No Secret So Close

There is no secret so close as that between a rider and his horse - Robert Smith Surtees

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There are wonderfully few things in the world that I, Sherlock Holmes, happen to fear, but fear them I do, and during a comfortable spring day a few years ago I feared death, emotion, and the likely possibility that I was going to topple sideways off the back of that accursed beast of burden.

I have made my home in cloistered cities for the entirety of my life, and my extreme distaste for the country prevented me from visiting it aside from business or Watson's rather forcible insistence. As such I have most commonly seen horses from the back or from the side or, in a few trifle instances, from the front. I could not honestly recall the last time I had been called upon to ride one, but now I was doing so at the invitation of our client and host, who's property was surrounded by territory that would not allow even the smallest of carts passage. The man's lessons were inadequate, as he was the sort who believed that a boy could learn to swim if you just threw him the lake, and he applied the same foolish principle to riding. I could only take so much of his idiocy and my mount's infernal movement, and quickly dismounted as soon as I was given the opportunity.

Cursing my legs for their shaking, I leaned up against a fence so as to catch my breath. I soon heard laughter and turned to see Watson - doubled up in merriment - clad from head to toe in riding gear. I stared at him for a while, amused and yet entirely at a loss. Surely my friend did not mean to astride one of these devilish creatures! He was just as much a Londoner as I was, and I felt that he would take flight no sooner than placing his foot in the stirrup. I was obligated to tell him as much, but he brushed away my sentiments.

"Holmes, I will be quite alright! There is no cause for worry."

"I think not," I said ruefully, eyeing that black beast that had been so unkind to me. "Horses have proven themselves to me a vile thing. I will not look forward to carrying your battered self all the way back to Baker Street."

Watson laughed again, and began approaching the horse as calmly as I had ever seen a man do so. Instinctively I grabbed hold of his arm, hoping that I appeared as stern as possible. "Watson, this is a bad business."

"Yes, Holmes - on that point you seem thoroughly convinced."

My Boswell was not even looking at me as he spoke, so intent was he on his view of the animal. I let him go, albeit reluctantly, and as he walked closer to the horse I tried desperately to recall just where the nearest doctor was located.

But to my amazement the horse hardly stirred at Watson's presence, and my friend seemed perfectly at ease despite his dreadfully close proximity to the animal. He began to stroke it rather affectionately, muttering jumbled words so below his usual vocabulary. I was astonished, though I knew Watson had somewhat of an affinity for animals (demonstrated by his coddling of his bull pup some years back - before I left the downstairs door open. I don't believe he's ever quite forgiven me for that particular blunder). The horse, which had moments before been such a volatile fiend, was now the definition of tranquility.

To my continued horror Watson proceeded to hoist himself up unto the creature, albeit slowly for the pain of his old injuries. I truly worried for him then. Would he be able to control that devil when he was beset with such stiffness? Against my better judgment and instinct for self-preservation I walked up to my friend the rider, keeping a close eye on the large hooves that seemed rather determined to seek out my toes.

"Watson, this is complete and utter madness on your part. Did you not see this horse before? It is a monster!"

Watson barked a laugh, stroking the animal's neck with fondness. "Holmes, you have no knowledge of how to ride a horse - that may be why you had such difficulty. Even a talented man such as you cannot get on a horse for the first time and think that you will be able to handle it perfectly."

I growled in response, but fled backward quite quickly as Watson beckoned for the horse to begin moving with a few clicks of his tongue and a flick of the reigns. The great black animal did as it was told, starting off at a brisk trot. It may have been improper, but I could manage to close my gaping mouth. My friend was seated high in the saddle, at complete ease in his most precarious position. I waited for that moment the animal would decide he had tired of having a rider, or when Watson would recall that he was a resident of Baker Street and not inclined to the art of horseback. But, as the hour wore on and my Boswell guided his mount over a fence, I felt that the moment might not come after all.

"Now there's a horsy man if I ever seen one!" A groom said rather loudly as he led another horse to our client. "I fully s'pected Auster to throw him."

I bristled visibly at that statement and bit back a rather hoarse growl as our host laughed at his groom's predictions. I also felt a swell of pride (and perhaps a little jealousy) at the fact that Watson had proved the man very wrong.

But my friend could not remain atop the horse forever; his features began to slightly contort as the prolonged riding aggravated his leg and shoulder. After a time he guided the beast - Auster, I mean to say - back towards us, and I immediately drew forward to help him dismount. Watson's face was flushed and his limp was now horribly pronounced, but otherwise he appeared to be the portrait of contentment.

"It has been quite a long time since I last did that," he said gaily as we both leaned against the fence. "For a moment I thought I had forgotten how to ride."

"I did not know that you were capable of riding at all; where the devil did you learn?"

Watson grinned wryly at me. "You cannot deduce it, Holmes?"

I scowled at that, claiming that I was not in the mood to entertain him with a mere parlor trick. My Boswell laughed and decided to offer me an explanation.

"I was around horses for much of my childhood; my uncle had a ranch in the Scottish moors. I also had to hone the skill in Afghanistan."

My friend ceased to elaborate on the point, and I did not press him for further details. I would have to content myself with the knowledge that Watson was still fully capable of surprising me.

"Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like me to teach you?"

"Blazes, no! Let me say, my dear, dear Watson, that I have enough faith in both your abilities as a rider and as a detective that, when the next case that involves a specimen of the equine species arises, I will allow you to tackle it entirely on your own."

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A/N: A little one-shot to entertain you all until I manage to post my next chaptered story. The idea came from my musings that Holmes seemed to have a wealth of odd talents. I just wanted to even out the score a little, and this seemed like an ability that could be canonically fathomable.