This time, the bike edges forward inch by inch, then carries on going forward until the clutch is all the way out and Y/N gives a triumphant, childish little cheer. "I'm doing it!"
She feels Sherlock chuckle again.
"Yes, and you are doing it brilliantly."
Y/N glows, his praise setting a strange, pleasant sensation fluttering in her stomach.
"...Do you want to do it faster?"
She glows with a little thrill of excitement. "If you think I'm ready." Turning the throttle, she speeds the bike up a little, the wind slipping past her face like feathers. It gets faster and faster until it's got a slight nip to it.
The engine starts making a distressed, pained wailing sound and, probably feeling her grip tense back up on the handlebars, Sherlock prompts gently:
"It's trying to tell you to go up a gear."
"Oh. I have to push my foot up, right, not down?"
"Yeah, twice; you have to get past neutral."
Hesitantly, like checking items off a list, Y/N works her way through the manoeuvre, the bike fining second gear with a satisfying sigh.
As if in relief, its tone settles into a consistent, low hum.
"The engine seems happier now," She observes.
"It's much smoother the faster you go. See?"
Y/N nods.
It isn't jolting as much; it's less like a stallion stifled on a chain and more like a boat drifting on calm waters.
They lumber forward for quite a while, Sherlock's hands loosening on the backs of her palms.
As they pass the WHSmiths, he takes them away altogether and Y/N yelps.
"No! No! No! Where are you going?! Put them back!"
"Why? You're doing just fine," he insists encouragingly, flexing his fingers. His palms come to settle easily on the leather of his trousers, the reflection of his proud smile visible over Y/N's shoulder.
Suddenly, the sparse little hedge lining the car park seems unsettlingly large.
Y/N glances at Sherlock's hands, wishing she could be brave enough to let go of the handlebars for a fraction of a second---just long enough to grab them and put them back.
The hedge seems to be doubling in size, its spindly little twigs swelling into enormous, hulking, branches.
"...How do you turn?"
Sherlock smirks.
She can see the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.
"What do you mean, how do you turn?"
Her knuckles gripping the handlebars again, she struggles in what is now a wavering, shaky line. "It's not going where I want it to!" She frowns angrily at her own arms, willing them to the left and then, when that fails, to the right.
Softly, something warm takes her chin.
Sherlock is cupping it with one finger. Gently, he tilts her face upwards, bringing her gaze back to the pavement ahead.
"You have to keep your eyes on where you want to go. The bike will follow."
"But it isn't!"
"It will. Keep looking forward."
Moistening her lips, Y/N rakes the car park for something to focus on. She decides on a discarded shopping trolley lying on its side vaguely in the direction that isn't the hedge. Staring fixedly at its rusty wheels, she desperately wills the huge machine below her to curve to the right.
It doesn't.
The hedge is so close she can make out an empty packet of Jelly Tots caught in the branches.
Giving up on any hope of dignity, she whines pathetically:
"Sherlock!" His lip doing that curling thing again, Y/N feels him lean around her to place his hands back over hers. "It will. Watch." They take control, instantly settling her nerves, his fingers squeezing about her own as he revs the bike faster, speeding towards the hedge.
Her nerves fray again in an instant, unravelling like wool caught on a thistle.
He waits until he's inches from it, Y/N's eyes clenching tight shut like a fist---
---then the bike leans over.
She peels one lid open.
They're facing the shopping trolley, one of its wheels turning in the wind, unbothered by their shenanigans.
Y/N blinks. "...How did you make it do that?"
"Hold the bike with your legs, not your hands. And it helps if you lead with your hips." To demonstrate, or, perhaps, simply to show off, he angles the front wheel as far around as it will go, whipping them around in a tight circle.
Sherlock's knee grazes the concrete and Y/N makes a small, high-pitched sound. He sighs, widening his spirals into a wide, sweeping figure-eight. "It would also help if you didn't have your eyes closed."
"I'm trying, but I'm scared you'll lose a kneecap!" She snaps, trying to force the handlebars back up right where they belong.
Easily, he overpowers her, tipping them left and then right with impressive, almost glacial, slowness. "We'll lose more than a knee if you don't learn to steer. Look."
She feels him push up closer behind her on the seat, his pelvis pressed firmly against the small of her back.
He grips her and the bike between the solid strength of his thighs and this time, as the hedge approaches once more, Y/N can feel his hips shoving the machine sideways, forcing it to the right.
She doesn't squeak this time, her breath suspended in her throat.
His body flexes to guide the bike where it needs to go, the muscles in his stomach shifting against Y/N's back. They force the machine down towards the ground and pin it there.
