care of that," crooned a familiar voice.

"Lestrade, I thought I told John to. . ." he trailed off as he turned to face the DI, his eyes widening in shock. "Oh."

The man who stood before him was not the tired, world-weary man he had grown accustomed to seeing. No, this person was a complete stranger. He was wearing tight, form-fitting black pants that showed off a butt Sherlock wasn't even aware existed. His torso was hugged by a red t-shirt that left equally little to the imagination, and topped with a black biker jacket. His hair, usually combed close to his head, had been spiked ever so slightly, giving him the appearance of a man ten years younger.

He smirked at the young detective, throwing himself into the barstool next to him.

"You don't mind, do you, mate? I mean, if you don't want a drink, I'm sure I can buy one for somebody else in here."

Sherlock gulped. "No, really, uh. . ."

"What? Too predictable and boring? We can't have that, now can we?"

Lestrade grabbed the stunned detective by the hand and dragged him out on the dance floor. As they began to dance, Lestrade leaned in close, hissing in Sherlock's ear.

"The man you're after's by the door. Came in just before I did. Seedy sort of fellow. No, don't look."

Sherlock hesitated, but obeyed.

"I'll keep an eye on him for now. I'll let you know if he makes a move."

"Why are you doing this?" hissed Sherlock. "This is my case. Police aren't involved."

"You know why." Lestrade pulled closer to him, then pushed him away gently. "John asked me to help."

"Oh, you wouldn't be here just for him." Sherlock caught his wrists, pulling him close again. "I know you."

"Do you?" Lestrade's eyes flashed dangerously. "Because last I heard I was old, useless, and boring."

"So you heard that."


Sherlock sighed. "So you're angry at me, is that it?"

Lestrade chuckled. "Not at all. Challenged, yes."

Sherlock stared at him. There was a new sort of energy about him tonight that he'd never seen before. He was never wrong about people. Ever. Well, hardly ever. How could he have missed this?

Suddenly, Lestrade stopped dancing and kissed him hard, passionately. Sherlock struggled at first, but before he realized what was happening, his hands were suddenly snaking all over the older man as if they had a mind of their own and he was giving as well as he was receiving.

As he gasped against him, Lestrade nipped gently at his ear. "He's leaving. We should go after him."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes glazed slightly.

"Not bored now, are you?" crooned Lestrade, dragging him towards the door in what by all appearances was lustful fervor.

"Not hardly," replied Sherlock, a strange smile creeping across his face.