Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

That Date On The Motorcycle (Part 1)

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 ❤️). 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 😂 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.