Y/N cowers between his biceps, pushing herself into the curve of his torso. She watches the tendons in his hands jump about, his palms swamping her feminine little hands with a dominant, manly sort of strength---
They round the corner and his pecks tense against her shoulder blades, dragging them upright again. As the bike slows, he releases Y/N's hands, the cold air rushing in like a bucket of cold water.
"...See?" He clears his throat. "You...you have to---sort of, use your whole....your whole body."
Y/N didn't notice. She moistens her lips, trying to focus less on the squeeze of his thighs and more on keeping the bike on two wheels. She feels him shift a little behind her on the seat, putting a little distance between their bodies.
They wobble and Sherlock's hand reaches out instinctively, steadying them. "Sorry, that was my fault," He admits, chuckling nervously and Y/N giggles.
"It's okay. Steer with my whole body. Okay."
Clumsily, she finds something else to fix her gaze on---mainly because she's avoiding the blue of his eyes in the wing mirror---and finds a red Vauxhall Astra. Pulling on the handlebars, she tries to copy Sherlock's movements, leaning her waist to the side.
Nothing happens, apart from her bottom sliding slowly off the leather seat.
Sherlock laughs and she rights herself, frustrated.
"It's not working."
"Like this." One of his hands curls around the knot of her shoulder, the strength of it heavy through her leathers. The other takes her hip. "Lean where I lean."
Commandingly, he guides her torso down towards the pavement.
She tries to go floppy, surrendering herself to his control.
A little shakily, the bike tips and he supports her at an angle.
Slowly, they turn in a wide, curving circle.
Y/N grins.
"Perfect," Sherlock's praise rumbles into her ear.
It curls deep in her belly like ribbons.
Y/N feels herself flush, the pink of her blush running down her neck and pooling under Sherlock's palm.
Its still softly cupping her shoulder and he seems to realise, his fingers stiffening suddenly, and draws away. "Sorry, is this okay?"
"Yes." Braver now, she lets go of the handlebars, reaching behind her and finding his hand. She places it back on her hip. "I like it."
There's a pause---
---then he moves back up behind her, his grip on her waist making itself at home.
In the wing mirror, she catches his pleased, bashful little smile.
🏍 💨
Y/N tries going left next, and then right, then left again.
After some time, Sherlock's other hand joins its counterpart at her waist and, tentatively, they creep around her middle. His hair tickles the sensitive skin of her neck as his chin comes to lean on her shoulder, his chest deflating with a comfortable sigh.
Eventually, the sun begins to set, turning the sky a sweet apricot orange. Wisps of bruised purple clouds leak into the horizon slowly at first, creeping up the horizon like spilt ink.
Just before the sun completely disappears, Y/N pulls the bike to a stop, clicks it down to neutral and switches off the ignition.
She waits for the detective's usual praise of 'amazing' or 'perfect', and when it doesn't come she's surprised to find how much she misses it.
"Did I do okay?" She asks, unable to help it.
He seems to come out of a reverie, blinking as if he hadn't noticed they'd stopped.
Cool air douses Y/N's thighs as his legs straighten, his boots distractedly leaving the pegs to join hers on the pavement. "Yes, you did brilliantly."
"What's wrong?" Concern creases her face and she examines his reflection in the wing mirror---
---but just finds him watching her with a sated, affectionate smile. "Nothing." His eyes mellow, he holds her a little closer, pulling the arch of her back into the slouching curve of his torso. "...I just like sitting like this."
Y/N smiles, putting her hands over his. The pale bones of his knuckles are starting to get cold, and she rubs them to warm them up. "We can sit like this at home. Come on." She stands, stretching the stiffness from her legs and fetches their helmets and gloves from the pavement.
His limbs floppy, Sherlock sags forward without her support, and stretches his arms up with a wide yawn.
His mouth open, all strong white teeth and pink tongue, something seems to dawn on him. His sleepy eyes widen, suddenly alert. "'When we get home'?" He clarifies with a hesitant grin. "So you liked this?...I managed to...to seduce you?"
Y/N can't help laughing, partly at his...well...Sherlock-isms and partly at the hopeful expression lighting up his whole face. "Somehow, against all odds, yes, I guess you did."
He beams and it lights up the whole dusk-soaked car park. "So...do you want to carry on..." he gestures between them, drawing an imaginary link through the air. "...like this? Because I'd like to. Very much. But we can do other things next time, like go to a restaurant or something." Apologetically, scratching the curls at the back of his head:
"I know this wasn't exactly what people ordinarily do on dates---"
"Sherlock," Y/N takes his cheeks in her hands almost possessively, drawing his gaze up to squarely meet her own. "I don't want ordinary. I want you."
