CONTEXT: After finding out Y/N has feelings for him, Sherlock invited her for a ride on his motorcycle---but how did it go?
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Authors note: Thank you for this request from someone who wanted to stay anonymous (you know who you areeee I hope you enjoy it â¤ï¸). I liked the motorcycle one shot as well so I'm glad you asked for more :-)
It's a shame the show didn't explore this more; they gave one scene of him riding a motorcycle and then it was over?? Like?? What?? We NEED more of that, please ð Anyway, there will just be two parts to this one, next one coming very soon. Enjoy.
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Up ahead, a traffic jam is building.
Y/N squints ahead and watches as, like raindrops dribbling down a length of spider silk, vehicles sluggishly roll to a stop and join the ever-growing queue. She sighs, letting her helmet-covered head fall forward to lean against Sherlock's back.
It fits surprisingly well in that muscly space between his shoulder blades.
The wait won't be all bad, she decides. The bike's seat is squashy and cushy, and the smell of Sherlock's jacket---feint cologne and engine oil and leather---is catching the wind and swirling pleasingly up under her visor. The air is cool, but the temperature is pleasant below her borrowed leathers, the crisp winter sun warming her back and seeping into her gloves.
Slowing as he approaches the traffic, Sherlock guides the motorcycle up the rear where a rather sick-looking Ford Fiesta is vomiting black smoke onto the charred tarmac. He takes his place behind it, his boots leaving the pegs and touching gracefully to the floor.
Since pulling away from the curb at 221B, Y/N had been tentatively holding Sherlock's sides, balling his jacket in her fists whenever they rounded a corner, the bike leaning one way or another. Now, however, as the creep along the pavement, Y/N lets her arms loop about his waist. Without thinking, her elbows fall to lazily lean on his thighs and he tenses below his leathers, the handlebars doing a frantic little wobbly thing.
Y/N hastily releases him, her cheeks heating in the cramped orb of her helmet. She opens her mouth to apologise---but he won't be able to hear her. A meek 'sorry' dies on her tongue.
Then something gently takes her fists.
Sherlock's hands have found them embarrassedly scrunched at his sides and is pulling them forward, urging them back around his middle.
Bashfully forcing herself to unfurl, Y/N lets him wrap them securely over his stomach like a seatbelt.
Seemingly satisfied, he takes control of the handlebars again and Y/N's grip tightens, squeezing him closer.
The cars move up three inches but Sherlock hangs back behind the foul-smelling Ford.
Its soupy exhaust fumes burrow into Y/N's nose and she coughs.
He's glancing over his shoulder, the sun catching the curved plastic of his visor, and then suddenly they're off, the bike swerving around the Ford's boxy behind like a greyhound onto the track.
Expertly, Sherlock pulls into the narrow gap between the two lanes, the white line passing in rhythmic bumps below the motorcycle's chunky wheels.
The stationary vehicles pass close on either side and Y/N's arms about Sherlock's middle tighten with a squeak of leather. They're so near she can make out their inhabitants' faces frowning through the glass like inmates through prison bars and, guiltily, Y/N enjoys a secret, wicked kind of delight as they disappear in their rearview mirrors.
Sherlock's gloved fingers tease the clutch in the same way they dance along the neck of his violin, and the bike obeys his delicate instructions. Skipping the queue, they weave their way past wing mirrors and bloated SUVs until they're spat out onto a very congested roundabout.
It's struggling to filter London's buzzing hoard of Audis and Teslas, so much so the cars are frozen as though paused in time, indicators blinking like enraged, squinting eyes.
Their bike doesn't have to stop.
It fits between the traffic, sliding through it like a knife through butter.
Y/N catches Sherlock take an easy glance in the wing mirror, and then they're leaning to the right, right, right, until Y/N begins to worry about the bike's gleaming bodywork---and Sherlock's knee scraping. Waiting for the sparks, she grips his hips tight between her thighs, the tarmac inching closer and closer---
---then they're upright, the road splitting open into three lanes. Like a racehorse out of the gate, they hurtle forward with a roar of sound, motorway signs passing overhead in a blur of blue and white. His wrist a right angle, Sherlock wrings the throttle until the engine is screaming, the RPM needle clawing its way to the red zone---
---then, with a flick of his hand, it changes pitch.
