Truly, I don't know what's wrong with me. Now I've started I can't seem to stop! I have fallen hard and fast for this fandom and I am a serious connoisseur of AUs. Please note: this is a work of fiction. While I try hard to keep all of my facts straight, there may be some mistakes, they are all my own.-ETA: Finally, we have a title! thank you to the wondrous and wonderful PenelopeWaits for her Longfellow suggestion! " In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife ! "
"Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,— act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ; " " Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing..."
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, (snippets from) A Psalm for Life

Notes:

As always, comments are appreciated and kudos are the milk in my tea in the mornings; and again, I apologize for my slow starts.

Please note: this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between anyone living or dead is purely coincidental and not meant as an insult. Several places in this work are based on reality, but altered slightly, again no harm intended.

Chapter 1: Autumn 1869

Jessie Watson shifts her weight in the seat of her old roping saddle. She stands up in the stirrups slightly, easing her knees and ankles from the strain of waiting for four hours at the top of this hill. She stares down at the spread below. There are several tree-branch corrals where some rather pathetic-looking cattle mill around on the brown and yellow dying grass. Some of them are lying down, calmly digesting their breakfast of tough hay from a few hours ago. The trees that surround them are already changing color, sap sinking to the roots, readying themselves for winter. It's a pleasantly cool day, with just enough wind to kick up dust. There seems to be a layer of it everywhere she looks.

Jessie takes another deep breath and rolls her neck to loosen her shoulders that seem so tight in her light-blue button-down. She rests her hands on the horn of her saddle, holds the reins in both hands, plays with Jeb's mane, fiddles with the fringe on her one nice shirt, and otherwise just fidgets. She is growing tired of waiting. She huffs impatiently, seriously considering going back down to the house and changing into something less…dressy, well for her, anyway.

She drops both reins on Jeb's neck and leans backward so that her back is against the cantle with her denim-clad legs more or less stretched out in front of herself. Jeb shifts legs, resting his right hind leg on the toe of his hoof. His ears move back and forth lazily. He would actually be pretty content if he had a feed bag or some hay to munch on, thinks Jessie. She closes her eyes and rests, stretching her arms and putting her hands beneath her head. Jeb is a comfortable enough couch underneath her, slightly swaying with each breath he takes.

Finally, after another twenty minutes, regular sounds of horses' shod hooves on the hard-packed dirt reach her ears. Clip-clop, clip-clop. She sits up slowly, at first leaning on one elbow to reorient herself. She reaches up with her hands and rubs her eyes. She gently takes up the reins and turns Jeb's head towards the trail to watch for the riders. She is back to waiting now. Jessie knows that her face is probably dirty and dusty from all this time, so she makes a little effort to straighten herself up before they get any nearer. She pulls off her wide-brimmed hat and runs one hand through her brown hair. Jessie frowns and shoves the white hat back on her head. No chance. It's not like he's going to notice her anyway.

The three riders are starting to come into view as they round a corner and head towards her. They are kicking up enough dust that it's all she can do to make out three figures on horseback with a pack mule trailing behind.

Jessie stands up in her stirrups, waving at them; her brown boot toes balanced on the wooden footrests behind the tapaderos expertly. As they come closer to her, the three men slow their horses from a lope to a walk almost simultaneously. The oldest man riding in front smiles broadly at her. She takes in his dusty button-down shirt and leather vest; the graying hair she can just see under his hat, and his neat grey mustache. He nudges his bay gelding up next to Jeb and reaches out to wrap a strong brown arm around her shoulders. She smiles back. "Hi Daddy."

"It's so good to see you, girl." Jack Watson's voice is gravelly from the dust of the road. He grips the brim of his tan hat and nods at his daughter. It's been a long summer and he is looking forward to being home, at least for a while.

Jessie turns quickly to see who he's brought back with him for the winter. She smiles at her brother, John, mounted on his sturdy black pinto. He grins back at her with a "Hi Sis." Like his father, he also grips the brim of his hat and nods towards his younger sibling.

"This is Mike Stamford." John holds a gloved hand out towards his companion and Mike touches his hat and nods. Jessie barely contains her girlish glee. Finally, she gets to meet this stranger that she's heard—very little actually—about from her father and brother.

