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"No."
"Come on, Sherlock!"
"Absolutely not."
"You had fun before!"
"Yes," he said. "Because I understood how the hippogriff could fly. I do not understand how- that does!"
John gave a very cheshire, Mycroft-esque smile. "Magic?"
"That's not an answer!"
They both looked at the offered broomstick, nestled in the crook of John's arm. Long, shiny, and by all appearances, incapable of flight.
All appearances excepting the spectacle Sherlock had previously just witnessed, that was John flying on said broomstick. In a physics-defying loop with windswept hair and shot past him so fast it'd nearly turned him over, and up higher than the roof of St. Bart's hospital.
"Come on," John tried again, pleading. "This is one of the only things you can actually do! You've been begging me all week to let you try out things, but now that I finally say yes, you back out? What is it?" he teased, "Sherlock Holmes, afraid of heights?"
Sherlock wondered if he might be able to set the broom on fire.
"Fine," he gave. "Fine! I will trust your- insane, illogical contraption! But if I end up falling to my probable death and need you to catch me?" He hitched a leg over, looking the challenge right in the face, and high on the thrill of it alone. "Don't make me beg."