A/N: Came up with this idea a bit out of the blue, and this time I wrote a piece, maybe with a continuation ahead. Sorry it's clunky, I'm not English, nor a writer, and I'm out of practice. Unfortunately, all my plots have seen secluded in my head lately. Time to air them out? -csf

1.

Footsteps pounding against flag stones in a rural village setting, the suspect is quickly taking advantage of his local area knowledge, winding through narrow alleys, jumping over stone walls, nimbly avoiding strewn obstacles such as rubbish bins, wheelbarrow planters and stray sheep. Yes, sheep. In a small courtyard of a cottage with a patio like a shipwreck of scrap metal and potted petunias.

'You cannot get away, Chandler!' the great detective assures the runaway killer, with only the slightest strain under his quick, short breaths.

Through all this running, Sherlock is narrowing in on our suspect, his long legs a natural advantage in the pursuit. I'm keeping close, a faithful shadow, a steady backup to the great genius' every move.

Although, next time, maybe skip the grandiose announcement of the killer's name until we goad him to the police station?

Maybe Sherlock really wanted to blow the cobwebs off from the weeklong investigation in rural Devon.

Uh-oh. Chandler turns a brisk right corner and we lose sight of him. We hear the loud thump before we see the hay rolls tumbling across the farm yard. I see Sherlock, still ahead of me, turn the corner to a brisk halt, so I'm the first to spot a couple of bicycles against a fence. Time to borrow us some transport, to compensate the lost time going around the buildings to get Chandler.

Sherlock is right. Chandler cannot get away. The killer wiped out his whole family with weed killer and booked himself a cruise in the Mediterranean. He said he had a lifelong wish to go visit Canada. It's perhaps all the general knowledge inaccuracies of our killer that baffled Sherlock through a week long investigation, and precipitated the young consulting genius' burst of accusatory deductions on the high street as the locals came out from a harvest festival. Plush tomatoes were thrown and sunflowers were brandished in the hope of slowing the killer; and that was just by the local priest, let alone the crowd who tutted and shrieked indignantly in their Sunday's best.

We gave chase up to this farm, and now it's time to stop this ridiculous running. I climb on the first bicycle, Sherlock now hot on my heels, and pedal briskly back out of the courtyard, wheels scrapping over the gravel. I go around the stables and I spot Chandler, still on foot. He spots me too. He knows he's not about to outrun me. I see him looking around him wildly for escape, he spots a ditch and jumps down where he thinks we cannot follow. Oh no, you don't... I let go of the left pedal, get my leg over the seat while still gliding along on a helpful descent, until I'm level with Chandler, then I finally let go of the bicycle and jump the killer from my high ground advantage.

I land with a huff over my prey, turn him to face the muddy ground, and overpower his struggles, bringing his wrists to his lower back.

'Handcuffs,' I politely ask my mad friend, reaching out behind me to my co-adventurer and North star in our endeavours.

Nothing happens.

I look over my shoulder. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

I squint before I can see Sherlock way behind, still giving pursuit, wobbling uncoordinatedly on the second bicycle down the path, some 700 yards away. Then I just frown. Following this with a weary sigh.

I solemnly deduce that Sherlock Holmes does not know how to ride a bicycle.

.

'You never learnt how to ride a bicycle as a child?' I ask Sherlock, as we walk a lone country road with our luggage to the train station.

He shrugs, not willing to give much away. If it weren't for his shoulders, fractionally hunching forward, I might have accepted his nonverbal admission and let it go. But he seemed... embarrassed, perhaps.

No reason for embarrassment, of course. Lots of adults don't know how to ride bicycles; not properly, I mean. They get the basics. Sit on the saddle, pedal, and that propels the bicycle forward. That is true, in essence. It just leaves out balance, skill and control – all of which require experience to learn.

'Did you delete—?' I stop myself short. They say you never forget how to ride a bicycle, don't they?

'Just drop it, John,' he asks of me, with a long suffering voice. 'It's not a big deal, alright?'

