I wanna run with the wild horses, run with the wild horses
Crisp, cold air breezed through John's hair as he bent down to pick up a perfectly intact, brown leaf. He carefully held it up to the light so as not to crack it, its epidermis dried and ready to crumble. He found the way the sunlight shone around its edges to be particularly pleasing. He heard a soft chuckle and looked over at his tall companion, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
"Examining leaves, now, John?" Sherlock smirked as he stretched his leather gloves over his hands. The breeze ruffled Sherlock's fringe, and John had a strong urge to brush it back out off his forehead. He merely snorted in response and held the leaf out to Sherlock.
"It's just not often we get to see nature in all of its raw beauty," John watched Sherlock pinch the stem of the leaf delicately between his gloved fingers, careful as John had been not to disturb the edges. Sherlock could tell John was waiting for a sentimental response, and his lips curled a bit at the thought that John was being a touch romantic.
"I thought you were more of a city man, John. You wanted so badly to stay in London, after all," Sherlock made an effort to raise the leaf into the sunlight and watch John's reaction as he observed. He could see the shriveled veins and the different shades of brown that indicated the greens and yellows that the leaf had once displayed. He thought it might be best to refrain from documenting the different phytotomical aspects of the leaf, and instead to mimic John's expression of wonderment. Sherlock knew it was an emotional action, but with John, caring was an advantage.
"You do remember I was deployed to Kandahar right? Being in the countryside now fulfills three completely different settings - it's refreshing to be surrounded by natural landscaping and yet not be in 38 degree weather covered in sand," John held his hands behind his back and gave Sherlock that look, the one of satisfaction and certainty, the one Sherlock liked, no, loved, to see, because it reinforced the notion that John had confidence. John was just as proud a man as Sherlock, if for slightly different reasons.
"This is an experiment, John. I am interested in understanding the anatomical foundation to the grace horses have," Sherlock turned back to what he had been originally doing, pushing the leaf back into John's hand. He began to adjust the buckles of the saddle he would soon be mounting.
"I thought you didn't care about stuff like that," John said sarcastically, waving his hand about slightly. He placed the leaf on a nearby barrel.
"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it. However, my original thought behind this was that you might enjoy a day to relax. I am merely taking the opportunity to learn about something I otherwise would not have the chance to," Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John who had become silent. John was looking out at the meadows, an expression on his face Sherlock was not as accustomed to.
"John?" Sherlock picked up his saddle and turned 180 degrees to face his companion.
"Oh, sorry, Sherlock. It's just, did you really think I'd enjoy this that much?" John looked down and licked his lips nervously. "How would you, uh, have guessed? This sort of thing doesn't naturally come up in conversation at Baker Street, you know," John squinted up at the taller man.
Sherlock straightened up and looked at John for a few minutes. "I understand this is a very calming and beautiful place. Riding horseback, I've been told, is quite liberating. You may have invaded Afghanistan, but I know a man who enjoys the simple things in life, John. You obviously display the characteristics of someone who would appreciate the majesty of such animals, and no doubt the form it takes to ride them," Sherlock paused for a moment and looked out into the distance. "I suppose there's certain sentiment in exploring somewhat unknown territory with the person you care for," Sherlock said, more quietly. John looked slightly taken aback. He was used to things going unspoken in their relationship, or whatever it was. But instead he watched Sherlock's expression go from one of a man exploring the clinical aspects of a horseback ride to a man fascinated in the environment around him. Things seldom fascinate Sherlock Holmes. John didn't want to ruin it, so instead he just smiled and grabbed his own saddle, nodding to the horses.
