Sunday Driver
Sherlock ran through the events of the day, filing the useful information away on his hard drive, while the French countryside swept past him. It had been a complex case with a satisfying conclusion.
He glanced over at the man in the passenger seat. It had also been a long case. John had not slept for at least forty-eight hours. And he was catching up now, snoring gently. Sherlock smiled.
Then swerved.
John shot forward, gun in hand. "What the—"
"Experiment. Your time in the military has left you with excellent reflexes."
"If you weren't the one driving this car . . ."