"Hello, Mike." Jessie nudges Jeb and leads them down the hill. She is thinking to herself that this Mike character is a nice-looking man with his open smile and crinkly blue eyes. Maybe he will do more than just help out around the ranch this winter. When Jessie realizes she is blushing, she is glad that they are all behind her. With a wave of happiness, she taps Jeb's sides with her heels, sits back in the saddle and proceeds to gallop down the hill with the three men following close behind her.

Jessie looks back at the guys and grins as her hat is whipped off of her head. Jeb gives an exasperated little buck and she turns her attention back to him, lightly smacking his shoulder with the end of one rein. It has been a long boring day; the poor horse has been standing for almost five hours. She lets him slow down to a lope which he quickly turns into a plow-horse walk, but its okay, they are home now and things can get back to a normal rhythm.

They all dismount at the tie bar in front of the barn. John and Jack slip their saddles off of their mounts and head into the barn together. Mike is a little slower, but he finally gets the cinches loose then flips his stirrups over the back of the saddle. He follows the other two and they all three come out together as Jessie is carrying her own tack into the barn. She has hung Jeb's bridle on her arm and carries the saddle with her old pad flipped over on top of it. Jessie doesn't mind the smell of sweaty horse one bit. If she thought they wouldn't see, she would almost dip her nose towards the woolen pad and take a deep sniff. She closes her eyes for a second and then realizes she's on a collision course with the new ranch hand.

Jessie just stops dead in her tracks and blushes like a schoolgirl. She's read and reread the details about Mike in the scant few letters her family has sent home, which makes her feel like she only just knows him already. He smiles and she can't help it if she notices how it lights up his entire face. He reaches out to take her tack. At first she wants to keep hold of it, but then realizes how rude that seems and acquiesces. Their hands brush lightly as Mike grips the soft leather. His mouth is moving and she knows she should respond, but for some reason she cannot hear anything except for the blood pounding in her own ears.

"Thank you, Mike. See you at the house." She turns on her heel. Mike stands there for a few seconds after she is gone, a ridiculous smile plastered across his face. John comes up beside him, looks down at the saddle in his arms and then up at his face. He snorts and pounds his buddy on the back with one hand, raising little puffs of dust off of his dark blue shirt as he does so. Yes, this is certainly going to be an interesting winter, no doubt. He pats Mike's shoulder one more time and moves to unburden the patient chestnut mule.

~0o0~

Jessie moves easily about the little kitchen, slowly laying out the evening meal. She pulls the beef roast from the oven and sets it in the center of the table. She hasn't yet taken the time to change her clothes, so she's still moderately dressed, though her hair is in a bun on the back of her head. She goes back to the stove and hefts the big iron skillet with the cornbread, letting it down next to the roast. Her cornbread never comes out exactly like her mother's did, but she's counting on the fact that the men probably haven't had a hot meal in several days and will probably be hungry enough not to notice that it hasn't risen quite as it should. Still.

Everything is hot and ready to eat. She fusses a few more minutes, debating between pouring them whiskey or some of the room-temperature tea in the pitcher on the counter. She finally just decides to lay out both the bottle and the pitcher and let them choose for themselves. She can hear the sounds of the men out back cleaning up a little and she is surprisingly touched by their actions, the respect. Though only sixteen, had her mother still been alive, she probably would have married and left the ranch at the least a year ago. Jessie doesn't give that thought any more attention, however, as the men come in through the door and quickly settle at the table.

For a while, there is only the sound of silverware scraping plates and the occasionally "please pass the…" whatever. Jessie sits and enjoys the sounds of her boys being well-fed. Since they managed to clean their faces, she can finally study Mike. His skin is a shade or two darker than her own and his hair is brown tinged with red. He has the lightest spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks. She will never admit it, but at that moment she saw all of her unborn children when he turned his gaze onto her.