I nod, understanding, and a comfortable silence falls between us. The plastic wheels of our carry-ons thrumming alongside us.

'You're not much of a swimmer either.'

'I manage,' he states, levelly.

He does now, but only after the many times he or I fell on the Thames by the hand of kidnappers, contrabandists and murderers.

'Built a campfire?' I ask softly, not able to stop myself now. Maybe he senses that, because he answers truthfully just between the two of us:

'Never.'

I spot the train station, all platforms deserted for now. We have some waiting to do.

'Climbed trees?'

'Oh yes, several times.'

That's more like it. Not for the first time, I wonder what my friend's isolated childhood must have been like. Mycroft, his older brother, will more likely have tried to get Sherlock down from a tree than taught him how to scale it. Little Sherlock would have likely perfected that act out of a streak of rebellion.

'Skipped stones on a pond?' I decide to start at a lower bar.

'Irrelevant in my childhood.'

Sherlock loves London and the city but he is not at odds in a rural setting. Well, at least not when we dismiss the silk shirt and the polished dress shoes.

'Foraged in the woods?'

'Found the best mushrooms one summer. Tried to make a deadly poisonous mushrooms collection in Mycroft's jam jars. He freaked out.'

'Mycroft made jams, you say?'

'Raspberry coulis, among others. He was determined to get a Michelin star by the time he was 20. Never did. Still a sore spot. Must bring it up next time we see him.'

I chuckle at that, and he follows in our usual companionship. I still think I wounded his pride a little, by exposing one flaw – he'll certainly perceived it that way – one area where he's not a natural nor the best.

I long to find some more before the train arrives.

'Pitched a tent in the back yard? Or wherever for that matter?'

'I slept in a tent, yes, John.'

'Did you pitch the tent first?'

'No.'

A plan starts to form in my mind, but I can' quite grasp it yet. Just the potential for something, something big...

'Fishing?'

'Boring.'

'Know that first-hand?'

'No, John.'

He's getting tense, and is but a hair trigger away from some scathing remark so to reassert his pride, I can tell. Time to lay this chase to rest, then.

'We had very different childhoods, I gather.' That gets his attention. He rakes his gaze over me, reading a myriad of micro-tells in me about my early years. I let him. I know I'm an open book to my best friend's scrutiny and it doesn't bother me. It makes me feel... seen, truly seen, as if I matter to the world and to Sherlock especially. It leaves a warm feeling in its wake, this probing. Sherlock cares.

We walk into the train platform before I continue, now more aware of prying eyes and listening ears: 'I wouldn't mind showing some skills from my childhood, you know? Think of it as an exchange programme. You've been teaching me about deduction and reasoning, and brought me into your mad world without holding back. Maybe I want to give something back.'

'What could possibly be the purpose of wasting my hard drive's space with skipping stones?'

'It's fun,' I retort reflexively.

Something went wrong. My friend's mouth is snarling at the corner and immediately I know I pushed him too far. Exposed an insecure genius' flaws. Thought we had safe ground between us and enough rapport; I suppose I'm wrong about that, there'll always be something unreachable in the great—

'Then I should try it,' he suddenly blurts out. I look him dead in the face, it would be impossible to conceal my shock. He faces me, a certain fondness in his features.

'I want to learn more about you, John. I assume learning your childhood tricks may be an advantage in that pursuit.' As soon as he proclaimed that, turning my world's certainties upside down, he glances at the train departure board and announces: 'Platform 2 in 3 minutes, John. Come along!'

He marches on decisively, but I'm still searching for the destination of the new voyage Sherlock is setting out, checking it against my childhood homes (we moved around a fair bit). Knowledge hits me at once – how did he know? Something in my accent? My favourite choice of apple sauce at the supermarket? The twirl of my pen when I make handwritten notes? Did he talk to my sister again? – as well as a wave of nostalgia for a long gone past. I sigh and ask myself, would it be too bad to revisit that part of the country with my best friend?

' John! Hurry up, the train is here!'

'Coming right up, mate!'

.

TBC?