To John, it looked fairly innocuous, but Sherlock was eyeing the metal contraption with great distrust. They were standing in a rental yard right next to the station, having just disembarked from their train, and crisp September sunlight was glinting merrily off the abundant chrome all around them. No one else had gotten off at this stop, and the quaint street outside was deserted apart from a few midday shop-goers.

'Why aren't there any cabs in this place?' Sherlock groused. 'Primitive!'

'We're in the countryside, Sherlock. This isn't London. Besides, it's not too far.' John studied Sherlock's unusually deflated demeanour, growing increasingly bewildered and adding 'You do know how to use one of these, don't you?' as he patted the nearest one affectionately.

Sherlock whipped his wind-ruffled hair from his eyes in a would-be nonchalant way. 'If I ever did, I've deleted it. What use would such knowledge be to me in my ordinary circumstances?' He punctuated the last word with an unnecessarily brisk ring of a nearby bell.

'But it's muscle memory, Sherlock, you can't delete – ah, never mind.' John could feel a devious grin spreading across his face as a thought occurred to him, and Sherlock obviously surmised his intentions before they were even fully formed.

'No, John. You are not going to teach me to ride a bicycle.'

A/N: This is my first 221b. Such a lovely format to write, both challenging and gratifying!
As always, reviews are most welcome!