Across the table, Jack chuckles deeply in his chest. John is shoveling in roast and potatoes, not really paying too much attention to his sister, but when his father makes that noise he looks up. John's gaze follows Jack's and he stares in open wonder at his sister. For once in his life, one of his romantic decisions seems to have turned out to be a good one. He grins and tucks back into his victuals. Too bad it hadn't been a good match for him. John quickly banishes that thought. Mike is his friend and had proven himself several times over on the 'trail. He certainly would be more into Jessie than John, and John was perfectly alright with that. He feels that his sister needs a good man to not only protect her, but give her a chance at a better life than anything he or their father could provide at the moment.

The ranch isn't doing well since the drought had set in early in the season. Over half of the cattle scheduled to go to the stockyard this year would bring in only the bare minimum price. The other half would probably bring in next-to-nothing. They had done well working for other ranchers this spring and summer, but the savings would not last them through the winter. He refuses to give up, though. The idea of moving to the city and working is…not going to happen. He prefers the open air, the range, a horse underneath him and the sun on his face. Doing what he loved alone was thousands of times better than doing something he hated with someone else.

John keeps his head down towards his plate in an attempt to avoid his father noticing the thoughts that he knows would show on his face. His father knew only the barest truths of his last relationship and John felt it was better if it stayed that way. At twenty-one years of age, there were many things that John could have been doing. He felt it was his place, however, to help out his family at the ranch rather than waste his time in a job he hated. The pay, though… Once again, John works hard to close off his expression and rejoin the conversation that is going on around him. He reaches out for the whiskey bottle and pours himself a healthy measure. The brown liquid burns a fiery path down his throat but serves its purpose in numbing his heart—at least for the moment.

Jessie and Mike are sizing each other up across the table. John knows that they are debating about whether they are compatible and wonders which of the two of them is even aware of it. Sure, he had told his friend about his sister, but he had never given Mike any more information than necessary. He was comfortable making the introduction; not his place, however, to give all the details. He knew from experience that there were good and bad things about everyone, so let them figure it out on their own. He was dog tired and so he stood up and said his good nights to everyone and headed to his room. He changed into his nightclothes and was asleep before his blonde head hit the feather pillow.

John is awakened with a start just after midnight. Someone is banging on the front door. He scans the room in the half-light from the moon and grabsthe rifle standing by the bedroom door. He rushes out towards the front room where his father is already taking stock of the situation. The older man peeks behind the white curtains and nods to John. John carefully sets the rifle down at his side where he can swing it back into his arms quickly if necessary.

Jessie comes into the room as Mike rushes in from the back door. As a hired hand, his bunk is out in the almost-never-used bunkhouse. John thinks they need to do something about that situation, but first there's this one to attend to.

Jack opens the heavy wooden door. His voice is tired but steady when he speaks. "Sheriff Lestrade? Is there something we can help you with?"

The tall, well-built and silver haired sheriff stands in the moonlight. His brown eyes are keen, even at this hour. He scans the members of the household and takes in the new face. He seems to make up his mind about something. "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr. Watson, but this young man here seems to think that he can come sneaking around in the dead of night because his cousin is currently in your employ?"

Everyone's eyes turn toward the young man being held by the scruff of his neck. He's easily as tall as the sheriff, but much thinner in build. When he raises his head up, John's heart catches at the sight of pale eyes reflecting the moonlight back to them. He very carefully controls his breathing but he can tell, even from this distance, that this newcomer noted the reaction.

Jack takes in the raggedy young man's clothes, his unkempt hair, pale eyes and high cheekbones. He thinks to himself halfbreed but out loud he calls Mike to come forward. Mike steps up and looks at the pitiful creature in front of them. He recognizes a boy he hasn't seen in near ten years.

"Yes." He says quietly, his voice carrying on the night breeze. Somewhere beyond them, a cow grunts as she lays down in the dry grass. "He is my cousin, though I haven't laid an eye on him in near ten years. What are you doing here?" Mike turns his attention toward the ruffian who closes his eyes and does not answer.

Sheriff Lestrade lets go the boy's neck and he attempts to brush himself off with pale hands. He still does not say a word but simply stares up at the older boy, meeting his eyes for a split second. Mike nods as if an entire conversation just took place.

