AUTHOR'S NOTE:
My Motorcycle is my most prized possession, so thank you to G99_bazinga for requesting something close to my heart.
P.S sorry for the wait :-)
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CONTEXT:
Just a short pre-relationship fic about Y/N thinking Sherlock looks dashing on a motorcycle. Well, she doesn't know it was Sherlock. Not yet.
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'Wait here,'Â Â is what Y/N had been asked to do, so 'wait here' is what she has been doing for the past two hours and thirty-eight minutes.
She'd spent most of that time fighting the urge to lean against the wall behind her. It's blackened with smog, and slick from last night's rain, but it's also solid and dependable and there. And her legs are so tired. So tired.
Her other activities mainly include distracting herself from that fact. So far, she's been doing this by:
- Reading
- Attempting to blow a ring into the frigid air with her breath
- Watching a trail of ants
and
- Trying to winkle out the stuck string from inside her hoodie. She'd pulled the left toggle until the right one disappeared into the soft old material, perhaps never to be seen again. She's not upset about this. She'd done it on purpose, to give herself something to do.
At present, her finger and thumb wriggled---once more---into the hole of the hood's seam, and---once more---fumbled about the close quarters blindly. This time, however, they did manage to close on the elusive end of the string. With a small swell of triumph, Y/N tugged it free, and then tugged it some more until it lined up perfectly with the left one.
That little swell of triumph was short-lived; after barely a second it pittered out like a snuffed flame.
What is she supposed to do now?
She sighed and finally let her shoulderblades come to rest against the wall. She pictured the scuffs of grime the manky old brickwork would leave across her back like chaotic bruises, but didn't care. Not as much as she would have done earlier. She can just wash it, after all.
What kind of car had Sherlock instructed her to look out for, again? A BMW? Or had he simply said 'blue'?
It doesn't really matter, it's not like the car in question will be at risk of getting lost in a sea of traffic. In all the time Y/N has been standing here, the only thing to pass past her eye line had been a middle-aged man walking a beyond-middle-aged dog.
'Here' is a grid of warehouses just passed the outskirts of central London. They're organised in neat rows as if queued up to be let in, not that they ever would be. Their blocky, towering bulk would never fit into the city's slick, contemporary framework.
They may be an eyesore, but Y/N has found that to work in her favour. The narrow corridors between each building making a perfect hiding spot for the rental car she'd arrived in, the high walls keeping her and her vehicle safely concealed.
...
Meanwhile, several towns away, Sherlock used one finger to push the visor up away from his eyes until he heard it click into place somewhere over the crown of his head. The antifog had held its own for a commendable nineteen-minutes before quaking to the onslaught of condensation.
With the sheet of tinted---now rather moist---plastic out the way, Sherlock could see each breath bloom in a cloud before his face in the bitter January air. He felt glad for the cold, though, and relished in the crispness of it; his face had felt sticky and trapped, encapsulated within his crash helmet.
Well, it's not his crash helmet. He'd leased it from the shop a few blocks away, and it still faintly smells of its previous wearers; no matter how many spritzes of Febreeze the rental guy gave its tatty interior.
Sherlock felt a slight ache for his own helmet---his own bike. He'd had to leave them both at his parent's house when he moved to London; there's little room in this metropolis' tight tangle of streets for a cruiser motorcycle, and even less room to store the thing when not in use.
Still, it eased his mind to know it's still tucked up safe in the garage of his childhood home, waiting for him to return one day and take it out to stretch its legs. Wheels. Whatever.
When he'd last said goodbye, he'd wrapped it lovingly in a few sheets of tarpaulin to keep the dust from its slender spokes and shining pipes. And to keep Mother from fretting whenever she goes into the decrepit old building to get her gardening supplies. She hated the thing, always has.
It's too dark,' she'd fuss whenever he'd wheel it out into the driveway to ride or clean or tune-up. 'There's so much black, no one will be able to see you'.
'We live in the middle of nowhere,'Â Â Sherlock would soothe, 'There's no one to see me.'
