Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

That Man On The Motorcycle (Part 1)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 

My Motorcycle is my most prized possession, so thank you to G99_bazinga for requesting something close to my heart. 

P.S sorry for the wait :-)

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CONTEXT:

Just a short pre-relationship fic about Y/N thinking Sherlock looks dashing on a motorcycle. Well, she doesn't know it was Sherlock. Not yet. 

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'Wait here,'  is what Y/N had been asked to do, so 'wait here' is what she has been doing for the past two hours and thirty-eight minutes.

She'd spent most of that time fighting the urge to lean against the wall behind her. It's blackened with smog, and slick from last night's rain, but it's also solid and dependable and there. And her legs are so tired. So tired. 

Her other activities mainly include distracting herself from that fact. So far, she's been doing this by: 

- Reading

- Attempting to blow a ring into the frigid air with her breath

- Watching a trail of ants

and 

- Trying to winkle out the stuck string from inside her hoodie. She'd pulled the left toggle until the right one disappeared into the soft old material, perhaps never to be seen again. She's not upset about this. She'd done it on purpose, to give herself something to do.

At present, her finger and thumb wriggled---once more---into the hole of the hood's seam, and---once more---fumbled about the close quarters blindly. This time, however, they did manage to close on the elusive end of the string. With a small swell of triumph, Y/N tugged it free, and then tugged it some more until it lined up perfectly with the left one.

That little swell of triumph was short-lived; after barely a second it pittered out like a snuffed flame. 

What is she supposed to do now?

She sighed and finally let her shoulderblades come to rest against the wall. She pictured the scuffs of grime the manky old brickwork would leave across her back like chaotic bruises, but didn't care. Not as much as she would have done earlier. She can just wash it, after all. 

What kind of car had Sherlock instructed her to look out for, again? A BMW? Or had he simply said 'blue'? 

It doesn't really matter, it's not like the car in question will be at risk of getting lost in a sea of traffic. In all the time Y/N has been standing here, the only thing to pass past her eye line had been a middle-aged man walking a beyond-middle-aged dog.

'Here' is a grid of warehouses just passed the outskirts of central London. They're organised in neat rows as if queued up to be let in, not that they ever would be. Their blocky, towering bulk would never fit into the city's slick, contemporary framework. 

They may be an eyesore, but Y/N has found that to work in her favour. The narrow corridors between each building making a perfect hiding spot for the rental car she'd arrived in, the high walls keeping her and her vehicle safely concealed.