I don't believe it. I've...finished something. It's done. I don't know what to do now...

The usual disclaimer: the characters aren't mine!

Enjoy!

~Knyle B.

John had never realized just how rolling the countryside was in the east. Granted, he'd never gone over it at quite his current speed. Perhaps what felt like an eye-watering roller coaster at the moment was actually quite comfortable at a more sedate pace.

Seeking to convince himself, he peered at the blur of green and blue outside the window. The winding country lane that had become their "shortcut" seemed perfectly idyllic. Whatever form of it was whirring by in front of him made him slightly woozy to stare at, though.

The doctor closed his eyes and shook his head. If his heart wasn't trying to beat its way out of his chest, he might have enjoyed looking at the scenery instead of holding onto the side handle for dear life. As it was, it was all going by too fast to really take in.

He lurched into the door as the vehicle navigated a turn at suicidal speed and flinched inwardly at the spike of soreness that ran up his arm. In the past hour, he'd been thrown about in his seat so much that the curves of the car's interior had started to leave indents on his skin. With a sort of weary determination to find a silver lining, he reminded himself that at least his current situation was a novel experience. He'd never gotten bruises from being too familiar with an armrest before.

Then the car went over a pothole, an event which at normal speed would not have bashed his head against the roof, and John's patience evaporated. Looking over at the decidedly immobile and well-ordered idiot in the driver's seat, he gritted, "You do realize that we're on our way to see a bunch of policemen, right? Homicide detectives can still arrest you for driving like a maniac."

A scornful huff met his criticism. Sherlock rolled his eyes disdainfully as he yanked the wheel about for another turn, throwing John towards the middle of the car this time. "Traffic laws exist to excuse people who can't drive at their vehicle's full capacity. I am an excellent driver, so I don't need to follow them. If Lestrade and his minions think I'm going to waste time submitting to useless guidelines, then they've surpassed even their usual idiocy."

"You wouldn't know anything about that, naturally," John deadpanned under his breath as he painfully picked himself up off the clutch, rubbing his ribs and wincing. "Rain main."

Ignoring the whisper and the blue-eyed glare accompanying it, Sherlock gestured carelessly to the world blurring by their windows. "Naturally they would make laws prejudiced against those capable of traveling with more speed and dexterity than the herd." His next maneuver slammed John into the window. "It's no fault of mine that the plebian masses lack the skills to drive efficiently."

John decided not to acknowledge that outrageous statement. Bedraggled and sore, he levered himself upright and tucked himself as far back into his seat as he could go, hoping the molded padding would help keep him from lurching into a hard object every time Sherlock turned the wheel. His stomach was fastidiously tying itself into knots. They ached more with each jarring imperfection in the gravel underneath them.

With half-hearted optimism, his eyes sought out the odometer, hoping that reality wasn't as bad as the scenario he pictured in his head. What he saw on the dial made his stomach drop. Reality wasn't as bad as he'd thought. John closed his eyes, struggling for calm. It was much, much worse. Swallowing his panic at the thought of what might happen should Sherlock turn his eyes from the road for even a moment, he chose to focus on the fact that his day of firsts had continued. The speed threshold they'd just crossed was something he'd never experienced before outside an airborne vehicle.

He had already prodded his flatmate to drive slower a hundred times that morning, with no result. Well, the lecture might count, but not in a good way. At least his wheedling had convinced Sherlock to wear his seat belt. Not that it would matter much who was buckled in if they crashed at the rate they were going.

Shaking his head, John quietly resolved to use whatever means necessary to keep Sherlock from driving in the future but told himself to wait until later to act on it. As inviting as the idea was, he was not going to wrest the wheel away from his friend while they were moving—especially not while they were moving like that.

"Do you suppose you could at least stay within thirty kilometers of the speed limit?" he suggested, careful not to bite his tongue.

Sherlock snorted in derision at the thought, and John got the distinct impression that the car had sped up a little. He wilted slightly, praying that no livestock were wandering the road and rubbing his palms uneasily over the tops of his thighs. His fingers discovered an anomaly by his knee; he blinked his eyes open and scowled down at the new hole in his jeans. Evidently, one of his Sherlock-induced body slams had incited the car to seek revenge.