The Watson family and the sheriff are a bit confused. The sheriff senses that everything is now under control. "Can I leave him here, Jack? There's no one else down the jail and I'd prefer to sleep in my own bed tonight."

"Yes, Greg, you can leave him here. Poor bastard looks like he needs a hot meal." At his words, Jessie turns back to the kitchen. Jack and John watch the ruffian as he walks towards them. John reaches over and lights one of the oil lamps next to the door without taking his eyes off of the tall stranger.

Jack moves over to one side of the threshold to allow the young man to step through the doorway. He holds out a hand to him. The newcomer stops and shakes it, his long, thin fingers a contrast against Jack's thicker, more tan digits. Jack's hand almost dwarfs the young man's, but he notes with some comfort that the younger man has a strong grip, though his hands seem to be smooth.

"Have a seat, young man. Jessica will round you up some grub and you can sleep out in the bunkhouse with Mike."

Mike sits down next to his cousin and puts his hand on the young man's shoulder. Jessie, who has blanched at her father using her given name, sets a plate of cold roast down in front of the stranger. She offers him a shot of whiskey which he takes carefully and pours down his throat. He gives a cough and then shakes his head, feeling the numbing sensation to his toes.

John sits down in the chair at the opposite end of the table, between the stranger and his sister. Jack comes into the room and then drops himself into the chair opposite Mike.

"Before you tell us your story son, have you got a name?"

The young man seems to gaze through Jack Watson but then answers in a quiet and deep voice. "Sherlock Holmes."

Chapter 2: Feral Kinship

Calm, waiting silence fills the room. The name means absolutely nothing to anyone there, except perhaps to Mike. He nods slowly, waiting for his cousin to tell what he's been up to and why he has suddenly reappeared after all this time. Sherlock busies himself with his plate and finally pushes it away, leaving about half of the portion uneaten. Jessie reaches down to take it when a long, thin hand wraps around her wrist.

"Thank you." Sherlock says quietly, meeting her eyes with his own. She is surprised at the heat emanating from his grip. In the mostly dim room his eyes are like tiny points of silver. She thanks him, her voice just as quiet, and goes towards the kitchen. She catches her father's eye on the way out and whispers a good night to him.

Sherlock downs the rest of the whiskey, placing the glass very carefully and precisely on the tabletop. For a moment he just stares down at his hands. Mike reaches out and pats his shoulder, taking note of the sharp feeling of the bone underneath the thin shirt. Sherlock takes a breath and starts talking, all the while looking at his hands.

"My mother was murdered a fortnight ago. They turned me out. Apparently no one wants a halfbreed." The sneer in his voice was obvious to the other three men in the room. Though they could not see his face, his pain was palpable.

"I'm sorry." Mike says to his cousin. Sherlock finally lifts his head and Mike notes that the younger man's voice is devoid of expression. Mike lowers his eyes and shakes his head wearily. "It's been a rough ride for you, cousin. I am sure we can find you somewhere to call home…"

Jack snorts and pushes his chair away from the table. Putting his own prejudices aside, he thinks that this is a young man who needs some help.

"Can you work?" He asks Sherlock.

"Sir?"

"I asked you, can you work? Mend fences, tend livestock, help out around here? Ain't got much money to be payin' you, but you are welcome to stay down the bunkhouse with Mike if you can give me a hand around here, at least until spring when it will be safer for travelin'." Jack sizes up the ruffian, he looks underfed but otherwise seems healthy enough. He has learned in his life that it's usually best to give someone a chance to make their own way before deciding their choices for them. Well. Mostly.

"Yes, sir." Sherlock continues to look at his hands. Jack nods to himself and stands. He slaps the skinny boy on the shoulders and prepares to turn in for the night—again.

Mike waits until Jack is out of earshot before turning to his cousin and asking him why he is suddenly there after ten years. Sherlock seems to shrink into his own skin. His ratty black hair swings forward and hides his face. Once again, he sighs like it hurts to breathe. John takes note of this and pushes his chair back. At the scraping of the legs against the wooden floor, Sherlock finally looks up and they make eye contact. John hopes Mike doesn't notice the jolt of electricity that runs through the room.

