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Maybe they share the bike, because John got it from a family for jumping in and helping deliver a baby during their house to house searches one day. He wasn't going to take a reward (seriously the guy was holding out a live goat SHUT UP HENN), but his eyes lingered a second too long on the motorbike and all of a sudden the new father is pushing it into his hands and the rest of the section is no help at all, and of course the damn thing doesn't run so Cullen gets to push it the rest of the patrol because he was the first one to laugh at the proud papa's babbling and gesticulating to John. And John, for all that he's good at, is not well-versed in engines. He tries, damn near cuts a finger off and gets a sunburn across the bridge of his nose before Blackwood gets tired of watching him be absolutely clueless, so he goes over and fiddles with it until it works, and he and John share it. Usually they only use it one at a time because it's not like they can ride it together, but John loads it into a chopper for a school trip and they spend the day ripping around the desert with it.
"Oy. Shove over." Blackwood pushes at John's hip with the side of his boot. John glances up at him out of the corner of his eye, then shuffles off to one side, reaching up a hand to accept the water bottle Blackwood's holding out to him. Blackwood drops to a crouch beside him, scratching at a bead of sweat running down his temple and sighing as his eyes skirt over the engine. "You shouldn't have taken this. It's junk, Doc."
"Did you not see me trying to not take it? I'll remind you that none of you seemed interested in helping me not acquire a piece of crap Russian motorcycle."
"What were supposed to do? Shoot him? His wife just had a baby."
"Next time I'm taking the goat, and you can have it as a fucking mascot. I mean it; it's living in your tent. Maybe then you'll leave Henn the hell alone." John cracks the seal on the water bottle and drinks more than half of it in one go, then pours the rest across the back of his head and along his neck, darkening the shoulders and back of his khaki tee shirt.
The corner of Blackwood's mouth curls rebelliously as he tugs at one end of the hose running from the fuel tank. A steady stream of sand runs out of the end. He frowns and leans in, blowing out a breath over the connection point before leaning in, tilting his head to look down into the hole.
"I don't think there's any sand in the engine, but the fuel tank's full of shit." He sets a hand on the fuel tank and rocks the bike back and forth. The continued flow of sand from the open end of the fuel line is met with a disapproving glare. "We can flush it out, replace the seals... Hell, all the rubber." He runs a thumb and forefinger along the front brake lines and laughs, shaking his head. "Was it a boy or a girl?"
"A boy. Hinde says he asked what my name was, so there may be a John running around here in a few years." John huffs out a laugh, his eyes lingering on the bike. "Can you get what you need for her?"
"Oh yeah. They used these two-stroke engines in practically every damn bike after World War Two. We take some extra MREs with us on our next patrol and we'll be able to get our hands on all kinds of parts." He looks up from the bike, turning his head towards John. "Her. It's a her now?"
John's mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he manages to find his voice. "Looks that way. We're stuck with the thing, might as well make the most of it."
Blackwood strokes a hand along the fuel tank, using the seat as support as he stands, grinning. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Epilogue courtesy of abundantlyqueer:John glances Sherlock up and down, obviously calculating the disparity of weight and width between him and Blackwood, before saying
“Jump on, I’ll take you for a ride.”
“Behind you?” Sherlock says doubtfully, though the way he takes his lower lip in his teeth makes it obvious his hesitation is not outright refusal.
“Yeah, you’re not riding her by yourself. She’s temperamental - at least one of you is bound to get hurt.”
Sherlock glances around, but no one is particularly looking in their direction.
“Makes it a little obvious who the girl is,” Sherlock murmurs, but he swings a leg over the seat and slides down against John’s behind.
“Sherlock, I’m a Commando,” John says, kicking the stand out from under the bike. “Everybody already knows who the girl is.”