Sherlock short short: "In a Car" (gen, PG)

[hsavinien]

Title: In a Car
Author: H. Savinien
Disclaimer: The current incarnation of Sherlock belongs to Mr. Moffat, the BBC, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Martin Freeman. Sherlock Holmes and related characters are the brainchildren of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, though now in the public domain. This fanwork is intended only as a tribute.
Rating: PG for content, though with some highly justified British swearing
Wordcount: 700
A. N.: A plotbunny informed me that Sherlock was very bad at driving. Much thanks to agenttrojie for beta and Britpicking. Any remaining errors are, of course, my own, and critique is welcomed.
Edited to Add: podlizzie has very kindly podficced this story for me and it may be found here at her journal.

***

“Jesus, Sherlock, use the indicators!” John slid into the door as they swung wide on the turn to a chorus of alarmed car horns. “I don't care if you can guess what the other cars on the road are going to do based on the mud spatters on the paintwork, you've got to give the other drivers a clue!”

“Can't, actually,” Sherlock said absently, focusing far too intently for comfort on the windows of the buildings along the side of the road. “Not enough time to observe the people inside the cars; too many variables.”

“Then bloody slow down and indicate when you're making a turn! I don't care if she is an international art thief, it's not worth a car wreck.” John pushed himself back upright. “I haven't actually got a death-wish, thanks.”

Sherlock just hmmmed, then slewed into an open garage and slammed on the brakes. There was a hideous, jolting squeal of tyres that threw John forward against the seatbelt. Sherlock jumped out of the still-running car without bothering to put it in 'park', and John barely managed to grab the gear lever in time to prevent the car going through the back wall. He peeled himself out of the belt and grabbed the car keys before sprinting after his mad flatmate.

Ten minutes later, with a frustrated Sherlock, no art thief, and a surprising number of dodgy-looking banknotes in hand, John slumped against the right hand door, panting a little. Sherlock growled, “Keys, John,” and attempted to elbow him aside.

John planted his feet and refused to budge. “I don't think so. Who in God's name ever gave you a driver's licence?”

Sherlock looked blank.

John groaned aloud. “You never got one, or you deleted it?”

“Never got one,” Sherlock sniffed. “It's just a machine, John, it's not as though it's anything complicated.”

“Right,” John said. “You are not driving anything 'til you've been properly licenced and have learnt about road safety. I don't want to hear it!” He waved Sherlock's protest away before it formed. “Go sit in the passenger's side or slide in the back and pretend I'm a cabbie, I don't care, but you're not driving.”

Sherlock glared at John, then slid in the back with bad grace and the exasperated huff of a consulting detective preparing for an almighty snit.

“Right,” John said, sliding in and levering the seat forward until he could reach the steering wheel comfortably. “Where to, then?”

“Parkhurst,” Sherlock grumbled. John reversed out of the garage and onto the street, and took a left.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel. It was a black sedan that Sherlock had probably nicked from his brother's security team, and it handled nicely despite the abuse to which Sherlock had just subjected it.

Sherlock groaned as if in physical pain. “Could you possibly go any slower, John?”

“Could, actually.”

“Pedant.”

“When it suits me.”

“Insufferable.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Short.”

“Average height and not insecure about it.”

“Unobservant.”

“Compared to you, true, but insulting me doesn't make me more likely to speed, just so you know. I'm not going to endanger anyone unless there're actually lives at stake. Some old paintings, even if they are very nice paintings, aren't going to do it,” John retorted. “And anyway, I thought you hated doing Mycroft's busywork.”

“I do. This isn't busywork. She's clever.”

“So, what's in Parkhurst?” John spared half a moment to glance back at Sherlock and grinned fondly. Sherlock had sprawled lengthwise across the backseat with his fingers steepled. Teased out of his irritation, then, good.

Sherlock's explanation was the usual lightning-fast connection between footprints, fibres, body-language, and personal background and John listened as well as he could while focusing on the road.

He nodded and made encouraging noises until Sherlock wound down, concluding as they reached the particular Parkhurst lane that Sherlock wanted. Sherlock's timing was amazing like that. “Right, let's get after her, then.” John parked behind some bins at Sherlock's indication and they were off again.

Comments

[exbex.livejournal.com]

Of course Sherlock can't be arsed with safe driving ;) I love this glimpse into the domestic side of things.

[hsavinien.livejournal.com]

Nope. Boring!

Thanks. ^_^