Author's Note: Ciao, my dear readers! This story was inspired by my best friend's prompt: What would happen if Sherlock had to ride a horse? As her Christmas present was late in arriving, I wrote this and gave it to her as a gift instead. And now, I would like to share it with all of you lovelies! I hope you all have a very happy Christmas, and/or any other holiday you choose to celebrate.
Reviews are appreciated :)
*NOTE* Image is not mine. I found it on Tumblr.
Update: I fixed the typo in the last line of dialogue. Very minor fix :) (Aug. 2 2014)
Sherlock surveyed the elegant grounds before him. The immaculate gardens were obviously carefully tended to, judging by the neat trimming of the hedges. Sherlock's nostrils flared a bit in disgust. Why on Earth would someone care so much about the aesthetic appearance of plants? Collecting his disapproval, Sherlock strode purposefully to the majestic horse obediently standing along the even cobbled road which stretched through the lawn. Its glistening hairs were combed to an unnatural straightness and the rich chocolate colored mare seemed to shimmer with each movement. Although it was generally flaunted as good breeding, Sherlock could clearly see the evidence of an excessive use of grooming products which seemed nearly as ridiculous as the trimmed hedges.
Making up his mind quickly, Sherlock turned to his companion who had only just managed to catch up to him. A rather inconvenient consequence of a six inch height difference between the two, Sherlock noted yet again. "John, I need to ride it."
John blinked. "What?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "Ride. It. Horse, John. Haven't you seen one before?"
John responded to Sherlock's teasing with an eye roll of his own. "I don't think this is a good idea, Sherlock. This horse is technically a suspect in a murder case."
"Yes, John, very good. Your observation skills are improving marvelously."
With that Sherlock lifted his gloved hands to the horse's silky mane and placed his hands at appropriate-looking places on the saddle. Lifting his foot awkwardly to the stirrup, Sherlock threw his weight into swinging himself up onto the horse's back.
Except the theory didn't quite imitate reality.
In fact, the experimental data virtually slashed all hopes of the theory every being proven true. For, instead of gracefully pulling himself astride, Sherlock ended up rather uncomfortably ramming his torso into the side of the poor creature before slipping back down onto the ground, one foot still hooked in the stirrup.
Sherlock furrowed his brows. He could not fathom why he was unsuccessful. He was employing all his knowledge of the subject, and yet..?
Sherlock tried again; this time, he aimed more for a direct upwards push and hoped to be able to rotate his hips in order to secure himself.
Rather, he ended up hopping up on one foot, fruitlessly trying to pull himself high enough while his other foot remained securely in the stirrup. This occurred three times.
"Damn you, horse." Sherlock grunted as he put both feet back onto the ground and began to circle the animal, searching for a more feasible method while ignoring John's snickers with upmost determination.
Finally, Sherlock approached the side of the horse which was still patiently waiting to be mounted. Satisfied he had discovered how best to approach the task at hand, Sherlock once again placed a foot in the stirrup and effectively launched himself at the animal, using the parabolic arc of his momentum to successfully swing himself up and over the horse's back and secure himself steadily in the saddle.
Sherlock enjoyed a brief smirk of satisfaction.
A very, very brief smirk.
John's not-so-discreet snickering blossomed into full-blown cackling at the sight of Sherlock proudly astride his steed, yet facing the wrong way. Indeed, Sherlock was gripping tightly to the back of the saddle in order to avoid sliding headfirst off the horse's rump and onto the rather unforgiving cobblestones below; his back facing the horse's mane and his legs bent at an awkward angle unfit for riding.
"Dammit." Sherlock growled, baring his teeth as he mentally scolded himself for getting the wrong foot in the stirrup, thus leading to his rather humiliating position. He pulled a leg up and over the back end of the horse and managed to leap back onto his feet, this time determined to mount the bloody thing properly.
Ignoring John's amused snorting behind him, Sherlock climbed aboard the patient creature, this time situating himself correctly. Satisfied, Sherlock maneuvered the horse to begin at a trot across the grounds.
Pushing the embarrassment (such a peculiar sensation he was rarely subjected to, Sherlock noted) from his mind, Sherlock immediately began observing and deducing how on Earth the housekeeper could consider the horse he was currently riding to be the prime suspect of the murder of the landlord. Indeed, it did seem rather impossible, considering the so far gentle and patient nature of the –
Sherlock's nose crinkled in confusion as the regular pace of the horse abruptly shifted to one of absolute wildness and in one quick motion Sherlock was flung from the creature's back, the angle easily allowing his feet to shift from the stirrups and his legs to slide past the horse's body and completely abandon him to the mercies of gravity.
For one terrifying instant Sherlock felt himself in freefall, his mind analyzing the surroundings and the trajectory of the throw in order to calculate an approximate landing area and how best to anticipate contact with the Earth. Yet just as he had come to the somewhat alarming conclusion regarding his likely landing spot, it was far too late to make any sort of physical adjustment to prevent damage.
SPLASH.
Sherlock landed, bum-first in the small stream. It was less than three feet deep, yet the horizontal position at which he landed allowed him to be submerged for a second before he settled in amongst the pebbles.
Flinging his torso out of the water, Sherlock coughed and choked, clearing the unnaturally clean droplets from his respiratory system. His coat was soaked through and heavy, his dripping scarf clinging to his neck (he immediately tore it off to prevent suffocation) and his usually bouncy curls now pulled long by the weight of the water and rather annoyingly interfering with his vision.
Sherlock sat there in the water for a moment, recuperating. When he heard John's unabashed howling, however, his anger flared.
"So I take it the horse is the murderer, then, yes?" John inquired, his tone full of false seriousness.
Sherlock could only glare as John put away his phone. No doubt he'd already forwarded the video to half of Scotland Yard.