John steps up next to Sherlock, who hasn't taken his eyes off of the blonde boy for a second. He reaches out a hand to touch Sherlock's side and remembers at the last second that it's professional courtesy to ask first.

"Let me check your ribs." It's a question and an order. Sherlock obeys, pushing his chair back with barely a sound. John lays his palm against his chest, noting the thinness of the shirt he's wearing, the sharp edge to his breast bone and the curve of his ribs. "Take a deep breath." Sherlock takes in a deep breath and John can feel just the slightest movement under his hand. He stands again. "You have a broken rib. I'm going to have to tell him that you can't do anything too strenuous for the next week or so."

Sherlock nods. He's figuring he's not long for this place anyway. With the general consensus about people like him it won't take long. It had been hurting long before the sheriff snatched him by the back of his shirt and yanked him off his feet when he was attempting to get into the general store. He was only looking for something to eat and then he would have been on his way.

"I'm not going to ask you how that happened, Sherlock." Mike's voice is clear and unwavering. "But I can't imagine you've changed too much since you were a boy. Did the sheriff do that to you?"

"No. Mike, it happened before I got into town." Sherlock's face made it very clear that he didn't really want to have this conversation as he half mumbled his statement.

"Good. He seems like a good man." Mike considers his cousin carefully. There is something they aren't being told. He is sure it isn't too serious, or Sherlock would have been out with it already. He remembers the nine-year old boy that had followed him around the summer that he had visited his relatives on the reservation. Nine-year-old Sherlock had a head of thick, wild, black hair and eyes that flashed green against the backdrop of bright blue skies and brown canyons. He was often dirty and barefoot, but seemed to be well-adjusted and busy, always into everything.

Sherlock's mother had taken a lot of crap for keeping her son of mixed blood. She had been in love with a man from across the Atlantic, Mike didn't know if the man had been English, Scottish, Welsh or even Irish, mostly because his aunt didn't talk about it. Ever. Mike's Aunt was pure Indian, being related to Mike's family through her first husband, Solomon Stamford. Solomon had been killed within two years of their marriage and Aunt Rachel "Morning Glory" had moved back to the reservation to be with her family. She'd had an affair with Sherlock's father, who actually had the audacity to tell her what to name the bastard child before leaving the US altogether in the months before the little boy was born.

True to her word, Rachel had named the light-skinned boy Sherlock Holmes. Mike studies his cousin and remembers a young boy telling stories about one day getting to meet his father. He wonders if Sherlock still felt the same way.

Sherlock watches his cousin in turn. He knows that Mike is thinking about the single summer they had spent in each other's company. He deeply hopes he would not bring up Sherlock's family line at this moment. He's too exhausted to talk about it tonight. Of course, if no one ever mentioned it, that would be fine, too.

John breaks the reverie by returning to the room with the whiskey bottle. He sits a glass in front of Mike and then himself. He splashes some of the liquid into each glass, including Sherlock's.

"Drink up, Sherlock. I don't have anything else for pain to give you right now, but that will at least help you sleep." He waits until Sherlock drains his glass and then does the same. From his lap he holds up a towel. "Take off your shirt and let me bind that rib for you."

To his benefit, Sherlock swiftly complies. He unbuttons his shirt, baring his almost-hairless chest and a number of purple bruises. John shakes his head at the injuries and wraps the towel around the skinny boy efficiently, tucking in the top to hold it in place. "Put your shirt back on and try not to sleep on that side." Sherlock again makes eye contact with John. John starts to reach out and lay a hand on the back of his "patient's" neck. He stubbornly keeps it tight at his side.

Mike stands and beckons to Sherlock. "Come on, it's time to turn in. I'll take you down the bunkhouse." Sherlock follows him, but not before turning towards John. He does not say a word, but John can feel the gratitude in the air nonetheless; along with something else he refuses to deal with at this moment. John follows them and shuts the front door. He blows out the oil lamp, plunging the house back into darkness. As he stretches out in his bed and relaxes, his body trying to find sleep for the second time that night, he finds that he cannot get those intense green eyes out of his mind.

