The Madness Was A Man

Nothing Hurts Except My Ego

Thankfully John turned away, grabbing a saddle from where it sat on the fence post and slinging it over Hazelnut's back. The horse gave a little shiver as the leather touched his back, yet he fell still once more.
"Well then, I guess from here it's pretty self explanatory." John presumed, gesturing to the saddled up horse as if he expected Sherlock to just know what to do from here. Sherlock blinked, looking back towards John and hoping this was some sort of sick joke.
"Perhaps I know how to get on, but apart from that I'm clueless." Sherlock warned, to which John chuckled and nodded his head in agreement.
"Yes, I figured." He assured. "But get up on him, and we'll start from there." Sherlock nodded, approaching the pony and bouncing around a little bit apprehensively. Honestly he didn't know exactly how to mount the horse, yet he figured the best method would just be to swing one leg over and push. Thankfully that was exactly the method which worked, save for a little bit of yanking the poor thing's mane. Eventually Sherlock had clambered on top, settling himself as comfortably as he could manage on the hard leather saddle and shifting around a little bit to get his feet in the stirrups.
"Well this is cozy." Sherlock managed, stroking the pony's head while he twisted the reins tightly in his hands.
"You look very professional Sherlock, as if you're meant to wear those fancy riding outfits and trot around in an arena." John teased. Sherlock frowned, not entirely sure if that was meant as a compliment or an insult. Did it mean that Sherlock was much too posh, or did it mean he was beautiful?
"Is that a good thing?" Sherlock wondered apprehensively.
"It means you've got excellent posture." John clarified, though Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if that was the whole of it. "Now, the basics of riding are kicking means go, pulling back on the reins means stop. Tugging either way on the reins will make him go either way, and gently easing the reins backwards means he's going to start walking backwards."
"Okay, okay." Sherlock agreed, nodding his head very nervously as he stared down at this short little thing, wondering just what sort of damage could be caused by it. He's just a little pony; he probably couldn't trot any faster than Sherlock could run. Surely he could trust this thing to go slow enough to learn the ropes; he could trust it enough not to cause an unwanted catastrophe.
"Alright then, I'll open up the gate and you can take him out to the pasture..."
"Wait, aren't you going to come with? Hold on to us with a rope or something?" Sherlock asked anxiously, realizing just now how nervous he was to be alone with this little thing. John merely chuckled, walking down the side of the stall (making sure not to get directly behind the horse) and holding onto the latch.
"I don't think holding him on a rope would make any difference." John muttered.
"It would for me." Sherlock admitted in an almost whiny voice, looking back at John and shuttering when Hazelnut responded to the motion by stepping off towards the left. Sherlock yelped, clutching onto the pony's neck for dear life while its body shifted and moved, creating such an uncomfortably wobbly base that Sherlock nearly toppled off in his own panic.
"You really are inexperienced in this, aren't you?" John chuckled, walking back over to Sherlock and trying to get him to sit up once more. Sherlock reluctantly regained his posture, straightening his back and looping his hands many times around the reins. John just clicked his tongue, and set immediately to grabbing the reins out of Sherlock's hands.
"Don't wrap your whole hand up; you only need to hold it." John insisted, unwrapping the leather from Sherlock's fingers and in the meantime running his own fingers all down Sherlock's hands. It made Sherlock wonder the purpose of unraveling the thing himself, if not just with the intention of some skin to skin contact. Surely Sherlock was looking into all of this; surely he was over thinking it way too much. He was being hopeful, that terrible stranger had poisoned his mind with another realm of self satisfying fantasies, one in which every boy had a soft spot for another. Yet he had to admit, when John's fingers brushed over his skin something felt entirely purposeful, something felt entirely correct. As if John's hand was meant to be in Sherlock's, even if they weren't supposed to be together in that way.
"Just hold on, alright? And follow those basic commands." John insisted. "I'm going to open the gate, you can turn him around now."