Not exactly a lie. For the most part, he was the only traffic---besides the occasional tractor lumbering from field to field---and he could easily skirt around those. His bike is perfect for that; its stretched-out body weaving neatly down the ribbon-like back roads like a droplet of water down a window, its chunky, suspension-rich tyers effortlessly rolling over whatever rubble, muck, and grit the British countryside could throw at them.
Presently, Sherlock adjusted his position on his rented bike, the seat alien and unfamiliar beneath him. It's smaller than the one he's used to, more narrow and firm; like he's sitting astride a wooden bench in a school canteen, its edges digging into his thighs.
'Because this is a cafe racer,' he reminded himself with a small sneer.
He'd picked it because it's light-weight body would be quick and easy to manoeuvre around the tightly-knit London streets---useful, when stalking a larger vehicle---but perhaps a sports bike would have been a better choice, he's realising now. Designed for quick, sparse use, cafe racers are not the kind of machine you want to be straddling for long periods of time. Like for a stakeout.
...
Fifteen minutes have passed, and Y/N has found something else to do. She'd taken her wallet from her pocket and used the receipt from the rental car company to make a little paper aeroplane. It's the best she could manage without a table to lean on, and she raised an arm---out of habit---to throw it, but stopped herself.
She shouldn't really lean out from behind the protection of this wall.
- Record the guy delivering the stolen car
- Wait for Sherlock.
Those were her instructions. She's not going to risk being seen---and jeopardise the whole case---just so she can test her miniature paper aeroplane.
Probably.
No, she's not. The wind would blow it away anyway.
...
Finally, movement occurred, and Sherlock's gloved hand gravitated to the ignition key. He turned it, allowing the bike's squat little engine to heat up while he watched the door to an unmarked building open a fraction.
A man in grubby overalls exited through the gap, locked the door behind him, then followed a driveway around to the back of the building.
There was a pause where Sherlock guessed the man was bundling himself into the stolen BMW, and then an engine roared to life like an animal woken in a cage.
Sherlock eased his rented motorcycle backwards a few centimetres, just to make sure the front wheel wouldn't be seen as the angular nose of the BMW inched its way out of the driveway.
Sherlock had ridden the hired motorcycle to this location, yet he still wasn't used to the effortlessness of it's handling; so different to the leisurely, weighty bulk of his Triumph. His bike is like a horse, heavy and lumbering---in a graceful sort of way. This bike, in comparison, is like straddling a flee; excitable, jumpy, and energetic.
His grip on the clutch tightened subconsciously.
There was a pause where the driver flicked with the multitudinous controls at his disposal, then eased the sleek shape of the BMW towards the main road.
Sherlock watched it slide past his hiding spot, feeling every ripple of its power vibrating through the bike's stiff little suspension coils.
The driver eased the sports car into the flow of traffic as neatly as a surgeon inserting a scalpel into flesh, and Sherlock waited for three cars to come between it and himself before taking tail.
He released the clutch, and, as he'd suspected, the little bike leapt to attention, responding readily to every slight shift of his hand or press of his foot.
Eager to move---or perhaps to show off to its current rider---the little bike growled irritably until Sherlock kicked it up into a higher gear, and then whizzed along contentedly; apparently unaffected by the weight of its six-foot rider---despite its stature.
Yes, this machine will be useful should he need to suddenly disappear down a backstreet, or duck into another lane with a second's notice, Sherlock contemplated over the still-audible grumble of the BMW.
Not that he'd probably need to. One good thing about this impish, toy-like Honda is that no one is likely to pay it any mind. It's a teen's bike, a quick, tiny thing for popping to the shops or transporting pizza. Sherlock could probably cling blatantly and obviously to the BMW's rear for the entire journey without the driver ever giving him a second glance in his stupidly expensive wing mirrors.
...
Y/N felt the BMW's engine before she heard it, the distant rumble vibrating up through the concrete below her shoes and into her legs.
She knew it was the car she had been asked to wait for immediately; someone of Sherlock's prestige wouldn't be hired for any old stolen car dealership. This one had taken what felt like an age to track to this warehouse; that level of secrecy would be wasted on a bunch of beaten up Fords and Volvos.
