“The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you. There isn't any other test. If the machine produces tranquillity, it's right.”
Robert M. Pirsig
He needed a distraction.
Sherlock took another long drag on his cigarette and blew it out slowly. Summer break was just around the corner and bloody interfering Mycroft had plans. He was fine. Perfectly fine. He did not need his nosey brother’s interference or so-called career opportunities that were a flimsy cover for finding another way to control Sherlock's life. He stomped down the pavement fuming, a trail of smoke curling behind him.
The bright light from the shop startled him and he looked up. In the window was a brilliant yellow sports bike. Sherlock smirked and turned to the nearest CCTV camera that had been tracking his progress down the street. He took one last drag of his cigarette, tossed it and ground it into the brick with his heel. He flipped off the camera and entered the shop.
The tinkling of a small bell greeted him as his nose took in the smell of rubber, petrol, and oil. He kept by the front window making a show of his attention on the yellow sports bike knowing full well that the cameras could still see him. He took in the perfectly buffed plastic siding that was formed to make the bike look like it was moving. He didn’t notice the large shape walking up behind him until it spoke.
“Hey young man, I see you admiring that scooter.”
The shop windows reflection showed a tall man with shoulders broader than Sherlock’s. His hair was thinning, and he had on a we-are-best-friends-now smile that irked Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Now he would have to talk. To interact. He could see Mycroft’s satisfied smile at his internal squirming.
“I am just browsing,” he said sharply without turning around.
“Browse away! This one is a beauty. Goes from zero to sixty in four seconds. She may not be the fastest on the road, but she sure is pretty. If that’s not your thing, we have plenty of...”
Sherlock zoned out the rest of the shop assistant's pitch. Sensing that he lost the potential client's interest, the insistent man moved to put his leg up on the display and put himself in Sherlock’s line of sight.
“If you’d like to sit on her, your more than welcome to try one on the floor.”
Sherlock silently groaned. Why did ships, cars, boats, anything with a motor have to be a she? He did not want to sit or straddle any she’s, thank you very much.
He turned to face the rest of the store and the other motorcycles in perfect rows. He walked down the row and hoped to escape the shop assistant. The annoying man busied himself by chatting with another customer who just entered the shop.
He had never really been in a motorcycle shop before. Why else would he need to be here as he did not own a bike nor anyone in his family, minus Uncle Rudy, owned own. Sports bikes of every obnoxious look-at-me colour were lined up in perfect rows. He could not see the appeal of sport bikes. How did one sit hunched over for hours? How could that be comfortable?
He was about to leave the shop, confident that he had accomplished his mission of annoying his brother when he saw it. At the end of the row, separate from the others, the black and chrome called him; pulled him towards it.
Before the term's assessments, the tiresome guy he had slept with last weekend had mentioned magnetism. Tried to describe it too as some indescribable pull towards another human. Sherlock has not felt that for the man.
This machine caught his eye. He took a stuttering inhale as his lungs reminded him that oxygen was a requirement for life. Dull. His brain provided that this bike was mine. That possessive thought repeated in his head in time with his heartbeat. Mine. Mine. Mine.
He trailed his hands down the curves of the handles, hovering just above not wanting to blemish the surface with his fingerprints. All focus was on his hand tracing down the curves of the gas tank to stop over the seat. The exhaust pipes curled along the side accentuating the curves and giving the bike a seductive look. He crouched down to get a closer look. Nestled in the V of the engine was a Jolly Roger.
“You can’t buy happiness… But you can buy a motorcycle and that’s basically the same thing.”
“It was only a motorcycle but it felt like a mode of being.”
He bought the bike.
Gorgeous, sexy, marvellous, ravishing – ok, he was getting a bit carried away with adjectives. That new bike with a massive 1600 cc V-twin engine was his.
It had to be that bike. Gentle persuasion from the sales associate would not change his mind. No, he did not want a smaller one. No, he was not going to change his mind. No, you are really that obtuse? No, he'd never ridden a bike before. He was a genius and would learn it on his own.
The sales associate straightened the stack of papers Sherlock signed and placed them on his desk. He smoothed them out before asking, "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one," Sherlock lied smoothly.
