𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄, sherlock holmes

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈 . . . CROSSED WIRES!

Sherlock Holmes had stolen his brother's car, long fingers bent over the smooth leather of the wheel as he pushed his foot down on the accelerator to push them further up the M6 one week before Christmas, cursing himself for letting her tag along and for getting dirty marks from her feet on the interior of the car. Joan Hartley was in the passenger seat, tracing her eyes along the words in the biography she was reading, feet kicked up over the glove box with a bottle of water she'd bought from the service station sat in the cup holder on her side of the radio.

She didn't know why Sherlock had asked her to accompany him on the drive up to the Lakes, only forming some kind of idea in her head because she'd told him when Mycroft would be out of the office. She was his secretary, on the days he offered to pay her well. Poppy didn't know, but Joan having a part-time job in 'SPEEDY'S' was part of the reason Mycroft had placed Poppy there to go under cover anyway. Her finger held the place she'd reached in her book, and she reached forward to turn the dial on the radio up so as to hum along to the Christmas songs. Sherlock had turned it off as soon as she'd flicked it on.

They drove in silence, punctuating the void with a yawn of tiredness or a heavy exhale as the estimated arrival time on the SatNav increased every five minutes. "I thought Land Rovers were meant to be reliable," Sherlock muttered to himself, "But we're constantly three hours away even though we've only got one hundred miles left."

"We've already been driving for three hours, and it's nearly ten o'clock at night. Don't you think we should stop somewhere over night?"

"No."

"Something to eat, at least?" She liked the idea of a candle-lit dinner with Sherlock in a country pub filled with locals telling stories of the establishment's old veterans by the bar whilst they were cosied up in a corner. There would be wooden beams in the ceiling above them with a warm fireplace, hearty steaming meals brought out of the kitchen and silver cutlery so bright it would reflect prettily in her eye so Sherlock couldn't look away.

But alas, he interrupted her thoughts with an adamant "No." It was almost as if he wouldn't let the event proceed even if his life depended on it.

But of course.

He was going for Poppy, and Joan was only going because John was spending the week with Sarah, in preparation for staying with her for the Christmas weekend. Half the time she wondered if Sherlock only ever spoke to her because 'Joan' was spelt similarly to 'John'. But as they reached a patch of traffic on the motorway skirting the west side of Manchester, Sherlock checked his watch, tapped his foot impatiently against the acceleration peddle in preparation for the jam of cars to inch forwards, he consulted the SatNav and pulled the Land Rover into the exit lane, moving steadily towards the roundabout signalling the end of the motorway and its regulations.

Joan's heart rate increased as did her hopes, as they drove down a small country lane until they ended up near a place called Rushgreen, with a golf course lit up with an artificial glow and a pub with rafters on the window painted a charming duck egg blue, red flowers trailing along the borders of the carpark and the building instead of a neatly cut box hedge. There were Christmas lights woven around the frame of the porch, excited chatter and roars of laughter leaking out to where they were stood by the car though the doors and windows. "Is it a bed and breakfast, d'you think?" Her harsh Scottish accent, from spending years in Bathgate as a child, didn't sound too dissimilar to the relaxed Mancunian ones from inside the pub.

"It is. I've already booked two rooms so you don't need to worry about the possibility of sharing." Oh. Joan had been looking forward to the eventuality. But still she nodded and lead the way to the door, pushing it open and asking one of the staff for a table and the keys to their rooms.