John adjusted the saddle on his horse, and then stopped when he looked at the stirrup. He tried not to look at Sherlock as he realized he probably couldn't get his leg up that high. Shit. As he silently attempted to remedy the situation, Sherlock came up behind him, gently placing his hand on John's shoulder. Sherlock offered a stool from the barn, a crooked grin plastered on his face. John's eyes widened and he elbowed Sherlock, who chuckled. John would have to suck his pride up for a moment. Sherlock had managed to choose rather tall horses. As John was finally able to hook his foot into the left stirrup of his saddle and swung his right leg over the horse's back quickly, Sherlock delicately placed a hand on John's where it held the reign. John adjusted himself in the saddle and looked at Sherlock quizzically. Sherlock looked back, and then a mischievous smile spread over his face, and before John had time to stop him, Sherlock slapped the horse on its side and yelled, "YAH", which for some reason worked, sending the horse into a galloping fury. John held on for dear life for a few seconds before he finally got his bearings and pulled back on the reigns, shifting his weight back. In that time, Sherlock had mounted his horse and it was trotting over to John's horse. John cursed and Sherlock laughed, John giving him his "I am not amused" look. But, Sherlock kept laughing, so eventually John did, too. They set off down a path that was roughly carved through the meadow, flanked by overgrown grass and flowers. For a while, they rode in silence, watching butterflies fly past, the rolling hills emerging from around tall, barren trees.
John looked over at Sherlock through what Sherlock could only describe as puppy dog eyes. Sherlock may have melted inside a little bit, at that. He smiled proudly and noticed John was about to say something. "What?" Sherlock studied his face. John looked at Sherlock with adoration. What was with all of these stolen glances? Sherlock thought, as he furrowed his brow at John.
"I just. You're enjoying this, Sherlock," John had a half-smile on, mixed with his usual look of confusion. Sherlock looked slightly insulted.
"Of course I am, John. You're having a good time, so I am, too," Sherlock turned to face forward as he said that, not wanting to make eye contact as he said that.
"Ah, so you're saying… you're happy when I'm happy?" John smirked at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sped his horse up.
"Oh, no you don't, you great child," John yelled after him and urged his horse on, galloping past Sherlock, who took his cue. They raced down the path, the wind in their hair, smiles plastered on their faces. John wanted to capture the moment and keep it forever. As their horses' manes flowed in the wind, their tails swishing, Sherlock and John felt uncharacteristically free.
After a few minutes of racing after each other, they slowed and Sherlock finally made eye contact with John.
"I know I am not nearly adequate enough at expressing…things," Sherlock stated, a bitter tone rising on the last word. He hated it when John teased him for saying something sweet, but at the same time that was always what made Sherlock's heart flutter. He just hadn't gotten quite used to that flutter.
"Oh, Sherlock, don't sell yourself short. Look what you've done?" John motioned to their surroundings. "This is extraordinary, quite extraordinary. I don't care what you say about experiments and anatomical understandings. You appreciate this liberation just as much as I do," John implored. Sherlock shifted a bit and and looked up at John from underneath his far too long eyelashes.
Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. John chuckled and drew his horse closer to Sherlock. Once they were side by side, he stretched out his hand. Sherlock looked at it for a moment before enclosing it with his own, leaning over to place a gentle kiss on the back of it. John didn't even blush this time.
After they had proceeded down the path, taking their time, passing through softly flowing creeks and reaching the top of a nearby hill to look out over the vastness of the countryside, they returned to the stable. They had spent most of the time in silence, occasionally pointing out a particularly nice bit of scenery or basking in the sunlight. They said their goodbyes to the stable hands, who looked on at the wonderful couple. As they walked down the dirt path to their car, John looking back at the hills, Sherlock laced his fingers in-between John's.
John barely flinched, finally getting used to it all. What was more surprising was Sherlock doing that. John turned to him and stopped, the sunlight hitting Sherlock's face at a particular angle, lighting his eyes bright blue and illuminating that impossible freckle. Sherlock gave John a content look. John smiled and breathed out a slight laugh, before wrapping his hand around Sherlock's neck and leaning in to place a ghost of a kiss on his lips. Sherlock blinked a few times, but then urged John on, pulling him back when John had been cautious. Sherlock took a step closer, melting into the kiss and feeling warmth bloom up from his chest. His heart sped up a little. How silly, he thought. It was just a kiss, after all. But they stayed that way for a minute, just pressing their lips together and feeling how soft and comforting it was. No, Sherlock thought, It's not just a kiss. It's John. His John. He liked the sound of that. As they pulled back, Sherlock had an entirely new look on his face. John looked at him with curiosity. Sherlock just placed a hand on John's cheek and loved the way John leaned into it. It struck John, and he realized no words needed to be said.
Sherlock brought his hand down over John's shoulder, rubbing down his arm and finding his hand again. They walked on, the dried brown leaf having been picked up by the wind, flowing past them and following them all the way back to 221B Baker Street, London.