The sales associate raised an eyebrow. Sherlock willed himself not to squirm. "Rubbish. I am an ex-motorbike cop and sell bikes to youngsters for a living. Care to try that again?"
Sherlock huffed, and proceeded to deduce the man's terrible marriage status from his impersonal family pictures, his lunch from the stain on his horrible blue gingham shirt, and the accident that caused him to leave the force.
The man set his jaw and glared. "So, you're an asshole. God, Lestrade would have loved to interrogate your sorry ass. That still does not tell me your age."
Sherlock stared at him. The man stared back and let the silence sit between them like a heavy weight.
Sherlock huffed. "Fine. Nineteen."
"Look at that, you can be reasonable. You can still buy the bike, but we have to install a restriction kit because you are not 21. We'll do that free of charge since you purchased the bike here." The man scribbled something on the sales agreement.
Sherlock nodded and knew he would take that off first thing.
The sales associate tried to get Sherlock to purchase other necessities, and he shrugged him off by spouting out more deductions about his not so vanilla love life. The salesman's expression had become serious. "Young man, we need to talk about safety. I was a motorbike cop for 15 years before retiring. You need protective wear to keep safe."
To Sherlock's own surprised, he paid attention. Sort of. Paying attention did not mean he was willing to purchase, though. Whoever was in charge of purchasing for that shop had no taste and he made his opinions clear on that. He would buy the black leather jacket, full faced helmet, and gloves from another dealer. The motorcycle chaps were a little much - he’ll save that purchase for another day.
"And you need to take a riding course.” Sherlock would not take a course, but he nodded his agreement just to shut up the man. He planned on ignoring the tiresome law of needing to obtain motorcycle license.
The bike would be delivered to his parent's house in a week after it was fully tuned and the kit installed. While he waited, he poured over every book he deemed usable on the subject of maintenance and riding motorcycles. He was a genius, after all, this was surely a simple enough topic he could reason his way through.
On delivery day, Sherlock leaned against the shed towing the gravel in the driveway and smoking. The bike was to be delivered sometime during a four-hour window today. They were already an hour and a half late. Sherlock scowled at his watch as if it was the watches' fault for the late delivery. The watch continued its cheery ticking. Sherlock considered tossing it across the lawn.
Sherlock rolled his eyes when he heard the tapping of rigid heals on paving stones.
"Mummy has been talking non-stop about you being home for summer holiday. You could at least do her the courtesy of listening to these inane chatterings and pretend you are interested in the theatre shows she has plans to expose you to. I suggested she take you to Cats."
"Go yourself." Sherlock finished his cigarette and tossed it in a flower pot.
Of course, the real reason why Mycroft had come home today.
"Sherlock, it starts in two weeks. You will be in London dressed in appropriate work attire."
Sherlock glared at him.
Mycroft tisked. "What would Mummy think about you smoking out here? Leaving ends in her potted plants of all places." Mycroft took a last drag of his own cigarette and tossed the end in the pile that Sherlock started in the potted plant.
Sherlock did not respond. His snappy response evaporated when he saw a van pulling up the gravel driveway. The chrome on his - his - bike glinted in the sunlight. It looked even better out of the harsh fluorescent lights.
"A motorcycle. Really, Sherlock?" scoffed Mycroft. "Are you really succumbing to baser, testosterone filled urges of the average teenage male?”
Sherlock quickly assessed his brother. "Don't you have a second... No. Third helping of cake to attend to? Oh, Mycroft, your tailor would be put out having to readjust your suit again this month, but you are only a less than thirty year-old succumbing to baser instincts of sugar cravings."
Mycroft's face soured. Sherlock smirked. It was a low blow, but he was unconcerned.
Once the motorcycle was safely off the trailer, the driver handed him the keys from his pocket. Sherlock clutched the warm keys in his hand and gazed in wonder at the bike. It was here.
“Don’t just stand there like a fish. Turn it on, son. I tuned her up nice just for you.”
Sherlock highly doubted that, but was too eager to turn on the bike than argue with the man. He put the key in the ignition and twisted it. Lights blinked on. His body thrummed with anticipation as he mounted the bike and balanced it between his legs. He shimmied, and the heavy weight of the bike wiggled underneath him. Sherlock was certain he was smiling like an idiot.