Motion in the corner of his eye brought his head snapping up. The consulting detective had taken a hand off the wheel, fishing in his pocket for his phone. John saw the mobile a moment before Sherlock could look down to start texting. He snatched it away. "Oh, no you don't."

"John…" Sherlock turned to glower at him, murder in his eyes. The movement pulled his hands slightly to the side, and the car embarked on the beginning of a violent swerve.

"Eyes on the road, Sherlock!" John yelped, grabbing the wheel and wrenching them back into the center with a wild spattering of gravel.

Giving him a muted grimace, the detective faced forward, pouting out the windshield. "John, I need my phone," he grumbled, throwing them around a startled goose.

"Not on the bloody road, you don't," John corrected him, stashing the mobile in his pocket. "If you want to drive like this, that's all you're going to do."

"But there's so much to be done!" the detective objected plaintively. Thankfully, he could complain without taking his eyes away from his task. "The fire escapes of the warehouse…"

"Will still be there once we reach Lestrade at the rendezvous," John told him firmly. Having to brace himself against the dashboard while he said it had no effect on the finality of his tone.

His suggestion meant waiting. Sherlock hated waiting. At the implication of a delay, the car started to inch forward at an even faster pace. "But John—"

The blond man set his jaw. "Slow down, Sherlock, or so help me, I will pour ethanol in every disgusting thing you have brewing in the kitchen as soon as we get home."

Normally, Sherlock would scoff at such an empty threat, but something in the other man's quiet, even tone made him pause. A brief look at John's face quelled his remaining skepticism. The level blue glare that accompanied the order was enough to pull his foot back off the accelerator. The car lost speed, and immediately, the passing scenery grew slightly more recognizable.

"Thank you." John smiled and settled back in his seat. He didn't use his "captain" voice very often, but it was nice to know that it had kept its effect.

His gratitude only seemed to irritate his flatmate. Scowling out the windshield, Sherlock grumbled, "I hate driving myself."

Before the doctor could get out the biting comment on his tongue, he was frozen by a second of panic. Two silver irises had flashed towards him speculatively; it looked as though Sherlock was about to say something. "Road," John reminded his flatmate, sounding half-strangled. "The road, Sherlock."

"What? Oh, yes, fine." Cut off from whatever he was going to say, Sherlock absently diverted his focus back to the task of keeping them alive.

He stiffened suddenly, and John automatically grabbed for handholds as the car lurched. The lone cow in the middle of the road watched bewilderedly as they skidded by in a cloud of dust and locking tires. Luckily, the herd wasn't crossing along with it. Once they were clear, Sherlock shifted gears and got them back on course, and John relaxed enough to examine his new bruises with one hand. He'd never pitied farm animals more than he did the ones near Sherlock that day.

Slightly breathless, said brown-haired nutter continued blithely, "You could drive."

John cast his eyes heavenward. "We've already established that I don't have a permit."

Sherlock's silence was eloquent: And?

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Sherlock," he ground out, rubbing his eyes. "If you want to keep getting invited to crime scenes, one of us has to stay on Lestrade's good side."

"He'd never know," Sherlock argued, suddenly hitting at least twice as many potholes as before in a subtle attempt to make his proposition more inviting. "Besides, you're obviously dissatisfied with my efforts. Since it's your fault that we're not on a train right now anyway, you may as well make up for it by driving."

John straightened, aghast. "My fault?"

"If you hadn't been so slow paying the cabbie, we'd have made the train."

"What?" John snapped, turning to glare at the sharp profile suddenly very studiously watching the road. "The train was already out of the station by the time the cab pulled up to Baker Street this morning, you twat! If you hadn't wasted so much time swanning about in the kitchen—Wait, no, I'm not doing this." Snapping his mouth shut, the doctor pretended to stare out the window.

Sherlock let out a rather pointed sigh and narrowly avoided wiping out a roadside flowerbed. He didn't say anything more for several minutes; John recognized the onset of a sulk. Resigning himself to another hour of nerve-shredding, grumpily silent wildlife endangerment, John let his head fall back into his headrest and focused on regulating his breathing.

Well, that was incredibly satisfying.

Of course, I've been fighting a war with flesh-eating plot bunnies (I'm talking first cousins of the Monty Python fella, here) for months on my other stories, and this one came out in three days. Oy...

Anyhoo, I hope you like! Please let me know what you think.

One more coming...