Kent part two. Thank to those who reviewed and story-alerted. Review replies at the bottom.
This is what happens in Kent when the weather is nice and the couple have the day to themselves. Horse-riding, Sherlock in tight jodhpurs, and tree house fun.
Another long chapter. Childishness, fluff, fun.
Warning: …WHY should there be a warning? Het couples don't have warnings so neither does this.
Disclaimer: If I could own Sherlock and put him in skin tight jodhpurs I so would.
What woke John the next day was not the light, seeing as the curtains in Sherlock's bedroom were thick enough to keep the room nice and dark. It was the sound of a cock crowing in the distance, loud enough that the sleeping John could be roused to wakefulness. He blinked bleary eyed around the room and it took him a second to realise Sherlock wasn't in the bed beside him. John sat up like a shot, alarmed, before remembering exactly where he was; Moriarty had absolutely no access, nobody would have let Sherlock leave without a good reason, and there was nowhere for him to go. They were two hours' drive from London, after all, and Sherlock wasn't about to walk back to the flat on Baker Street.
The doctor lay back down again and sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. Glancing beside him, he saw Sherlock's pyjamas folded neatly on his pillow. He smiled. No matter what, the man always folded his pyjamas neatly on his pillow like a habit. "I suppose I better get up." He yawned, speaking to himself. When he caught himself doing so, he shook his head. "First sign of madness, John… And answering myself is the second."
So, pulling back the thick curtains to allow some morning light in, John got himself into a pair of old jeans and the stripy jumper Sherlock wore the previous day. It struck John then that all of Sherlock's clothes were still hanging up in the wardrobe, including his shoes. The detective was hardly running about stark naked? Still confused, but now utterly intrigued (and secretly hoping that was the case), John made a very quick bathroom break.
Running a hand through his thickly growing blonde hair, John could see a grey hair. This mirror was now personal enemy number one. A grey hair… he thought, but I'm only thirty-eight!Sighing and trying to think no more of it, John left the bedroom and went to look for Sherlock.
The maid who had served them dinner last night was mopping the marble floor in the lobby. "Good morning Doctor Watson." She put the mop and bucket away and wiped her hands on her apron. "Just watch this floor here. It can be quite painful if you slip." She offered him a smile as he cautiously reached the bottom step.
"Morning, erm…"
"Miriam." She answered. Her long, straight black hair was tied into a loose side ponytail. She wasn't wearing a navy dress under her apron like the other two maids, just a simple pair of black trousers and a grey shirt. John, even though he was wholly committed to Sherlock, still found her to be very pretty. If he had a type (and a bigger interest in women), she would be considered quite beautiful, with her big brown eyes and button nose.
"Right, sorry Miriam. Have you seen Sherlock?"
"Check the stables. He went out in riding gear this morning so I can only assume, Sir. If he's not there, he'll probably be in the riding arena. Just follow the trail from the stables." She started to wheel the mop and bucket away.
"Thanks, Miriam!" John called after her and carefully picked his way across the floor. "Have a good morning." He made his way out the door and around the back. Going past the post-and-rail fence he had seen the horses in the previous evening, John found the stable yard and it was absolutely huge! The doctor walked around it, looking at the well spaced troughs and feeders, and the entrance to the tack room. There was a water pump and a well, both made of thick grey stone. It gave the stable yard a very authentic, ancient, but beautiful feel.
The interior of the stable where the horses were kept was just as big and dimly lit. Bales of hay were stacked on side, and the other side were the actual stables. John counted seven horses instead of eight; the dapple stallion was missing. The little spotted foal poked his head out of his mother's stall as John passed. The only stable door that didn't have a horse behind it held a fancy brass plaque with 'Last Enemy' engraved into it. Odd name for a horse, really, unless he's particularly mean.
"Excuse me, Sir, but I don't think we've met." A young man with a heavy Bristol accent came around the corner. He was dressed in a pair of faded tracksuit bottoms, muddied Wellies, a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a vintage looking hardware waistcoat. His hair was short and straw colour, peeking out in little wisps under his backwards worker cap, and he was wheeling a wheelbarrow with what looked like horse-feed in it. "My name's Darryl. Mister Sherlock told me about you this morning."
"Oh, I'm John. John-"
"Watson, yes. I know." He gave a friendly smile. "Mister Sherlock is out riding if you want to go up. Just follow that path there." He gestured out of the stable and in the direction of a cobble path. John nodded in thanks and Darryl went about his business.
Sure enough, John found a large riding arena filled with smoothly raked sand at the end of the path. He was just tall enough to lean his forearms on the surrounding fence. What he saw brought a huge grin to his face; Sherlock, decked out in full riding dressage, trotting around the arena on the dapple-grey stallion. John couldn't help but notice how tight fit and tailored to perfection his riding gear was, especially the khaki coloured jodhpurs. Tailored to the point that John was sure the bloody things were going to burst apart at the seams every time Sherlock shifted his weight in the saddle.
