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A sharp left turn. The car tips, two wheels and then further, rolling. John grits his teeth and hits the accelerator as soon as the wheels brush the road again, and the three of them go shooting off.
"I'm going to lose my job," Lestrade moans hopelessly. When John flicks a glance in the windscreen mirror he can see a hand clutching desperately at the back of a headrest.
"You'll be fine," Sherlock says, a tad dismissive.
Agreed. Mycroft will probably wipe Lestrade's record even if they don't win the case against the corrupt police who are hounding them at the moment. John glances at Sherlock, too. He doesn't like asking Mycroft for help.
Despite his dismissive tone, Sherlock's grip on the handle above the door is just as white-knuckled as Lestrade's. His eyes are a little too wide, as well, and when he turns to look for their pursuers the movement is harsh and fast.
"Worried?" John teases both of them.
Sherlock's eyes flash from the road to him. "No," he says, but his usual disdain is tempered by panic.
"I'm bricking it, mate," Lestrade tells him, entirely unashamedly. "Did you even pass your test?"
John yanks at the steering wheel and shifts into third gear. The alleyway is a little too narrow, but there aren't any bins in it and he doesn't use the wing mirrors much anyway.
"Flying colours," he says.
"I find that hard to believe," Sherlock manages as they shudder down some steps.
John gives them both a cursory visual check for whiplash. Sherlock is a little paler than usual, Lestrade significantly so, but they're fine. Didn't even bite their tongues.
"Bloody hell!" The car goes screaming around a corner, and Lestrade curses repeatedly. "Slow down -"
"We're in the middle of a car chase," Sherlock shouts, apparently frustrated. "He can't slow down!"
Apparently conceding the point, Lestrade says, "Could you at least please stop being so reckless? It's not like this is a warzone -"
John accelerates again, managing to jump the car up and onto the steps of the British Museum, and starts to weave through the pillars. Sure enough, several bullets start to thud into the stonework in his wake, and Lestrade makes an incredibly alarmed noise.
"Shut up, both of you," John hollers. Sherlock's mouth closes and he makes a face, but stays mercifully quiet.
The steering wheel clunks to a stop, unable to turn any more. He growls but the Mini is already flying off the steps at the front of the museum, crashing to the ground metres away from the first step, and when he presses the pedal to the metal as hard as he can the wheels screech but quickly gain traction.
("You're gonna kill us!" Lestrade yells.
It's probably not helpful, but John just laughs.)
There's barely any gap in the steady flow of traffic on the road in front of the Museum. But John learnt to drive in London, and then he buggered off to an active warzone.
He can feel a smile spreading across his face as he guns for the gap. Lestrade is screeching nonsensically, Sherlock is now whiter than a sheet, and the police car that had been tailing them is crashed hopelessly at the bottom of the steps.
The cars part like the red sea, albeit with much more angry honking and bellowed swear words, and John's little Mini slips right through the gap and speeds into an alleyway. He races around several more corners, goes very fast down a conveniently deserted road, and then does a sharp handbrake turn into an available parking space.
"Lost them," John points out, cheerful but needless.
Lestrade and Sherlock are staring at him.
He looks back at the steering wheel. "Can I keep the car?"