~0o0~

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

"John! John get up! Go tell Mike and that other guy that I'm serving breakfast up here in the kitchen!" Jessie's voice only gets more shrill the longer he waits to obey her orders, so John figures that it's best if he gets out of bed right then. Since she's already pounding on his bedroom door, a pretty good sign she isn't going to let him wake up slowly. He opens his eyes and detests the sunlight filtering through the single window for a second. It's weak, so still early then.

He rolls over and reaches to the floor for his blue jeans from yesterday. They are a little dirty and there should be time to get a bath in today, if the weather will cooperate. He shimmies into his clothes but forgoes the boots. He wanders through the kitchen on the way to the outhouse and mumbles some greeting to his sister. She turns to him and huffs a little, always irritated that her brother is any less a morning person than she is. Jessie is awfully glad to have him home to irritate her, however.

John slams the door on the outhouse. He steps up onto the porch and reaches up for the triangle hanging off of one of the wooden rafters. He rings it for a good thirty seconds, plenty of time for the other two to get their rear ends in gear this morning. When he reenters the house, Jack has already taken his customary seat at the head of the table and is shoveling eggs into his mouth like he's not eaten in fifteen years. John heads back to his room and retrieves his boots.

"Morning." John offers as he takes his own seat. Jessie hands him a cup of strong black coffee. He takes a sip and lets the dark liquid perform its miracle of making his body ready for the day.

Jack grunts his greeting back to his son. He finishes his breakfast before Jessie has given John his own plate. "John, can you and Mike get started on the corrals this morning? Find something for that Sherlock boy to do, as well. I've got to go into town."

"Yes, Dad. Sherlock has at least one broken rib and he is bruised up quite a bit."

Jack levels his gaze at his son. "You checked him out?"

If only he knew, thought John. He said "Yes. I noticed it when he finally started talking last night. Just a bit of wheeze and I could see him flinch when he took a drink."

Jack nods at his son. He never asked why John had stopped practicing medicine, he was too happy to have him home for the past year. "Ok. Light duty for a bit then, but he needs to do his share."

"Yes, sir." John turns towards his own breakfast. He hears Jack leave and then two sets of footsteps enter the house. Mike and Sherlock take the chairs on either side of John. Jessie is as quick with their meals as she was with her brother's. Once again, a comfortable silence fills the house, broken only by Jessie working in the kitchen. She sets out a skillet of corn bread and a slab of butter in the center of the table and watches as the three men finish their meal.

John finishes his coffee. "Mike, I need you to help me mend some fencing today. Sherlock, tag along with us for a bit until I can come up with something for you to do." Being the eldest son means that John is the ranch foreman for the time being. "Let's see how much we can get down before lunch."

~0o0~

Mike and John work for a couple of hours mending fencing. John tries hard not to look too hard at the cattle contained within. Sherlock has managed to throw hay to them all, he seems to be the type to keep busy, even with an injury. Usefully busy, which should gain some points with Jack. John hopes his father will keep the younger man around for a while. He likes to think that he doesn't mean that in a selfish way.

They are standing near the last cracked post when Jessie comes down from the house with a pitcher of lemonade. She positively beams at Mike when he thanks her for being so kind and almost drops the pitcher. Mike reaches out for it, closing his hand about hers to help steady it. John snorts and picks his hammer off of the ground, in part to remind Mike there's work to be done, courting can come later. Mike smiles at Jessie one more time and turns back to the job. John chuckles a little under his breath when he notes the tips of Mike's ears are beet red.

"Mike, I think you actually like my sister." John drives in another nail with expert precision. He takes another nail from between his teeth and sets it in the wood.

"Well, you told me so much about her, I feel like I already know her." Mike's hammer stops in mid-air and he looks away into nothing.

"Hey!" John slaps Mike's back playfully. "Don't leave me hanging here!"

Mike actually looks embarrassed to be caught out in a short little daydream. John returns his silly smile and they get back to it; John feeling a bit lighter than before.

