Chapter Text
“I’m not a horse!”, Sherlock asserted forcefully; anger and a more subtle hint of betrayal threading through his words. John wasn’t really surprised; they’d gotten on well enough when all they had to do was negotiate for their respective peoples - there was at least a hint of equality there, regardless of the fact that John’s position was the stronger by virtue of his manhood - had even become friendly over time, but the prospect of being obligated to appear at the laughingly named ‘cooperative senate’, and the expected trappings thereof, was a higher hurdle than Sherlock was willing to endure.
It was the duty of every paired man and centaur representatives to appear once a year before the governing bodies to report on progress made and the state of their respective communities – in itself, it sounded harmless, until you consider the expectation that they arrive ‘as one’; supposedly to symbolize their cooperation. The fact of the matter remained, centaur ‘representatives’ were expected to carry their humans on their back – often trussed up in all manner of restricting gear for the safety and comfort of their human associates – bringing home in visual representation that they were still considered the lesser, subservient species.
John had not been looking forward to this. As it was, he had been the first human from their province to both tolerate, and be tolerated by Sherlock, the de facto and often openly hostile representative of the local centaur population. It was no secret that he had been maneuvered into that position against his will, and even less of one that his disdain for humans in general, and the farce of their relative positions made him difficult to work with. John’s saving grace seemed to have been his own reluctance to take this position, and less obvious, but just as strong dislike for the trappings of ‘equality’ that held very little substance behind them. It was a fact everyone knew, but most chose to ignore, accepting it simply as ‘the way it was’, and ‘tradition’, and leaving it at that.
Well, he had never been much one for tradition, anyway.
“That's alright”, John said casually, patting Sherlock just where human hip bled into equine shoulder, “I can walk.”
It wouldn’t be fast, or easy, but neither would it be the biggest inconvenience he’d ever put himself to on principle, and arriving in ease was hardly worth the progress they’d made in a surprisingly functional working relationship. It was more than his town had expected when they’d foisted the otherwise desirable job onto him. He would lose face among his peers, but really, his peers were largely egotistical bastards, anyway, and he only needed to see them once a year or so; no huge loss, there.
Sherlock twisted to stare at him, sharp eyes holding him in place for a long moment as he was evaluated, before the other snorted. “Too slow”, he declared, dismissively. The anger, the offence was still there, but not so openly directed at John, subsumed in his apparent surprise at his partner’s unexpected response.
John chuckled lightly, shrugging, “Yes, well, you've got the advantage of me in legs. Go on, I'll meet you there, eventually...” While the words themselves could have held reproach, or the passive-aggressive tone others might have attempted to use on Sherlock to bend him to their wants, John’s tone came across with more hints of self-depreciating humour than anything. His wounds were long healed, but he was hardly as spry as he’d been in his naïve youth, though it was only a handful of years behind him.
Snorting again, Sherlock shifted, hooves subtly prancing and pawing in impatient indecision. John took no obvious notice, shaking his head ruefully and starting his long walk without any apparent hesitation or complaint. His boots would be uncomfortable on the walk, his outfit too warm for such exertion, but were both necessary – appearances of his station to be met – and he simply loosened his jacket in advance of the need.
It was only a few minutes walking before Sherlock again was at his side, pace matching John’s own, face stormy and intent. “Get on”, he finally rumbled, as if pulling the very words from his throat was painful; voice agitated, but brooking no argument.
“Hm?” John blinked up, surprised – more than he could describe, really; no one had ever ridden Sherlock, and since one very unfortunate ‘accident’ a number of years back, no one had tried to force the issue. “No, honestly - I can walk; it'll just take me a bit.” He waved the order off, but set it aside for later contemplation. “You go on, Sherlock - no reason to wait on me.”
Sherlock huffed an irritable breath, aggravation clear on his face, but conviction just as obvious. "Get on, John.” The words were gritted out, almost forced out, but there was no hesitation in them at all.