He pressed start. The engine turned and growled to life. That growl and accompanying rumble took a hold of his gut and embedded itself in the marrow of his bones. His mind went blissfully blank as the sound invaded all corners of his mind.
Sherlock caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Mummy open the door with a look of pure shock. He twisted the handle and the engine roared, blocking any sound of admonishment from her. He could still read her angry lips and knew she was using his full name and something like “What do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock revved the engine again. She would have words with him, and he tried to drum up any level of care.
She stalked down the path with a fire in her eyes fully directed at him. That fire shifted when she caught sight of cigarette ends in her flower pot. She immediately turned on Mycroft who had just lit up another cigarette. Sherlock sniggered as Mummy gesticulates angrily at Mycroft and snatched the cigarette out of his mouth.
He closed his eyes and sighed. His bike was here, and his summer was looking infinitely more exciting.
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
“A motorcycle functions entirely in accordance with the laws of reason, and a study of the art of motorcycle maintenance is really a miniature study of the art of rationality itself.”
Robert M. Pirsig
"There's two kinds of riders: those who have crashed and those who will."
Be warned there is a minor motorcycle accident. No one gets seriously hurt, but I'm giving in warning if it's a trigger for someone.
He was utterly absorbed by the bike.
Which was to say he completely disappeared into a single-minded pursuit of learning his bike and all things motorcycle.
It took each of his appendages to move the bike and shift. Determining how to move his muscles to accomplish the task was its own sort of high and one he was quickly becoming addicted to. He catalogued how it ran, what it wanted, what it liked. He devoted special places in his mind for the exact place the clutch took, how the gears sounded when he shifted, how the bike turned when he moved his core, and every other minutia. The bike was responsive and rewarded his diligence and whispered promises of freedom and leaving it all behind. He ached to respond.
He felt connected to the universe when he sat on the bike and hummed a tune about the solar system order when he road it. He chose not to examine why such a brainless tune creeped into his head, and just let it drone on as he road.
After a week of practice, Sherlock had ventured onto a motorway. His body felt like it has received a light beating from the wind at that speed. His arms ached. He could not have been any more pleased.
Returning home, he tucked the bike away in a spot he had commandeered in the shed and went inside.
Mummy’s voice greeted him even before he stepped through the door. “Smelly things, motorbikes. I will never understand the appeal. At least you are wearing gear. Oh, but that smell. You’re not improved by spending the day on that bike, but I suppose I should be grateful that you were outside and not getting into too much trouble.”
Oh, if she knew what he had planned.
“Go wash up and dinner will be on the table.”
She turned to stir something in a pale blue pot. "And we can talk about what you need for your internship. It's awfully exciting and kind of Mycroft to make connections...."
The rest of her conversation died away as he bounded upstairs and into the bathroom. He felt grimy from roasting in his leathers and wanted to clean up. He took a minimal shower and did not linger - he had work to do.
Afterwards, Sherlock laid on his bed, hands steepled under his chin. He calculated at his current rate of learning, he decided he could leave for a longer trip in a few days.
Sherlock’s thoughts were disrupted, and he was pulled to the present by a voice. Mummy was asking him a question. No, Mummy was informing him. When had she come in?
“It’s only for ten days.” She seemed to be reassuring herself more than him.
Sherlock looked at her blankly before his brain jumpstarted: the internship.
“Then you’ll be back home, and we can catch up on our mother-son time. I’ve booked us tickets already."
Sherlock hummed and turned to face away from the door. “Sleepy." He kept to simple answers; he did not want to encourage her by arguing or talking.
She sighed. "You still haven't had dinner."
She tidied something in his room before leaving and the door quietly latched behind her. He refused to sleep and let his brain analyse his route and how he rode the bike that day. He did not realize when sleep took him.
In the morning, Mummy bullied him into eating toast and some tea. He obliged only after his stomach growled loudly, counteracting any protest he was mounting. She chattered, and his leg bounced with the need to leave and bolted out the door as soon as the toast was finished.
The deep purr of the engine soothed his mind, and he left any thoughts of timing and internships and tickets behind to clock miles on the road.
He hit the deck.