Y/N watches the needle swing back and then climb steadily again, back and forth like a frantic pendulum as Sherlock forces the bike through its gears in rapid succession.
As they gain speed, the other vehicles turn into streaks of grey and black and red, Y/N's helmet slicing through the howling air like a bullet. It's getting into the snug, enclosed space through the gap below her chin, rushing about her cheeks like a violent, localised storm. Exhilarated, she presses her front tighter to Sherlock's back, the wind thick as soup, whipping under her feet and tugging at her clothes.
Sherlock takes a hand off the handlebars, and Y/N subconsciously clings to him---
---but the bike continues in a steady, unwavering line.
Lazily, he flicks his visor up and settles back to his previous position, even giving his legs a leisurely stretch either side of the bike.
Y/N watches his face through the wing mirror.
He seems to relish the chaotic, rushing feel of it; like a dog with its head out the window.
She hesitates, a little envious.
Sucking in a tight breath, she forces her toes to unclench in her boots. Then, holding herself steady with her knees clamped about Sherlock's hips, she unclasps one hand from his waist.
The wind grabs and wrenches at her elbow, but, fighting it, she manages to drag her hand up to her helmet and copies him, sliding the plastic visor back away from her face.
The cold air slaps her immediately, dragging her head backwards, and she ducks behind the protective shield of Sherlock's shoulders.
His torso vibrates against her chest, his stomach contracting below the tight loop of her arms.
He's laughing at her, his blue eyes twinkling in the wing mirror.
She sticks her tongue out at his reflection but retracts it promptly, the air cold and dry.
It makes his smirk twitch his lips.
Showing off, he takes his left hand off the handlebars with ease and lets it rest comfortably on his thigh.
Y/N glares at him and braces herself, and tentatively pokes her head back out into the wind.
It blasts past her face, so fast her lungs can barely grab a handful to breathe.
She squints into it, her eyes stinging, her heart pounding.
They round a smooth, wide corner, the bike tipping to the left and her mouth widens into a grin.
In the corner of the mirror, Sherlock smiles.
Straightening out, they tear up the road like a rocket ship taking off, the speedometer twitching just over seventy miles per hour.
Monitoring her reflection, Sherlock manages to catch the exact moment Y/N's face splits into a beam.
ð ð¨
After some time, Sherlock takes a left off the bypass and Y/N watches the cars disappear into the near distance, shrinking until they're just bugs crawling along a grey twig.
Their slip road spills out into a retail park, a few cars corralled by a wall of towering grey shop fronts.
They pass one sporting the formal WHSmiths logo, then a Homebase, and a rather oversized Tesco. Right at the end sits a very empty-looking Debenhams.
Y/N frowns at it, the windows draped with faded CLOSING DOWN tape and ALL STOCK MUST GO posters.
They ripple in the winter breeze like sad, sagging Halloween decorations.
Debenham's---or at least, the skeleton of Debenham's---car park is empty, besides a few crows pecking at a wrinkled packet of crisps.
A good distance away from the shops that are actually open---and away from anything, really---Sherlock draws the bike to a stop. P
Turning the key, it falls silent, and he pulls off his helmet, his brown curls springing free.
Y/N watches them bounce about, mesmerised. Distractedly, she copies him, crisp, fresh air floods her face. Setting her helmet in her lap, she smoothes down her own slightly static-bristled hair. Teasingly:
"If you wanted some new shirts, I think you're a bit late."
One of the crows pecks inquisitively at a stray TO LET sign that's quietly going through the process of turning into paper mache.
Sherlock's reflection gives her a smile. He ruffles his hair with his gloved fingers. "We're not here for the shopping scene, as lively as it may be."
Leaning over, she passes a quizzical expression to him through one of the mirrors. "So...what are we here for?" She narrows her eyes at the desert of pavement. "...Am I about to be murdered?"
"Hopefully not." His gloved hands gesture at the handlebars a little sheepishly. "I thought you might like a go."
A grin flitters over Y/N's face, then falters. "...Really?"
"Yeah, if you want."
"...But what if I wreck it?"
Chuckling, Sherlock stands and swings a leg over the seat.
Y/N squeaks as the bike's monstrous weight suddenly becomes her responsibility, her hands scrabbling forward to take the handlebars.
She just about manages to hook them under the tips of her fingers.