Pulling her phone from her hoodie, Y/N edged carefully around the opposing wall until she had a clear view of the road leading to the row of warehouses.
Sure enough, an unfathomably expensive car honed into view with a sound so loud Y/N wondered for a moment whether it was physically tearing up the pavement.
It couldn't be, however, because there were other cars behind it, innocent bystanders trekking home from work, or to that retail park down the next road.
The BMW broke away from them as it exited the main road, and Y/N's thumb found the record button. She lifted her hand high, holding it at eye level so the lens cleared the wire fence surrounding the warehouse forecourt. She'd waited for almost three hours to get this evidence; she's going to do it right.
The car slowed as it pulled through the open gate, dropping into a crawl with the gait and sound of a hunting panther, inadvertently giving Y/N a comfortable few seconds to zoom in on the face of the unsuspecting driver.
Alerted no doubt by the sound of the car---or perhaps the way the very ground seems to shudder with the power of its twelve-cylinder engine---the warehouse door three down from Y/N's left quivered as someone unlocked it from the inside.
Keeping snug to the wall---which had, by now, covered her entire back in sooty, slippery grime---Y/N angled her phone in the active warehouse's direction.
When the warehouse doors had slipped shut behind the BMW---like a giant maw consuming a sleek, glossy fish---Y/N's ears pricked up at the sound of a second engine. It was so much quieter than the first, so close to a buzzing sound that Y/N almost passed it off as some sort of insect.
It wasn't an insect, though. Y/N turned back to the winding road leading up to the warehouse lot, squinting to make out an advancing dot on the horizon.
It appears to be a motorcycle.
Pegging the little machine as an outrageously lost delivery boy, Y/N let her shoulders sink against the slippery wall again decided to watch him---seeing as she has nothing better to do. Maybe, when he realises he's made a mistake, he'll unwittingly amuse her with an ungainly attempt at a u-turn.
The bike didn't turn around, though, and continued making its way towards the gate. With the BMW safely out of sight, it seemed to have gained a new sense of purpose, and began to look less like a delivery boy with every second Y/N spent staring at it.
Its rider---Y/N could make him out now---didn't look like a delivery boy either (and it definitely was a he; the broad shoulders and height gave that away, despite the padded leathers). He isn't wearing a luminous jacket, for one thing, and there doesn't appear to be a blue Deliveroo cargo box strapped anywhere on the spindly little bike's frame. Y/N wasn't sure a bike of that kind even has somewhere to put a cargo; there's barely enough room for the tall, muscled rider as it is.
Not that that appeared to be giving him any difficulty. The rider was seated, not comfortably, but competently, on the bike's narrow little seat, his spine a smooth arch as he leaned forwards to control the handlebars tucked low and close to the front of the bike.
Y/N couldn't imagine the thing was very comfortable to ride, all stooped over like that, but the man steered it as though it was, the toes of his boots lightly touching the gears like it was second nature, his arms lose and relaxed.
She watched as they---the bike and rider acting very much as one entity---cleared the road's tight corners nonchalantly, the alarming way the rider's knees almost brushed the tarmac around the tighter bends not seeming to bother him in the slightest.
Y/N made sure she was well hidden as the bike entered the forecourt, the rider clicking it into a lower gear as the faceless void of his helmet turned this way and that as if looking for something.
Failing to find it, he drew away and continued along the line of buildings until he was three down from the one the BMW had entered. He must have been in line with an alleyway, then, because---like a shark flicking through the water---he disappeared between a yellow warehouse and its blue neighbour.
Definitely not a delivery boy.
'Probably just someone who owns or works at one of the other warehouses,'Â Â Y/N thought to herself, realising how heavy her arm had become from holding her phone aloft for so long.
She let it fall down to a comfortable level, and noted the little red recording button still flashing away, forgotten.
Quite unintentionally, she'd filmed the guy on the motorcycle.
No matter; when she and Sherlock present the video as evidence to Scotland yard, they can just edit that bit out.
Not before Y/N has watched it again, though.
There's something mesmerising about the competent, graceful man; something peaceful, almost appealing about the skilful way he controls his machine.