Yes, he was wearing his leathers. Yes, he was wearing his helmet. Yes, it bloody hurt
It was really the sand on the pavement's fault. He, like any other mortal on this earth, was governed by physics. If you were traveling and took a sharp turn on loose sand, you would fall. Simple story. Simple physics. Simply idiotic.
He gingerly scooted out from under the bike. He sat undignified in the dirt and took stock of his body. His elbow smarted where it landed. There were dirty scratches on his wrist where the jacked and gloves parted to give the road access to his skin. He moved his leg and a jolt of pain welcomed his movement. His jeans were torn slightly. But, he was ok.
He pounded the earth with is hand. Pain flared, and he bit back a groan. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
He turned his attention to the bike still laying on its side. It had stalled after the fall and was a silently waiting for him to pay attention. He glanced up and down the road. No other traffic had passed him on the little country road he was on, so he went to the prone bike. He bent down and tried to pick-up the bike. The angle was bad, and his scrawny frame could not get enough leverage to life the behemoth. His brief attempt only further scratched the perfect chrome of the tailpipe and handlebar ends.
Sherlock could not decide if his injuries or what he did to his bike made him feel worse. He silently apologized to it and him not seeing the sand on the pavement.
In the distance he heard the roar of another bike. His insides curled with embarrassment. Someone else would see his mistake. The best he could hope for is that they drove away quickly.
They did not.
The other motorcycle slowed and came to a stop just short of where he was sitting on the ground feeling sorry for himself. The rider got off his huge touring bike and took of his helmet to reveal shocking red hair. He lumbered over, clearly, he had been on his bike for a while. He stood over Sherlock.
“You’ve buggered that up. But hey, at least you aren’t fucking dead. That would have ruined my whole day.
Sherlock glared up at the red-headed rider. “It’s fine.”
“Of course.” The red-haired rider walked back to his bike and searched through his pockets as he walked. He pulled out a cigarette pack and lighter.
The twinge of craving twisted in Sherlock’s stomach. He ignored it and got up on his own, wincing as he did. He grabbed the handle bars. The other biker stopped mid puff and assessed him. “How long have you been riding?” He asked while the tantalizing cigarette bounced in his mouth.
“But not long enough to know that isn’t how you pick up a bike. Especially a bike of that size.”
Sherlock tried a more intense glare to get him to leave.
“Hey,” he said lifting his hands in the surrender pose. “I’m not the one who cocked-up their bike.” The rider dropped his hand with the smouldering cigarette and sighed. “Are you going to continue to be a knob, or are you going to ask for help get your bike out of the ditch?”
Sherlock gaped at him forgetting how words worked. If it had been any other day under any other circumstances, he would have ripped him apart. Slowly, he nodded- he could almost hear the squeaks from this rusty movement.
The red-head flicked his cigarette away. “Alright, pup, I’ll show you.”
With effort, they stood the bike on its wheels.
“You can get a replacement part for that,” said the rider, in a reassuring voice. It grated Sherlocks nerves.
“Yes, I am aware.”
“And you need crash bars. “
“I... am aware. Of that, now.”
“Good.” The rider padded down his leather jacket and pulled out a stubby pencil and crinkled small notebook. He scribbled something down before handling it to Sherlock.
“A group of us is a heading north for a ride. That’s the dates and address of one of our stops.”
“Good. Cause I’m not asking you to join us. It’s a group of independent blokes who get together and go be independent together. Except when one of us hits the deck or rides like a fucking newbie. It’s nice to have another to pick up bloody heavy bikes or tell them they are rubbish at riding motorbikes.”
The rider left with a roar from the bike and did not turn back. Sherlock tossed the paper on the ground and walked back to his bike. He rolled his eyes and groaned before turning around and pocketing the note. It wasn’t as if he needed or even wanted to ride with them. And he was not going to go or consider going. He just wanted to not litter.
Mummy fussed. Sherlock ignored and locked his room. He remained silent through her fussing and questioning his judgment, longing for a cigarette and a change of location. The lack of riding and mental stimulation would surely end him soon, and it had been less than twenty-four hours.