"Okay, okay. Just turn around buddy, come on." Sherlock muttered, tugging at the reins and holding on as tight as he could with his legs, keeping his stomach stiff and his arms clinging, just to make sure any of these movements wouldn't be the one to send him falling to the floor. The pony moved slowly, and Sherlock held his breath until at last they were situated in front of the open barn door, with a straight and unimpeded shot to the wide open pasture. Two other horses were mere dots in the distance, yet Hazelnut was ready to go. Sherlock could feel his lungs inflating underneath; he could feel him trembling in urgency, wanting to run, wanting to be free. And so Sherlock gave John one little look, almost wanting to reach out to him one last time, before nodding his head in assurance and kicking the pony just as hard as he could with his heels. Well that was a mistake, he knew by two sure signs. One was John's panicked scream, getting the words "not like that!" out just in time for Hazelnut to dart as fast as his little legs could carry him out into the pasture. Sherlock let out a blood curling screech, abandoning the reins in his effort to hug the wild pony around the neck, so as to ensure he stayed latched on as long possible. The pasture was going by at an alarming rate, the grass was a mere blur of green and brown as the pony's legs galloped as fast as it possibly could. All Sherlock could hear was the thudding of hooves along the mud, coupled of course with his own panicked breaths and never ending scream. Eventually something happened, perhaps Sherlock accidently tugged one end of the rein harder than he would like, or perhaps half of him just gave up the clutch entirely. Maybe his arms lost all strength in the panic of it all and just let go. He didn't know, really, all he could recall was the ground coming at him and the sudden thud of hitting the grass at top speed. He fell with a great thump, sliding across the mud until at last he came to a stop while the world spun around him. The pony kept running, Sherlock could hear its accomplished footfalls as it retreated off towards the bigger horses. Something about falling off was reliving, for Sherlock could finally hear his heart rate calming, he was able to get his breath back...yet the world was spinning, his body hurt, and he was just about covered in a thick smelly mud from head to toe. Yet he knew that there was no rush, at least not now. He had no reason to move at all, not until his accursed teacher could catch up.
"Sherlock!" came John's panicked voice, sounding not too far off now. Obviously he had been running towards the horse for the duration of Sherlock's ride, for he made it to his side in a very impressive amount of time. Just as soon as Sherlock began to settle into the ground John materialized at his side, looking just about as panicked as Sherlock had been, perhaps because he thought his job was on the line. Perhaps he thought he had just injured his new friend, and the heir to the Holmes madness.
"Sherlock, my god. Are you alright?" John exclaimed, kneeling down and grabbing hold of Sherlock's arm, trying to pull him up to at least a sitting position. Sherlock obeyed, sitting up and groaning, daring not to feel the back of his head, where all of the mud seemed to have collected within his curls.
"You're a rubbish teacher." Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head and looking back to where Hazelnut had settled himself with a patch of clover, far enough away from his abandoned rider so that he would not get in any initial trouble.
"I think you're just a rubbish rider." John corrected, chuckling a bit daringly and going to wipe off a spot of mud on Sherlock's cheek. It was a surprisingly intimate move, making Sherlock grin like a flustered little school girl.
"Good thing my writing lessons won't put you at risk of breaking an arm." Sherlock grumbled.
"What, your arm's not broken is it?" John asked anxiously, looking down at Sherlock's arm so as to make sure it looked all to be in one piece.
"No, nothing hurts except my ego." Sherlock admitted with a little chuckle.
"Ya, that took a bit of a blow. Poor Hazelnut, that little thing's short enough to fit under the porch." John laughed. "And he threw you off like a wild bull."
"I'm unskilled!" Sherlock defended with a little pout.
"You're unruly." John agreed, getting to his feet now and offering a hand up. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head and deciding he quite liked the ground. Nevertheless he latched onto John and allowed the stronger boy to pull him to his feet, deciding that it was worth it to fall just so that John could pick him back up again. There was something so meaningful in the boy's helping hand, something that made him seem so pure, and so goodhearted. It let Sherlock know that he cared, if nothing else. Sherlock got to his feet a bit shakily, wobbling a little as the world spun about in his dizzy head. When finally he did come to he was able to feel his clothes sticking to his body, the wet mud drenching the back of his clothes and making it very uncomfortable to move.
"Should we wrangle up that horrible thing?" Sherlock suggested. John sighed heavily, scratching his head in thought before finally shaking his head in defeat.
"No, let him be. He's got the saddle on, that's punishment enough." John decided.
"Oh so the pony's in trouble?" Sherlock wondered.