They complete the mending on the fence on the first corral before lunchtime. He and Mike put their tools in the barn and head back toward the house. Mike looks around before John realizes that neither of them has seen Sherlock in a few hours. They turn away from the house and head down towards the bunkhouse. They walk through the single barracks-like room in a matter of a minute; no one is there. Mike turns towards the left and John to the right when they exit the bunkhouse.

John wanders down towards the very last corral, the only one they use for horses. Their geldings and the mule have all been turned out in the big pasture for a couple-days break after being pushed hard to get home the day before. The only resident of this corral is a black Mustang stallion that had been brought in by traders a few weeks ago. To his knowledge, Jessie's been feeding the horse, but there hasn't been much time to gentle him.

So, naturally, the scene that greets John is a surprise.

Sherlock stands dead center of the corral, stripped to the waist, a light sheen of sweat apparent on his pale skin, his arms out to the sides, palms up toward the sky. The towel that John wrapped him with last night has been discarded with his shirt, both items dropped to the left of the gate in a pile on the ground. He is wearing the same blue jeans and boots he had on the night before. John figures that the young man probably doesn't even have any other clothes at the moment, but right now that matters not at all. He studies Sherlock carefully, noting several long bruises on his lower back, just over his kidneys. John's got a pretty good idea what kicks to the kidneys will do and knows that those bruises were intentional. Sherlock turns slowly on the spot, his eyes locked on the ground, giving John another look at the bruises over his ribs and chest.

Generally, the way ranch horses are broken in is by way of either tying them out or just tacking them up and jumping on; the rider holding on until they stop bucking and accept their situation as a riding horse (or die, whichever comes first.) John has heard tales that the Indians often ride a wild horse into a lake or pond or whatever and then jump on their backs. But what he is seeing now, he's never even heard a whisper of.

Sherlock stands with his back towards the stallion. The horse is reaching towards the bare skin with his muzzle, snorting and blowing. Sherlock's eyes are now closed, his head is down. The stallion moves around him and Sherlock starts to walk away. The stallion follows, moving slowly next to the young man. Sherlock picks up speed, only slightly moving his head upward. The stallion breaks into a trot. Sherlock stops and spins on his heels, the stallion following in pursuit. John is mesmerized.

The dance is over way too soon, but there is still more to see. Sherlock stops completely, once again turning his back on the horse. He walks to the edge of the corral and picks up an old halter, with lead rope attached. He holds the halter outward, flipping the lead rope over his shoulder. He walks like that back to the center of the corral. The stallion snorts and paws the ground, but he does not move away. John can see Sherlock's mouth moving, though he cannot hear the words. This is a stallion that has only ever felt the sting of a lasso around his neck as he was captured from his wild band and then brought here. All he knows of humans is that they took him away from his home and that they keep him from being hungry and thirsty. Now, though, it looks like there is something more.

The stallion snorts again and John can see the horse's skin quivering, even from where he stands. He doesn't dare get any closer for want of not interrupting. Mike has joined him and the two men stand together, silently watching.

The black Mustang is reaching his head out towards Sherlock again. He takes a sniff of the halter and backs away, snorting and pawing. Sherlock holds his ground. The stallion comes close again, this time sniffing the halter, his nostrils flare with each pass. Each time the horse's nose comes into contact with the leather, Sherlock very gently pushes the leather against the soft muzzle. With his other hand, he is reaching out towards the horse's neck.

After an eternity, Sherlock has a hand on the stallion's neck and his nose in the halter. He keeps talking to the horse, saying those little nothings that seem to be so calming to frightened animals. He scratches the horse's shoulder and amazingly the Mustang tilts his head down. Sherlock halters him as easily as Jessie throws a halter on her old gelding, Jeb. John is struck dumb.

Sherlock rolls his shoulders so that the lead rope drops into his hand. He moves up to the stallion's neck and rubs the rope down his neck and across his shoulders, reaching out with the other hand to touch the horse's belly and chest. The stallion stands still and sniffs Sherlock's head, his hands, his bare shoulders. Sherlock moves to the off-side and repeats the procedure. He turns away from the horse and with the slightest of tugs on the rope, the stallion follows him towards the gate. Both horse and man look up as Mike and John move to meet them.

John thinks that is probably one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen in his life.