Turning to respond, John finally stopped to address the other with his full attention. Sherlock took a few paces further before halting and turning back, as if to block the path so he couldn’t continue down it. John started to open his mouth in response, then hesitated, something in Sherlock's eyes, the tension of his body pausing whatever new dismissal might have passed his lips. For Sherlock - proud, untamed Sherlock - this was a big deal; this offer... completely unheard of. After a moment, John dipped his head slightly in acquiescence. “If you insist.”
Eyes sliding down the length of Sherlock’s back, he considered if he’d be able to make it up without the aid of stirrup or riser; it would neither be dignified nor easy, but he thought he could do it. Glancing back up to meet Sherlock’s own gaze, John gestured vaguely at him. “Do you want me to ride bare?” It wasn’t done, not in these situations; the rider always had to be in control – he thought it was more for status than anything, but given some of the attitudes he’d seen, likely for safety as well.
“You wouldn't be able to hang on.” The smirk was back, a playful sort of pride now dancing in his eyes, and Sherlock seemed more at ease than he had since the topic of the meeting came up.
John returned his smirk, squaring his shoulders in a way that implied a dare about to be met. “That sounds like a challenge, to me...”
Sherlock snorted again, rolling his eyes dismissively. “Oh, just get the saddle already - I don't want you falling off; you'll be even slower then.” Tossing his head impatiently and turning to more directly face John, he added, “I’d hate to have to break in a new consort – they’re all so dull… and expectant.”
John considered, for a moment, arguing the point – that he could hold on as long as he needed, and honestly, it wasn’t like Sherlock was planning to buck him – but there was something like real care under the words, a concern the other rarely showed another being, let alone a human, and John gave another subtle nod, tilting his head slightly with the subdued agreement before turning back the way he’d come to go fetch the lightest, least restrictive saddle available.
It wouldn’t be meant as a show of superiority between them, as it was with so many others, simply a cooperative effort with a hint of kindness – something Sherlock would surely balk at, if he pointed it out – and the trust apparent in John’s choice would be his payment. He fetched no harness, no lashes to hold himself steady or in control; merely the lightest saddle – a simple seat and stirrups to hold himself more or less in place. When he returned, Sherlock’s brows rose – in surprise or question, it wasn’t quite clear – but John also caught a fleeting hint of pleasure in the brief curl of lips and softening of eyes. It was there and gone again in a moment, but John had known Sherlock long enough to catch even the briefest hint of so uncommon a reaction.
The one he’d chosen didn’t even have a grip to cling to, should Sherlock decide to bolt (a choice that any other man who knew him would call crazy). The message was clear; John was merely a passenger in this, with no control at all - literally and figuratively handing the reins to Sherlock – he was not making himself the dominant party, as any of his peers would have, but offering that status to Sherlock, an unheard of shift in dynamic.
After a moment of what he’s sure the other would argue vehemently was not surprise, Sherlock pranced up beside him, torso leaned back and chin and tail high in haughty expectation. John allowed the smallest of smiles in response, before reaching out a careful hand to run along the length of Sherlock’s back, checking for burrs or anything that might be uncomfortable under pressure.
Sherlock huffed, shifting impatiently, but didn’t move away or stop him. “I’m not – as we discussed earlier – a horse, John; I’ll tell you if there’s a problem.” The tone was less biting than it had been before, though still tight – regardless of John’s concessions, this still had to be a blow to his pride. “Just being thorough, Sherlock”, he placated with an almost gentle nonchalance, finishing his check before slinging the saddle up and carefully cinching it tight, but not unpleasantly so, “no reason to make you more uncomfortable than you already are, after all.” He didn’t add any mention that this was new for him, that he’d never really taken a saddle before – they both knew it – instead pausing a moment to check the connections, before taking hold to pull himself up.
Waiting a moment more – giving Sherlock a chance to change his mind – John put a foot in the nearer stirrup and hefted himself up in one relatively smooth movement. He settled into an uncomfortable sort of a sitting squat – though it would still be better than walking the twenty-some kilometers to their meeting place – placing his hands on the smooth crest of flesh just rounding into Sherlock’s bare hips to steady himself.