"No, it's your fault he went so fast. Nevertheless I'll keep him out there to think about what he did." John said with a nod, staring his walk back to the barn and pausing for just a moment, so that Sherlock could walk in front of him and he could admire the mess that was made of his fancy day clothes.
"Is it bad?" Sherlock wondered, patting his own back and getting a handful of mud. He grimaced, knowing that Agatha was surely going to throw a fit.
"You're a mess, Sherlock. But in a way it's refreshing to see you so disheveled. Reminds me that you're normal." John admitted, jogging to catch up and walk side by side.
"Normal? Why wouldn't I be normal?" Sherlock asked with something of a doubtful chuckle.
"Because you're insanely rich, and posh." John said honestly.
"I suppose that's my normal." Sherlock admitted quietly, in some sort of shame.
"You carry it off well, though. You're not conceited, you're not afraid to try anything new. I admire that." John muttered, clapping Sherlock on the back in a rather manly way, yet his hand lingered. He fixed his fingers onto Sherlock's shoulder even despite the mud, and for a long while he stayed there, linking them together with his grip and keeping Sherlock well within arm's reach, almost tucked under his arm in a way. Sherlock didn't know how to respond to this, in fact he wasn't even sure if he was supposed to put his arm around John or not. It felt almost romantic, something of a possessive thing if anything. It was close, it was intimate, and for a moment Sherlock thought he might have felt something between them. If it was not a sense of love on John's part then it was a feeling of respect, of admiration, and of possessiveness. If it was not love then perhaps it could have been made to be love, in the near future. Something felt right, something like a great big bubble of admiration that was growing overtop of Sherlock's heart and squeezing his lungs until it was hard to get a breath. It was a crazy little thing, something which poisoned his brain and made him want to lean closer, it made him want to nestle his head on John's shoulder and kiss his cheek. It made him want to make a complete fool out of himself, a fool for affection that he surely couldn't have. It made the arrest warrant almost worth it, for a moment with John in this pasture, a moment where they could fall together onto the grass and tangle in each other's limbs and lips, caring not who noticed or who grimaced. Love, such a simple word yet such a complex feeling! Something so dangerous to the foolish mind, something which would taint what little common sense Sherlock had, something which would surely encourage him to lose his mind for the duration of their affection. It was a moment which might have lasted, had they not been interrupted. It was a moment which might have grown to be something more, if only there hadn't been a woman waiting for them in the driveway. Right as soon as they got within shouting distance Aunt Agatha drew the needed attention to herself, hollering just loud enough so that John dropped his arm and Sherlock stiffened into his expected posture, trying to turn so that she wouldn't realize just how much of a wreck he had become.
"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing in the pasture?" Agatha yelled over the fence, waiting until the boys loomed closer until she could deliver her due message. Just as soon as she set eyes on John her face turned into a frown, for obviously she didn't appreciate his influence on her nephew.
"Learning to ride." Sherlock said simply, hoping that she didn't see his tumble moments before.
"I could get you an instructor, if you wanted to ride." Agatha muttered with a look of disappointment towards John, as if she thought him completely incapable of teaching. Well of course he was rather terrible at it, but that didn't stop Sherlock from sticking up for him.
"I've got John to teach me." Sherlock pointed out, gesturing to John as if Agatha may not have noticed his presence. The woman's face hardened even more, her lips thinning as she pursed them disappointingly.
"I meant a proper instructor." She corrected coldly, to which John could only shuffle a bit uncomfortably in the grass, looking at her as confidently as he could despite her direct insult.
"John's a fine teacher. I just happen to be a pretty poor student." Sherlock admitted, knowing now that Agatha would have to be the first one to leave, for he could not turn her back on her and display the mess he had made of himself. That would be proof enough that John was rather lacking in his instructional knowhow. Agatha thought for a moment, yet obviously decided that it was better not to argue any farther. Her point had been made, and to snap anymore at John may very well be considered rude, so she obviously thought better of it.
"Well then, you must get cleaned up soon. We have a guest coming for dinner." Agatha announced, looking rather proud of herself.
"Who's coming for dinner?" Sherlock asked, his blood running rather cold as he thought about the possibilities of any guests.
