Work Text:
It took a bit of shifting and pushing before they were both relatively comfortable in the small corner they were using as hiding spot.
Sherlock, after some glaring from Greg's part, had been persuaded to relinquish his coat for the greater good. At that point, the greater good mostly involved keeping the lower parts of their anatomies dry.
The division of the surface of the coat had not went without problems, though, and the first victim had been the little compass Sherlock kept in his right pocket, which had unluckily experienced the full mass of Greg's bottom.
Greg was just about to make a comment about how it was now really pointing where the sun didn't shine, but something about Sherlock's twisted mouth stopped him. He tried to save things.
"I'll buy you a new one."
There was no answer, except for a slight move into what Greg had come to call the "sulking pose". Deciding that this did not fare well, he leaned over and rested his head in Sherlock's shoulder. Puppy eyes couldn't be seen in the dark, but he tried anyway.
"One of the fancy ones. With a light. And the stuff that counts your steps."
Sherlock, because he was Sherlock and, however vexed, couldn't let inaccuracy pass, offered begrudgingly:
"Pedometer."
"Right. And the other thing that tells you how high you are."
"Altimeter."
"That's it. And an IQ detector, so you can avoid the stupid people."
Sherlock huffed. If he didn't move, his voice grew considerably warmer.
"I'd never be around you, then."
"Oi!"
There was a low chuckle, and the "sulking pose" quickly turned into a "let's find the right angle to kiss properly" one. Greg didn't mind at all, and kindly lend a hand to achieve the best results. Ever helpful, he was.
The thorough snogging that ensued had the advantage of solving every problem related to the division of space. Or the one that involved mild hypothermia.
After a while, though, and under the pretence of getting some air back in his lungs, Greg pulled away awkwardly, muttering something about "feeling bloody observed". Sherlock raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat pointedly.
"They're all dead..."
"Yeah? Well, it doesn't help..."
To prove his point, Greg idly kicked the shin of one statue that was flanking their little corner. It stared back blindly and maybe just a tad disapprovingly. Sherlock nudged him.
"Stop it. It's a statue. In stone."
"It's unnerving."
"If you're afraid, you can always go wait in the car."
Greg's eyebrows shot in the air.
"And miss a night of hiding with you in a damp crypt, waiting for a secret cult to show up? No chance."
Sherlock laughed and crept closer, crowding Greg against the uneven wall.
"Best date you could have ever dreamed of, then, it is?"
"You have no idea."
It seemed Sherlock had a pretty good idea, or even ideas, and made a point of exposing them.
Later, when both of them were looking at ways of making the night even more exciting, Greg asked if they could try to infiltrate the cult by putting on the big sweeping cloaks of a couple of its more unfortunate members. Sherlock grumbled for a bit at ridiculous film plots and people enjoying them, but when the moment came, he was the one who tackled down the first latecomer and gallantly offered the cloak to a grinning Greg.
When Sally showed up with backup a few hours after, she did her best to ignore her boss' attire. She also didn’t point out that he really could have taken it off now. Something he didn't really seem to be keen on doing.
When she was asked to judge who looked the more dramatic while striding across the cemetery, cloak floating an inch from the ground, she had to put her loyalty aside for a bit. The point went to Sherlock.
As she walked away, she really really tried not to hear the "Yes, but you look better without it. Or without anything." that answered Greg's muttered "Show off".
Sometimes, it was better not to think about certain things.