Mummy was convinced he had a subdermal hematoma. Sherlock was convinced she’d give him one. How could he be suffering when his mind was a whirl of planning and calculating. He was also not thinking about the note with the address even though his route to escape just happened to bring him close to that group during the time and place indicated. That was purely coincidence.
Mummy stole his keys. Sherlock knew they were hidden in the decorative sugar bowl because every contraband item went there. It did not matter; the spare was hidden on top of the rafter in the shed. He ordered parts and paid for express delivery. He needed to leave soon.
"In a car you're always in a compartment, and because you're used to it you don't realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You're a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.
On a cycle the frame is gone. You're completely in contact with it all. You're in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming."
- Robert M. Pirsig
“It truly is an odd thing we bikers do, riding through miserable conditions like this. We don’t invite then or look for them, surely, but when they are upon us we relish the challenge and silently claim the superiority of adventure over comfort, wilderness over warmth, discovery over certainty.”
- Foster Kinn
He ran away on the bike.
Sherlock was agitated and spent the night pacing to try and settle his whirling thoughts. Relentless noise needled his brain and kept growing in intensity. He was bored and his mind was bent on blowing itself up. Over the internal droning, he kept time in his head and did not need to look to know it was 3 am. The pull to leave was overwhelming and Sherlock could deny it no longer. No more waiting.
Sherlock had everything packed the day before: minimal clothing items, money, other essentials. Even the small brick of a phone Mycroft gave him was tucked into his pack. He immediately found the pocket it was tucked into and unpacked it - there would be no need to keep in contact.
He grabbed his pack before he performed his trick of picking up the door, so it opened without a squeak. The moonlight providing enough light to navigate but he did not need it as he knew the way. He avoided the squeaky floorboard at the bottom of the steps. He knew this routine well after practicing it multiple times sneaking ginger nuts when he much younger.
The sugar bowl was where he expected but the pile of mail was not. That scattered over the floor when he retrieved his keys. He did consider grabbing a biscuit before he left, and his stomach grumbled at the thought of food. He ignored it and the mess on the floor. Being caught now would be worse than being caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
The world was still in the predawn morning: not night, but not morning. The birds were not even awake to begin their singing. Mist hung around the pathway as he walked, and he noted the roads could be slick with dew.
The light from the shed reminded him of the colloid solutions he made in his chemistry lab. Sherlock opened the shed door wide noting the dampness on the cool metal handle. He was greeted by that ubiquitous damp shed smell and the scent of petrol. That smell he associated with freedom and adrenaline was enough of an anchor he could grasp to pull him out of his mind.
The roar of the engine coming to life broke the stillness of the night. There was no chance his parents didn’t hear that. It was time to go. His internal mantra of go, go, go now matching the thumping of his pulse he hears in his ears. He peeled out of the driveway throwing gravel behind him. Taking no notice of any sound ordinances, he twisted the throttle and gripped on tight as he accelerated. The forces wanted to rip him away from his freedom and back to that suffocating cottage.
He hadn’t decided on an exact route, but he generally wanted to go south. Eventually he’d run out of land and be at one of the coasts. Maps would come later. Finding petrol would come later. He just needed to leave.
Sherlock considered what the older rider had offered. The idea was not at all tempting, thus he deleted it. The point was not to go from one person’s stifling ideas of what he should do to another.
The predawn light was rising. Sherlock noted the coolness of small valleys he rode through. Smells of fresh cut grass and forests you never experienced in the cut off environment of the car. He concentrated on those subtilties of the world around him and the humming sound of the engine. The machine purred beneath him as he racked up mile after mile. It was exactly what he needed.
Sherlock saw miles of green countryside, coastline, and houses. People waved or glared at him as he passed. Dogs tried to chase him only to be stopped by their owner’s leash. It rained and he got soaked. It rained and he smoked while watching the rain from under a bridge. He spent a day by a ruin fixing his bike. He hummed the simple song about the solar system while banking around sharp turns and driving by sheep. Sherlock stopped where he wanted, he took turns on a whim, slept at bike friendly accommodations or the side of the road. Sherlock’s felt himself falling into the same routine, and that was the problem. He needed… something. That feeling took root, and Sherlock grew more restless.