"A potential wife of yours, Sherlock. A very distinguished lady in these parts, a member of a very old family. Irene Adler." Agatha said proudly, saying the name as if Sherlock should have recognized it. Sherlock blinked in fear, feeling a shiver run down his entire body as he thought once more on the prospect of marriage. He could only hope that Agatha was joking, and that she didn't intend to ship him off with the first woman that came to mind.
"I um...well I didn't know you'd be calling the women so quickly. Besides, isn't Mycroft older? Shouldn't he get paired first?" Sherlock pointed out, clinging now to the only hope he might have to get ignored by any ghastly woman who walked through those doors. Oh just as soon as he had figured himself out, here Agatha came with a roadblock! Anything that might have become of him and John, destroyed just now with an arranged marriage!
"She is here as our guest, and shall have the option of either one." Agatha muttered; obviously not brave enough to speak the obvious. That when forced to chose between the Holmes brothers, the choice really was an obvious one. Sherlock was the more beautiful and therefore the more desirable. He should be married first by any woman who gets summoned here, and Mycroft shall be married off second when they found a desperate enough household. Oh and Sherlock would have no say in the matter, surely...
"Oh that's um, that's wonderful." Sherlock muttered, though his fists clenched angrily at his sides.
"Yes it will be. So get cleaned up, I expect you to greet her at the door when she arrives. And Mr. Watson, please make sure their horses are properly taken care of." Agatha insisted, turning her beady little eyes on John. The boy nodded, dropping into something of an awkward little bow to show his loyalty. The two boys stood rather stupidly in the pasture, knowing of course that she had to walk away first, so that she wouldn't notice how dirty Sherlock had gotten in the process of his riding lessons. The woman gave them something of a suspicious stare, yet obviously could not find an excuse enough to linger any longer. She nodded her old and official head before turning her back and marching towards the house, giving a quick glance down the driveway so as to make sure the carriage wasn't already on its way.
"Marriage." Sherlock muttered just under his breath, quiet enough so that he hoped John would not have hear. Yet of course, as with most of his luck, John nodded his head in own strange agreement.
"Sort of makes me happy I haven't got a rich old Aunt." John decided, and with that he turned away and started to walk a bit sourly towards the barn. Sherlock trotted off after him, not wanting to rush to get his bath in hopes that Irene Adler would arrive early, and therefore have to see him covered in mud and horse poop. That might be a good enough deterrent to keep even the keenest woman at arm's length, not quite daring to try for a good night kiss or an engagement ring too soon. Maybe Sherlock would have to roll in mud every afternoon, so as to make sure he wasn't approached at an inopportune moment. Sherlock caught up to John and strolled next to him, right next to his shoulder so that if John wanted to put his arm around him again it would be entirely possible. Yet Sherlock noticed with a frown that John's hands were in his pockets and likely to remain there, his chin sunk down onto his chest as if he was pondering something which upset him dearly.
"What are you all grumpy about? Surely my bad news shouldn't have upset you too much?" Sherlock wondered, noticing that John was a lot quieter than normal. John just shrugged his shoulders, as if he didn't really want to explain his woes in front of a presumptuous audience. As if he would rather be grumpy in private.
"I'm fine, don't worry about me." He assured, forcing a smile that was almost as worrying as his pout. If John Watson had to pretend to be happy then surely there was something that matter. Sherlock decided just to let his friend be, for surely John's mood might be explained by jealousy or something of that particular brand of misery. Sometimes it was easy to forget just how different they were; perhaps John wished beyond anything that he might be set up with beautiful women to live a happy and prosperous future. Or maybe it was the whole idea of family that turned his stomach, considering his entire family had perished in an abrupt and heartbreaking way. The possibility Sherlock liked the best was the off chance that John didn't want Sherlock being married because he was in love with him, which seemed the least probable of all the options Sherlock had just listed out in his head. But John seemed very rugged, too manly to have an eye for a pretty boy like Sherlock. He wasn't...well in fact Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what made a homosexual what they were. Yet he was ultimately sure that John wasn't one of them. He wasn't even sure that he was either; perhaps it was just a crazy feeling inside of his stomach that wasn't love but some sort of appreciation, a relief to have found a friend! A friend with beautiful golden hair, and a smile that could melt metal hotter than could a furnace...Maybe that wasn't love at all.