John sat in his chair, reading the paper. The headlines screamed about celebrity pregnacies, special offers and what John was actually redaing it for, The Grand National. John had turned the TV to BBC 1 and taken the batteries out of the remote, just in case Sherlock, who was sleeping peacefully on the sofa, decided to wake up and change the channel. John hadn't made a bet on the horses since before Afghanistan; he had been to busy chasing criminals to look at the racing paper and select a favourite. This time he chose BecauseICouldn'tSee; he even went down the bookies and placed a tenner of the animal, the feeling of luck swarming through his chest. Mrs Hudson had collared him on his way out and asked him to put a fiver on State of Play for her.
He complied, knowing that Mr Hudson had never let her gamble when he had been alive. So John had placed his bets and pratcally skipped back home to tune in the television and wait for his win. As the horses started to parade around the arena, Sherlock woke up.
"Muh." The detective groaned.
"Morning Sherlock. You alright?"
"Yeah. What you watching?" "Grand National."
Sherlock's eyes widened.
"Don't you know how cruel horse-racing is?"
"Yeah. But my parents always wanted me to be a jockey. Right build I suppose."
"That and you're quater Irish."
John scowled at his flatmate. Sherlock smiled knowingly back.
"Been to the bookies then?"
"Yup. Tenner on BecauseICouldn'tSee." John pointed to his horse, which had come onto the screen.
"It won't win, y'know."
"What?"
"It won't win." He picked up the racing paper and scanned it. "That one will." He pointed to a horse named Ballabriggs.
"How do you know?"
"I used to ride a horse. I know my stuff."
"You used to ride a horse?"
"Yup. He was a black stallion called Silver Blaze. He had a little white star on his forehead."
"Are you serious?"
"Am I ever not? That's why I have my riding crop. But I didn't use it on Silver Blaze if I could help it."
"And they're off!" The TV called. John and Sherlock turned to stare at the screen.
...
Several minutes later it was all over. Sherlock was right of course. Ballabriggs won by a foot and Sherlock smiled smugly as the crowds cheered. John's horse fell at one point but neither of them were sure when. Sighing, John picked up his coat and made his way to the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Picking up Mrs Hudson's winnings." He sighed and left the flat. Sherlock really did know his stuff when it came to horses.