Today he found himself by a lazy river sitting in the grass along the banks smoking the last cigarette in his pack. The silly Sherlock ran his fingers through the grass and pulled. Some blades came away from the ground and he wiped them off. Packing up was quick, and he retraced his steps up the dirt path.
Sherlock recognized the familiar shape leaning on an umbrella in front of an equally familiar silver gleam of his father’s classic car. His brother adored their father’s car and occasionally indulged in driving it.
He ignored his brother knowing it would irk him and mounted the bike and put the key in the ignition. The calm he felt completely evaporated. Tension began to creep up his spine. His fingers turned white as he gripped the handlebars. It would only take a simple twist of the wrist and he could fly away with a roar. Do it. It would be easy.
Mycroft swung his umbrella back and forth as he walked over. His face showing only disapproval which he perfected from many years of practice. Sherlock fought the natural desire to scowl at his brother and maintained a blank expression, but he knew this was in vain as his brother would see his micro expressions.
“Now that you’ve indulged your thrill seeking and,” Mycroft’s pointedly looked at the jacket, ”leather, it’s time to return.”
Sherlock huffed. “As wonderful as this family reunion has been, I’ll be on my way.”
Sherlock tensed as Mycroft stepped close enough to be in arms reach. He reached under the headlight and wiggled something free. His prize was a black box the size of a matchbox. “Such a useful test of this device’s capabilities. It will need to be perfected and the size further decreased, but it did bring me to you.”
Sherlock growled out through clenched teeth, “I do not need to be retrieved like some lost trinket.”
“And yet, I am here.”
Sherlock glaring at the tracker was all the response he gave.
Mycroft’s smile was smug as he pocketed the tracker. “Did you expect me not to have some contingency plan, brother mine?
Sherlock said nothing, but he didn't need to.
“Now to business. As of now your holiday is officially over. You will return and dress appropriately. You will start the internship in London that your new employers were gracious enough to hold for you.”
Sherlock ignored the rest of Mycroft’s droning speech. He had heard this one before about opportunity and using his mind, and whatever else Mycroft wanted to emphasize this time. Yet, the idea of going to London without course work was appealing. It might be easier to avoid his brother there, find something else to keep him from being bored.
“Sherlock Holmes, are you listening?” Mycroft tapped his hand on the handle bar impatiently. “Leave the bike. It will be returned safely home, and the keys will be placed in a safer location.”
“I will ride the bike and return it safely to the shed and place the keys in a location of my choice.” With that, he started up the bike.
“do it with passion or not at all” - anonymous
“For some of us, riding a motorcycle makes heroin addiction look like strolling to the dessert table at a Sunday brunch.”
(If only that worked for Sherlock…)
He tried to delete the bike.
In the process he deleted the information about the solar system. It was time for that tune to go. It was all superfluous knowledge of no importance. Why did he need that clutter of information for his brain to whirl around and whip into a frenzy?
He told himself that the feeling of missing something was because bike held no more mystery, no puzzle, no interest. It had been a distraction – nothing more. It was easier not to remember the joy or how he felt free on his bike. The memories were packed away in his mind palace with the same care that he used to cover the bike in the shed. As he hid the key, he reminded himself that it was hardly a complicated puzzle and he was done with it.
Sherlock had done what his brother wanted, well partially. He did go back to London; but not to the internship or anything else his nosey brother would set up for him to control his life. The flat he found was barely fit for habitation and damp because it was basement level, but it was his. He spent his time experimenting and further solidifying the flat’s status as barely uninhabitable. Of course Mycroft found him and visited. He fretted and Sherlock dutifully ignored him.
The chemical experiments provided the distraction he desperately needed. Not the ones he performed in a test tube, but the injectable kind. They were easy to find on his travels memorizing London’s streets. His new chemical high made life much less boring. Some inspired the clearest thoughts while others calmed his mind and let him think clearly. Why hadn’t he found this fix earlier?
He hid it from Mycroft, knowing he wouldn’t approve. Besides, he was in complete control and knew exactly what he was doing.
He walked up the steps to his flat carrying his latest find. He wanted to try a new combination as his last hit wasn’t as good as the last. He just needed to tweak it.
He sat on his couch and injected. As the drug took hold of his system, his mind was blissfully blank, and he was floating somewhere. Where was he again? It didn’t matter.