Rolling the joints in his shoulders, Sherlock stretches his arms up over his head, the bottom of his jacket riding up enough to expose a slither of purple silk. "You won't wreck it."
"You don't know that!" She protests, gripping the seat between her legs almost frantically.
The motorcycle's sleek black belly almost drags lazily along the pavement, but she still has to stretch her legs to their limit just to press the tips of her toes into the floor. It starts to lean to the left and the breath catches in her throat---
---but Sherlock places a hand on the handlebars, steadying it. "I won't let you wreck it. I'll sit on the back behind you the whole time."
Y/N's cheeks blossom pink.
As if reading her mind, a ghost of a smug, almost surprised smile twitches Sherlock's lip.
Not catching it, Y/N is too busy wavering, her teeth gnawing a shred of skin on her lower lip. "...You promise you won't be mad if I crash?"
Flatly:
"I'd be more concerned about you than the bike, Y/N."
"Oh. Thank you. But we won't crash, will we?"
Sherlock's smile broadens into a grin which he tries to flatten somberly. Drawing a wide X over the black leather of his jacket:
"Cross my heart."
Y/N slackens as he gets behind her as promised, his much stronger and experienced legs reclaiming the bike's weight---
---but her relief is short-lived:
Getting flush behind her, he uses his hips to nudge her along the seat and into the driver's position.
The fuel tank bumps the inside of her thighs, Sherlock's own making themselves at home on either side of her hips. They're so snug she can feel each powerful muscle flex as they work to keep the bike upright. His voice sounds close behind her ear:
"Are you comfortable?"
She swallows. "...Very."
She can tell he's smirking, his voice curled with amusement:
"...I meant: can you reach the controls okay."
Grateful he can't see her face (because it must be as red and bright as the break lights), Y/N clears her throat. "So did I."
"Of course." With his teeth, Sherlock tugs off his gloves and tosses them down beside his helmet.
"Don't we need those?" Y/N asks, and he waves off her concern with his characteristic apathetic laziness.
He'd waved like that once, when she'd suggested it might not be safe to throw themselves in front of a bus.
And jump out of a first-story window.
And when she'd told him that, when taking lasagna out of the oven, he needs to wear oven mitts.
"We won't be going that fast."
Shrugging, Y/N shucks her borrowed ones onto the pile on the pavement, and the detective adds, his voice sinfully deep and rolling into her ear like caramel:
"And anyway, it feels much nicer without."
Y/N jabs her elbow backwards, glad that his stomach is one of the few places not protected by armoured plates. "You've gotten really cocky since I called you attractive. I wish I'd never said it now."
"Well, you did. And, actually, I think the word you used was "'hot'."
Rolling her eyes, she snatches the key from him, inserting it in the ignition. "I'll be using a very different word in a minute."
He chuckles and Y/N can feel it all the way down her spine.
Why won't her cheeks cool down? It's barely ten degrees above freezing.
Clearing her throat, her breath misting in a cloud of fog:
"Now, are you going to teach me or what?"
"Yes, if you're done swooning and ready to concentrate."
"I wasn't---"
"Lesson one: here is the kill switch." He places her thumb on a chubby red button by the throttle firmly, as if trying to stick it onto her muscle memory. "Use it if anything goes wrong."
"Okay."
"Lesson two---and you might want to make use of this right away: you'll want to sit with your feet much further forward."
Y/N rolls her eyes. "Why? Is sitting like this uncool or something?"
Flatly:
"No, you'll burn your leg on the exhaust."
"Oh." She corrects her stance promptly.
He gives a teasing smile. "Plus, you don't really want to drop the bike, if you can help it."
"Have you ever dropped a bike?"
Sherlock thinks about it. "Not my own bike. I dropped a moped once but that was out of contempt."
ð ð¨
Taking a pause from gently teasing her for a moment, Sherlock points out each part of the motorcycle and explains what they do and how to use them. Patiently, he answers Y/N's questions, then finally, his arms reach around her body, taking a firm hold of the handlebars.
"Right," he states conclusively from over her shoulder. "Are you ready?"
Y/N regards the vast stretch of pavement and gulps.
It does look fairly safe; the space being just one big, open, flat surface. The worst thing they could crash into is that tree at the opposite end---
---or one of the crows---if they're too distracted by their crisp packet to scatter in time.