Squished between her palms, he grins, his cheekbones flushing as pink as the sunset.
She releases him, straightening back up but he catches the leather of her jacket, tugging her back down.
Her mouth meets his.
The air is cold but his lips are warm.
They move softly against her own, his fingers on her jacket sliding up to cup her cheek.
His hair is warm too as she winds her fingers into it, taking up bunches of his chocolate curls for which she had always had a secret, wordless obsession.
For her own selfish enjoyment, she gives a little experimental tug and it makes Sherlock moan, ever so slightly, more a feeling than a sound; a rumble deep and low like a purr against her mouth.
When they part, their breath curls in misty swirls between their faces.
"Sorry," Sherlock's voice comes as gravelly as the tarmac. He's gazing at her rapturously, his lips parted in silent surprise. "...I...I meant to say 'thank you'."
Y/N moistens her own lips again, but this time they're already soft and plump where he'd tentatively sucked them. They tingle below her tongue, the sweet taste of him lingering ever so slightly behind.
A playful smile dances over her whole face and she can't help pecking his lips again, because she finally can, because he's letting her, because he seems to really really want her to.
"You have a nice way of saying thank you."
🏍 💨
Sherlock waits until Y/N has straddled the back of the motorcycle before he stands, her feet firmly planted on the ground.
Wobbling, it threatens to topple---her knees still weak like jelly---and they both dart for the handlebars. Their fingers touch with a bashful chuckle.
Sherlock draws his away carefully, flashing her a teasing smile. "Got it?"
She sticks her tongue out at him for the second time that day. "Yes."
Sherlock's helmet and gloves are still piled, forgotten, on the floor, and he plucks them up distractedly.
Y/N waits for him to take a seat, and when he doesn't, she furrows her brows.
He's just standing there. His gaze climbs her boots, up her legs straddling the sleek machine, over the curve of her waist and pause, lingering on her face. His eyes are nothing but black pupils and a slither of navy, glinting blue.
"...What?"
"Sorry," he says, and Y/N catches his adam's apple bob up and then down his pale throat. "I just...You look nice sitting there. I mean, you always look...phenomenal. But today... And kissing was..." He bites his lip, a tiny, hesitant smile twitching one corner. "...Wow."
Giggling, she returns his nervous little grin. "Yeah, it was... 'wow'."
The bike sinks below her as Sherlock hurriedly takes a seat---
---but facing her rather than the handlebars. Eagerly, he places a hand on her thigh and one on her cheek and shifts closer, his boot nudging hers on the pavement. "So can we...do it again?"
Y/N nods, reaching her fingers up to tangle back in his hair.
Savouring it, he pushes into the feeling like a touch-starved cat into a warm palm, his eyes fluttering closed.
Tenderly, she draws him down, his kiss hungrier this time, his jaw keenly nudging it deeper.
The pad of his thumb drags her mouth open a fraction and she hums, gripping his leather-covered waist. He makes a little sobbing noise in answer, hooking his hands under her knees. With a hungry desperacy, he lifts her legs over his thighs, drawing her closer on the seat, until her belly bumps his.
She makes a gasping sound and feels his lips curl against her mouth.
When he pulls away, he's smirking,
"My new mission in life is to make you do that again." He leans back in as if to begin his challenge now, and Y/N tips her head so his kiss lands on her cheek. They take it in their stride, caressing her cheekbone, up to her temple.
"It's getting dark," she points out reluctantly,
His adoration roaming over to her ear, the cold point of Sherlock's nose nuzzles itself into the warmth of her hair. He makes a contented sound in the back of his throat; something between a sigh and a moan.
Y/N's lip twitches with a smile. "Sherlock."
"I like it in here."
"Sherlock." Her smile blossoms into a grin as she tries to unpick his fingers from her waist. "Come on, it's cold, we can do that back at the flat."
From muffled against her neck:
"...Do you promise?"
Giggling, his breath tickling, she buries her nose in his curls. Kissing the top of his head. "I promise."
There's a pause.
Then, reluctantly, he peels himself away and swings a leg over the bike's seat, righting himself.
His helmet obscures the joyful light kindling in his eyes as he pulls it over his head with some urgency, his fingers messily wriggling themselves into their gloves.
Y/N smirks at him, lifting her feet up onto the pegs and squeezing her thighs securely about his hips. "Excited to get back on the road?"
Sherlock feels around behind his back, finding her hands and placing them possessively on his waist. "Fuck the road, I can't wait to get home."