A/N A more lighthearted one this time around. I wrote it when I was really tired, too xD This could be set anywhere in the series, I suppose, but I guess I imagine it to be between TBB and TGG.
Thanks to Smilers and Winders
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
IX. Drive
There are many, many things about Sherlock Holmes that, to John, at least, are a mystery. After all, the workings of his mind itself are truly nothing but a massive enigma, so it only makes sense that less significant aspects of his being should be their own puzzles. And yet, on occasion, John is surprised to discover that some of his flat mate's more foggy aspects have never truly been secrets; he's simply never bothered to ask the limitless questions swimming around what, according to Sherlock, is a relatively empty mind, and therefore they're remained unresolved. And, at times, these un-catalogued characteristics present themselves most unexpectedly.
Take driving, for instance. John's never had any reason to believe that Sherlock, who only ever takes cabs, knows a thing about how to operate a wheel. But when, after a decidedly unlikely series of events, the two find themselves in a truck full of solid gold bars with a number of armed robbers on their tail, he learns better.
"Sherlock!" John yells as a bullet sails over his head. He flings himself against the passenger door, hands fumbling in his jacket for his own revolver. "I'm going to throw you the gun, I need you to cover me so that I can get around to your side!"
"Why?" he shouts back, sounding maddeningly calm despite the cacophony of deafening bangs ringing through the otherwise silent air.
"So that I can drive the damn thing and get us the hell out of here?"
"I can just as well, you realize." There are multiple slams from Sherlock's side of the car, and then the door next to John springs open. He jumps in without thinking, ducking a shot that sends several long cracks over the thankfully bulletproof window.
"What do you mean, you can?" he pants.
Instead of giving a verbal response, Sherlock violently turns the key that's already sitting in the ignition, and the vehicle roars to life, shooting forwards so quickly that John's teeth rattle. He's thrown against the back of his own seat and ends up clinging to it as the truck veers around a sharp bend and cruises up the empty road.
"I didn't know you could drive," he gasps out.
"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock questions, sounding almost offended.
"Oh, I don't know, just—" John's grumble breaks off in a sharp yelp as the wheels go flying over a particularly deep indentation in the road. "Are you sure you do know how to?"
"Roughly forty-three percent certain." Sherlock's knuckles are even whiter than usual on the steering wheel, and his gaze is glued to the window.
"Forty—? Oh, for God's sake." With no thought save that inclined towards preserving both of their endangered lifespans, John leans sideways and places his own hands over Sherlock's, guiding them as best as he can considering his awkward position. "There. Try to keep to the left. Didn't you say that Lestrade was coming with backup? Because, no offense or anything, but we could really use that right now."
As if on cue, a police cruiser, sirens ablaze, comes wailing out from behind a grove of trees and skids to a halt just as John thrusts his foot onto the brakes, ending up winding his leg between Sherlock's in the process. A number of officers, including Detective Inspector Lestrade, burst out and swarm around the truck of gold bars, raising their weapons in the direction of their pursuers, who surrender almost immediately at the sight of the backup force.
John exhales in relief and sinks back into his seat, then suddenly notes the rather tangled position that he and Sherlock have worked themselves into. Reddening, he hurriedly disengages himself and apologizes in a hasty mutter.
Sherlock's lips frame the words You don't have to say sorry, but no sound comes out.