“Alright, ready whenever you are.”
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in response, but turned back to the road, starting out at a relatively sedate walk, clearly unused to his new burden, and feeling out how he had to change his gait for it. There may also have been a thought towards John’s comfort, given the slow, careful start, but he wasn’t about to call the other on it; it was best, in these cases, to pretend he didn’t notice – for some reason that always made it easier on Sherlock to proceed with any foray into kindness, as if a single, thoughtful gesture might tear down all the work he’d put into his distant, unaffected persona. To be fair, it might well put a dent in it, if anyone could get over the surprise.
He chuckled softly at the thought, slightly distracted by the image of shocked faces and sputtering confusion, but didn’t miss the faint twitch, or the stiffening of Sherlock’s back that came on the heels of his reaction. It took a moment to realize what had happened, and John couldn’t help the faintly disgusted snort that slipped out in response. “No, stop that right there.” His tone was even but firm, and his left thumb shifted to stroke twice over Sherlock’s hip to take any sting out of it. He should have known better than to react at all – Sherlock’s pride was raw at the moment; of course he’d think the worst of any amusement John might display. “I’m not them, remember? I was just picturing the gibbering panic if anyone caught you being kind; they’d almost certainly think you were up to something.”
The rueful words didn’t pull any reaction at first, but gradually, Sherlock’s shoulder’s relaxed, and his pace increased to a more comfortable, if still slow, gait. A moment later, he responded dryly, “It would wreak havoc on their tiny little minds, wouldn’t it…?” John didn’t have to see to know the words were spoken with a grin, and Sherlock added with a hint of dark humour, “Perhaps I should try it, sometime”, before falling back into silence.
Snickering his approval at the thought, John left it at that, not trying to force the conversation; sometimes Sherlock was terribly verbose – other times, he could remain silent for stretches that would impress a mute. John had become accustomed to either over the course of their partnership, and merely let his thoughts drift, only noting absently when Sherlock made slight increases in speed, adjusting his position accordingly.
About two kilometers into their trek, he noticed Sherlock’s attention shifting listlessly, subtle shifts in shoulder and head that told him, even from behind, that the other was trying and failing to find something to hold his interest. It wasn’t a surprise; they were travelling through an open field at the moment, not much to observe past the obvious, and it had to be driving his partner up the wall. “You know”, he finally opined, casually, “you could go faster, if you wanted. I’m not particularly bothered either way, but I expect this is beyond your tolerance for boring locations.”
Sherlock startled slightly, as if he’d forgotten John was there – and he may have done, which would… actually be a fair compliment, coming from him – then sighed. “As much as I abhor the tack usually used in these scenarios, they do serve a purpose. Presently, you’ve very little to hold on to, John; if you fall…” he shrugged, as if that dismissed the topic entirely.
In his mind, it likely did.
“Contrary to popular belief, I am actually a relatively capable adult.” It was John’s turn to sigh. “I trust you not to throw me, Sherlock; I’m really not worried about falling. I’ll let you know if I get into trouble before it gets that far.”
Sherlock twisted to look back at him, staring for a long moment – likely weighing his expression for sincerity – before facing forward again. He made no comment at first, merely speeding up to an easy trot, and John leaned forward a bit, taking a firmer grip of the other’s waist. After a little while, Sherlock sighed again, stating more than suggesting, “If you crouch up in the stirrups and take my shoulders, you’ll have an easier time of it.”
It was offered without inflection, as if the outcome couldn’t matter to him less, but John knew him too well by now for that to work, and complied with a small smirk and a murmured, “thanks.” Sherlock pretended not to hear, but sped up noticeably once he was reliably in position. Grinning, John leaned forward enough to speak near the other’s ear. “I wonder how they’d react if we managed to figure out a way I could carry you to the meeting…?”
A deep, rumbling laugh was his only warning before Sherlock broke into a respectable canter.