And she is caged rather securely inside Sherlock's arms, her shoulders squashed up against his biceps.
She moistens her lips again, making a mental note to use some Burts Bees when she gets home.
She's bitten them so much since moving in with the detective.
It's the way he looks at her.
And what she sees when she looks at him.
Those eyes and cheekbones and that hair.
There's something about it.
"...I think so."
"I'll have my hands on the breaks and my feet on the ground throughout," he assures, pulling the lever to demonstrate.
It makes the bike tip forward a little, the mechanism giving a strong, reassuring squeeze on the wheel.
Y/N feels herself relax a fraction. "Okay. But don't let go." She catches his smile in the wing mirror and ignores it.
Fizzing with excited, nervous energy, she turns the key and reaches out, her hands joining Sherlock's much larger ones on the handlebars. The grips are wrapped in leather strips, worn into shape by his hands. She slots her own into the smooth grooves, the brisk January air nipping the tips of her exposed fingers.
She's warm in her leathers, caged safely in the detective's arms, his chest solid against her back. It nudges her forward a little whenever he breathes in, each breath so much slower and deeper than Y/N's exhilarated intakes of air.
Tentatively, she flicks the start button.
The engine roars to life, vibrating with its own rapid breaths like beating wings.
Assuringly: "It's in neutral so we won't go anywhere. Try turning the throttle."
Y/N hesitates. "Won't it be loud?"
"Yes, but no one's around to mind. Go on. You'll like it."
Shyly, Y/N turns the grip a little and the engine roars impressively.
A bolt of something crackles up her spine like lightning.
Sherlock is watching her expressions through the mirror, grinning to himself as she delightedly in three quick bursts of sound.
When she's had her fill (several adrenaline-filled goes of pretending she's ripping up a racetrack) she lets the machine fall back to its quiet purring, and beams.
The air is spiked with the tang of hot petrol.
"Enjoying yourself?" Sherlock drawls from behind her and she clears her throat, composing herself. Loftily:
"Yes, thank you." She flexes her fingers. "Can we try going along now?"
"Certainly. Whenever you're ready."
"I'm ready now."
"Off you go, then."
"Right," she says.
She doesn't say anything else for quite some time.
It makes the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch. "...Do you remember what to do next?"
"Yes," Y/N insists defensively. "I'm just...thinking."
He chuckles again, his left hand sliding over hers.
She stares at it, broad and warm and completely smothering the back of her palm.
With masculine, latent strength, it squeezes the lever, urging her fingers to do the same. "The engine is disconnected when this is pulled in, so you can kick it down into first. Try to be gentle."
Y/N barely hears him.
His voice has gone all authoritative and assertive.
Collecting herself, she lifts one foot onto the footrest and edges her toes forward until they feel the gear lever. With a satisfying clunk, she pushes it down.
The little glowing 'N' on the dashboard disappears.
The muscles in his hand tighten.
"Give it a little bit of throttle," he urges. "Then off the clutch---" His voice is almost as low and rumbling as the engine. "Feel for the biting point."
Cautiously, and her lips pressed into a determined line with concentration, Y/N turns the accelerator, her left hand slowly, slowly, slowly loosening. The bike gradually starts to creep along the pavement.
Softly:
"Do you feel it?"
She grins. "Yeah."
Suddenly, like a spooked animal, it lurches forward and comes to an abrupt halt, the engine dying with a choked cough.
Y/N's knuckles have turned white with tightly clenched bones on the handlebars, and Sherlock laughs, the vibration of it almost making the bike feel alive again.
Not seeing the humour in the situation, Y/N tries to peel her fingers off the grips. She's sure she'd squeezed them so hard her nails are forever imprinted in the leather wraps. "...What did I do?"
Smothering a last chuckle, Sherlock takes a hand off of Y/N's, starting the bike up again. "You just stalled it."
"Is that bad?"
"No, it's fine, you just let the clutch out too quickly. Try again, but go slower this time." He rubs his thumbs comfortingly over the backs of her hands. "You don't need to be so tense," he assures, concern edging his voice. "Relax. It's supposed to be fun."
"It is fun," Y/N insists, her muscles reluctantly unknotting themselves under his touch. "I'm just nervous." Shaking out her limbs, she collects whatever parts of her confidence she'd dropped, and clears her throat. "Right, okay. First gear. Throttle. Clutch."