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“We had a couple of acres to ourselves when I was growing up.” Sherlock stated rather plainly as John and him were scrambling – or more precisely as Sherlock was striding and John was scrambling – up a gravel path towards the large stone farm house which lay at the summit of this small hill, this was their destination. John and Sherlock were in a rural area of East Sussex, but not for the investigation of a case – for the very opposite reason… As Sherlock had gained prominence in his field and acquired recognition from the organised police force and other organisations more and more cases had been thrown his way, until he was almost overloaded with work. During work upon cases, Sherlock refused food – claiming that digestion slowed his brain down, he slept in snatches and devoted hours upon hours to intense mental concentration… all of which, after a considerable amount of cases each following on from the last, had led to him pushing his body to the very extremes of which it was capable. The moment in which Sherlock had fainted, for the second time, in the middle of a very public place – John had forbade him from taking on a fresh case after he had solved the one that he had been working on; commanding that he was going to go away for a few days and let his strength regain. Sherlock had argued, but John’s determination was not going to budge and he had been forced to give in. It was mainly John’s medical capacity that was insisting on this rest for Sherlock, as his friend appeared to be teetering on the edge of physical exhaustion and, although he would not want to admit it, nervous collapse. One of John’s old army mates had a holiday cottage in East Sussex that he had been able to acquire for a week, and the moment that the case in London was finished he and Sherlock had been on the next train headed for a couple of days outside the swarm of London. The first day and a half were perfectly fine, Sherlock seemed content to sit in the cottage living room by the merrily cracking fire and not having to use any effort (mental or physical) to do anything. The presence of three ashtrays located in separate rooms in the cottage had led to Sherlock coming to the conclusion that he could smoke in here. Since then John had convinced Sherlock to accompany him on a walk through the nearby woods, which Sherlock then hijacked and turned into a scientific walk, spouting numerous facts about the foliage all around them. John insisted that over the next few days they stuck purely to activities which would allow Sherlock to recuperate… He was very surprised, then, to find out that Sherlock had booked them both a couple of hours riding with the horses from the farm less than a kilometre from the cottage. It was a bit of a surprise, but Sherlock had insisted that he desperately wanted to do this – saying that he hadn’t ridden in ages. “My father used to keep horses, Mycroft and I learnt to ride while I was a kid I rode while I was at university also, but I haven’t had any time since setting up as a detective to get to do it.”
“Right,” John panted slightly, feeling as though he was getting a rare insight into what Sherlock had done while he was younger. “So when was the last time that you rode?”
“Nearly five years ago.” Sherlock answered, reaching the brow of the little hill and effortlessly scaling a wooden turnstile, dropping down on the other side.
“You sure you’ll remember everything?” John asked. The sun was beating down on the back of his neck – it just so happened to be one of the hottest days of late summer, and the workout he was having to endure to reach the horses in the first place was reminding him unpleasantly of Afghanistan.
“Of course!” Sherlock breezed, “What is there to forget?” He seemed to scoff John’s questioning as to whether he would still be able to ride.
Sherlock introduced himself cordially to the short woman who greeted John and himself at the farm gate.
“Sherlock Holmes, right?” She asked, sticking out a firm hand to shake Sherlock’s with. “Booked out George and Tinny for a couple of hours?”
“Yes.” Sherlock replied firmly. She eyed the two of us up and down, the look on her face clearly saying ‘city boys’.
“You know how to ride?” She questioned abruptly.
“Grew up with horses.” Sherlock quipped.
“I did a bit of riding in my army training.” John told her, though he was growing steadily more anxious about getting back up on a horse – it had been a long time since he had done it the first time, and he had only had extremely brief training.
“Military man are you?” She asked, again casting an eye over John.
“Was.” John said quietly.
“Right, well George and Tinny are in the closest stable there, they’re all saddled and bridled up for you. You’re free to take them into the paddock or to go further afield with them.” With that she turned on her heels and marched off back to the house.
George and Tinny were two very fine stallions; George was pure ebony and Tinny was mottled grey and white all over, except from his back right leg which was completely brown. John mounted Tinny, who he was riding, and was instantly aware that he was very high up. It took a few minutes – in which Sherlock decided where they were going – before John fully felt comfortable on top of the horse.
They left the comfort of the paddock and trotted the horses along the country road leading away from the farm; John was amused to notice that Sherlock’s horse, George, seemed to be putting up a bit of a fight against Sherlock’s reigns… And once or twice his face gave the impression that he had lost control altogether,
It was several hours later when they arrived back at the farm, the sky was just beginning to turn towards evening and Sherlock was reaching the end of his tether… It seemed that either the horse was playing up, or that he couldn’t remember all of his riding from when he was young. It had to be the former, Sherlock insisted in a very grumpy manner as he dismounted from the horse. John followed suit, resting his hand thankfully upon Tinny’s neck, before he heard a voice call out from behind him.
` “You, yeah you – short one.” John spun round to see the owner of the farm approaching them; he was feeling rather disgruntled at having just been called ‘short’. “You’re a natural! Have you done much riding?” John flustered in surprise at this pronouncement as he was not at all the skilled rider that Sherlock apparently was.
“Uh, no… Not really, just a couple of days when I first signed up.” John replied rather sheepishly, sensing Sherlock’s desire to swiftly leave the current situation.
“Really? I’ve never seen Tinny take to someone so well before – you should look into riding more!” She exclaimed patting Tinny’s hind affectionately.
“I might do that.” John said, trying not to laugh at the scowl on Sherlock’s face…
“Oh what are you scowling about?” John asked, as they descended the gravel path. Sherlock had shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and had the deepest frown he could muster set into his features.
“Nothing.” He answered shortly but the scowl didn’t lift from his face.
“Sherlock, seriously – I don’t want to have to put up with one of your moods all night.” John probed further. “If something’s annoying you just come out with it.”
“I thought you couldn’t ride.” He said rather grumpily.
“I can’t really – I’ve only had some basic training.” John replied honestly. “Sherlock, are you annoyed at that woman commenting on my riding rather than yours? God Sherlock, you can’t be brilliant at everything.” John barked, slightly annoyed with Sherlock’s churlish behaviour.
“I know that…” Sherlock’s tone was higher pitched than usual, like he was admitting to something he didn’t want to believe. “But I never expected you to beat me at horse riding.”
“It just shows, you never can tell what a person is good at!”