The creak of a door slowly permeated his blissful cloud. Then came a familiar tapping sound. Mycroft. Unless another one walked with that gait with the accompanying tap from an umbrella, it could be no other. A shadow settled over him and its owner sat next to him.
“Oh, Sherlock.” The hurts and worry bleeding through Mycroft’s usually careful speech. “This is not the substitute for the bike I hoped you’d take. Anything. Even that motorcycle. Anything but this.”
Sherlock struggled to roll away from the noise.
"If I weren't doing what I'm doing today... I'd be traveling around the world on the back of a motorcycle." Donna Karan
There is a bit of a time jump between chapter 5 and 6. The stories are written to slip neatly into canon. This chapter happens after Season 4.
Note that a smutty chapter is ahead. Scroll to the --- if you want to skip it and read how the story ends.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
John found the bike.
He did not expect after sending off Rosie with Sherlock’s parents for impromptu trip to get ice cream to see that. That was Sherlock in his parent's shed perfectly silhouetted with dust motes floating about. His head was bowed slightly, and he was holding large canvas cover which puddled around his legs. While the sight was angelic, it was the delicate hand hovering above the chrome handle bars of an insanely sexy cruiser. John's brain stuttered to a halt.
John raked his eyes up Sherlock’s body before sucking in a deep breath. When was Sherlock near a bike this much of a turn on for him? He’d seen him near other bikes but nothing like this sex-on-two-wheels.
“What…” John’s voice cracked, and he abandoned that question. “Is this yours?”
Sherlock made no acknowledgement of John’s question. Curious, John stepped near the back of the bike. Sherlock’s eyes were closed tight in concentration. John knew his expressions meant he was rapidly searching through his mind palace. The fluttering of Sherlock’s eyelashes and the look of desperation suddenly increased, and his breathing rate accelerated. These were not normal behaviors for Sherlock and John became concerned.
Startled, Sherlock quickly sucked in a breath. “I thought I deleted it. Well, most of it. I miss filed... this bike. It was a distraction. A big sticking it to Mycroft.” With a sudden movement, Sherlock dropped the canvas and twirled in place. “It should be here.”
John’s questioning look went ignored as Sherlock searched the space above him. He reached above a rafter and pulled down a set of keys. They rattled in his hand as he searched the work bench retrieving a rag.
The bike was strapped tight into its stand and moves very little as Sherlock straddled the recently dusted leather seat. Now that John saw him on that moulded chrome and black sex on wheels seemed made for Sherlock’s body. Those delicate fingers wrapped around the handlebar before moving down to continuing their seductive movement across the gas tank. John knew exactly how those fingers and caress would feel against his skin causing shivers in their wake. John had never felt envious of a machine before, but now he could add that to his list of experiences his partner had added to his life. Waves of lusty thoughts bombarded through John’s brain and he felt the hot prickle race down his back. John imagined himself pressed up against that lithe body, arms wrapped around the slim waist as the wind whipped by them. The vibrations of the bike hitting him just there, teetering on the edge of release. John was lost in his daydream until Sherlock bent over giving John an even better view of his arse. Any attempt at controlling his reactions so Sherlock could focus went right out the window and John let out an involuntary groan. It was one of the sexiest views he’d seen and one that he’d enjoy visiting it in the future whenever he was alone in the shower.
Sherlock froze at the sound and slowly sat up. Casting a look over his shoulder, he scanned over John’s body. John knew he was cataloguing, and he feels exposed in front of that gaze. Emboldened, he made it obvious of the condition he was in. Sherlock gave him a knowing smirk. He slowly turned back around and methodically rubbed the cloth over the chrome of the handlebars.
John’s eyes went wide at the sight and his hand flexed with the desire to touch. He knew exactly what Sherlock was doing and it was driving him wild. Any higher-level thinking that had managed to linger after the sight of Sherlock on the bike went offline. He wanted. He wanted his hands on that skin and in that hair. That gorgeous neck begged to be kissed and nipped. He wanted to take that man apart with his mouth.
