Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

That Man On The Motorcycle ((Final) Part 2)

Sherlock took a taxi after dropping the bike off at the rental shop, but still managed to beat Y/N home. Probably because---while her car was stuck lumbering through traffic---Sherlock's little rental bike could weave through any congestion like a kestrel through trees.

He'd rather still be on the road, if he's honest; even though the old borrowed leathers had smelt of Febreeze and were so old they'd hardened to a point of mummification.

Being on the road means having to think about the vehicles around you, the signposts protruding from the streets, the hum of the engine and what it means.

Being at home means your mind is free to wander, and, at present, Sherlock's mind keeps wandering to the same thing: the case.

He knows he'd been right to call the police on the car dealers---there had been so many of them, after all---too many for Y/N and himself to deal with alone, anyway.

Raids are like insect nests, Sherlock had always thought, rather poetically.

The little ones---one or two unarmed perpetrators in a poorly-planned location---are like a bee's nests. Sherlock can usually deal with these alone. He may get a few stings, but, overall, they're not too bad to split open.

Next is a wasp's nest. They usually consist of low-level groups of organised criminals or highly guarded buildings peppered with security features. They're harder to infiltrate, and usually require assistance of some kind (Sherlock's go-to being Y/N), but not impossible to bust without help from professionals.

Finally, there are hornet's nests; highly equipped, well-thought-out locations teeming with swarms of highly trained, ruthless hornets.

The BMW dealer's warehouse had definitely been a hornet's nest. There had been over eleven men inside, from what he could see through a narrow strip of window, and God knows how many more from what he couldn't.

Sherlock would rather the shiny expensive car run him over than drag Y/N in there.

So he'd immediately---yet graciously---stepped down to Plan B, and tipped off the police about a shifty car dealership in the warehouse lot down Grey Street.

It had been the right thing to do, even though it meant he'd miss out on the satisfaction of personally dumping some low-lifes at the police station.

...

When Sherlock had texted Y/N telling her to meet her back at the flat, she had almost been tempted to hang behind a little while to see if that man on the motorcycle---

If that man on the motorcycle what?

Would go past her as he drives back from wherever he came?

Then what?

She can't ask for his number---she has no idea what he looks like, after all.

Well, she knows he's lean and tall; his long, svelte body had to be around six foot, didn't it? It had been hard to tell while the length of it was arched over a bike, and even harder to tell from the pixels of her phone screen. He hadn't been old, but he hadn't been overly young either; his body moving with the easy efficiency of a strong, deft male who was probably somewhere in their late twenties or early thirties.

If she had seen him again---for real---and if she had gotten a peek at his face---and liked it---would she have had the guts to ask for his number?