He walked over and cupped his hand on Sherlock’s jaw. The novelty of looking down and seeing his desire mirrored was amazing. Sherlock stretched his hand and hooked it behind Johns head pulling slightly. John submitted and pulled close enough so they almost kiss.
“I...” John started and felt his face flush red. He started again. “I didn’t find you for a shag.”
Sherlock breath was warm on his lips. “Does that mean you don’t want to?”
John groaned and pressed forward. He felt Sherlock smile under his lips, so he pressed forward, hard, before pulling back. “I came to find you to see if you wanted anything to eat.”
“I don’t want food.” Sherlock released John giving him a knowing look.
John groaned in response. “You have no idea what you do to me. This bike. You.” Any reply Sherlock might have was cut off by John surging forward pressing his lips back onto Sherlock’s. Those lips parted for him and he captured the lower one between his lips and gave it a gentle tug. Their lips open further, and John pressed in deep. They struggle to take control of the kiss in a way that excited them both.
John’s other hand roamed down Sherlock’s side, caressing the sensitive area drawing out a shiver from Sherlock. He tugged at the shirt to release the tails from the trousers seeking the skin below. Sherlock moaned appreciatively as John found skin and roamed up his back. John lost himself in sensations of the warmth of his partners body and the heady smells of Sherlock combined with the dusty odours of the shed.
John pulled back a little to shift his hand to cup Sherlock’s growing hardness through his trousers. Sherlock moaned and canted his hips forward into John’s hands seeking more friction. John needs more skin and to free the trapped length. “I need you to move.”
Sherlock understood and was soon standing in front of John. They both fumbled with Sherlock’s trousers and pants John surged forward and pressed Sherlock’s legs back against the bike. He sent a quick mental thanks to whoever thought to store the bike with this type of stand or they would have fallen over.
“Off,” John panted and tugged at the belt. “These off now.”
They fumbled together, working the trousers and pants down. John guided Sherlock to sit sideways on the bike before John sank onto his knees. His fingertips ghosted up the inside of Sherlock’s legs to his straining erection.
John loved the feeling of Sherlock’s weight in his mouth. He stroked the underside with his tongue as he bobbed his head. John pulled back to the tip and swirled his tongue under the foreskin. He savoured the taste and feeling before pulling Sherlock’s length further down. He heard Sherlock’s appreciation as he moaned out John’s name. He breathed in hard from his nose and caught the musty scent of arousal.
Sherlock’s hand skitters trying to find purchase on the smooth surface of the gas tank. John flattens the hand against the tank feeling the contrast of the hot flesh against the cool metal. Sherlock’s hips continued to squirm under John’s other hand. John pulled back and looked up to find Sherlock panting and a red flush across his cheeks. John loved the sight and taking Sherlock apart.
John concentrated on his task and was rewarded by Sherlock’s muffled cry as he spilled down John’s throat. As Sherlock breathed hard to recover, John slid off and makes quick work of his trousers and pants to stroke one out. It wasn’t long before he spilled across the wooden floor.
They sat there breathing a bit before they made eye contact. John giggled and Sherlock followed. They stood up and began righting themselves.
After adjusting his belt, Sherlock said “I’ll have the bike looked over and any repairs made.” John loved the slight unsteadiness of Sherlock’s voice. “We’ll try it out when it gets back. And we’ll need to get you a leather kit.”
Johns mind immediately flashed a sight of a skin-tight leather trousers clad Sherlock straddling that gorgeous machine. He knew he was smiling like an idiot.
John hugged Sherlock’s waist tight as they took a sharp turn. The tug in his belly made the adrenaline spike and flow through his veins. Every smell and sound was more. More vivid. More intense. More encompassing. He craved more. It was addicting. It was the same feeling he got when chasing Sherlock through the London streets after some criminal. John felt alive. He felt close to Sherlock in a way that was rare after cohabitating and co-parenting changed most of their lives. Maybe they could have this.
John ignored the little voice in his head reminding him the crash statistics of motorcycle riders. He was a doctor; he knew the facts. Yet, he wanted his own bike. The thought of his own bike made him giddy. Yes, they should have this.
Thanks to all who subscribed, kudoed, and commented on the fic.
Special thanks to Okapi and our shared love of motorcycles. I hope you enjoyed the ride. :)