The horse launched into a steady canter and jumped smoothly over a jumping post. The detective lifted out of the saddle as the dapple's hooves left the ground, crouching low over the horse's neck, and settled lightly back down as his hooves found the sandy floor of the arena and kicked up a spray of dirt. This process repeated enough times that John had to keep from staring onlyat Sherlock's backside and focus on his skill as a rider. Which was harder than one might expect and made John feel like a virtual saint, thank you very much.
John clapped and stood on tip-toe when Sherlock noticed him. The detective reined the horse to a trot and eventually a walk, before stopping at the fence beside John. His cheeks were flushed pink and a few wayward curls peeked out from under his helmet. The black leather riding crop was held in his right hand, tucked just under the reins and resting against the dapple's shoulder. Leaving the thin leather reins draped over the front of the saddle, Sherlock swung lightly down to lean on the fence beside John, mindful of his shoulder.
"I see you're feeling better."
"It helps to be home." The detective unbuckled his helmet and lifted it off, tossing his head back to keep his hair out of his eyes. "And to be around the one you love. But yes, I'm feeling better." The dapple snorted and pawed at the sand, dropping his head a bit. "Ah, the poor dear's tired out. I suppose I should bring him in. Walk with me?" Sherlock put his helmet back on but left the chinstrap unbuckled, taking the stallion's bridle loosely in one hand. John opened the gate for him as he led the horse out and closed it behind his lover. Only to be polite, really, not to get a last fleeting glimpse of Sherlock's bottom in those trousers. Not at all. John was going to be a good boy, really.
He trotted up to walk beside Sherlock, who cast a slightly tired smile at him. "I didn't know you rode, Sherlock."
"Well, there isn't much else to do out here in the summers. I used to be better, but I'm quite out of practice. I used to ride Last Enemy's sire as a boy, before he got put out to pasture."
The soft crunch of sand and gravel underfoot changed to the louder ringing of Sherlock's riding boots on the wooden floor of the stable. There was a rail at about hip-height near the tack room, and Sherlock tied his dapple to this before going for a halter, curry comb, and chamois. Darryl came to take the saddle, saddle pad, and bridle, inclining his head politely to both John and Sherlock before going off with them to clean them. John found a perch on a hay bale to wait for Sherlock to finish with the horse.
"So Mycroft must have known you'd come riding when he sent us here, then?"
"Oh, he must have. He wouldn't have brought Starter for Ten up from the other estate if he thought you wouldn't be riding as well, though." Sherlock scratched under the dapple's mane as he worked the round curry comb down the horse's body, cleaning off the sweat and dirt. John looked away long enough to scan the plaques on the stall doors; Starter for Ten was the roundish chesnut in the second stall from the end.
"Mycroft expects me to go riding? With you?"
"Well, yes. He thinks that fresh air and exercise will be good for the both of us, and he knows that you'd be more willing to go riding if I went with you." Sherlock ran a hand over the horse's hindquarters to keep him from kicking as he went around to his other side. Only his head was visible above the dappled back. "There are some lovely trails in the hills, and we can't get far from the estate on them unless we cut through the thickest part of the woods." The curry comb was traded for the chamois, and Sherlock crouched down to wipe clumps of sand from the dapple's fetlocks.
"You're not planning on going out there again today, are you?" He didn't relish the prospect of nursing Sherlock back into a fit state after two rounds in the saddle in one day.
"Oh, heavens no." Sherlock straightened up and came back around to the side nearest John, once again kneeling to brush off some sand. He said something else, but John missed it. He was trying very hard not to stare at Sherlock's bottom in his jodhpurs but when he crouched down like that it was impossible. John chose to make some sort of vague sound of agreement and nod, and did his best not to look tooglazed when Sherlock turned around and straightened up again. "Anyway, that's pretty much done. I'm going to have a shower before lunch, then you can go on up to the sunroom. From what I hear that's where the maids are keeping the cats and I'm sure the poor things are just ready to collapse from loneliness."
"Er... Yes, of course they are. I'll check on them."
Sherlock gave a too-knowing little smile and leaned down to whisper into John's ear. "Promise not to tear them off in front of the help and I'll keep these on the rest of the day. Coat and boots, too, if that's what you'd like, Doctor Watson." And, with that, he turned on the heel of one immaculately polished boot and padded off. John just sort of sat on his hay bale and stared at the wall, wondering what all that was about. He stayed there until the sound of Sherlock's boots faded into the distance, and hopped down. Before Darryl returned to take the dapple away, John gave Last Enemy's muzzle a stroke, amazed at the horses height compared to his own. Sherlock's head may have been visible above the body, but John's definitely was not.
He said his goodbyes to Darryl and took a nice stroll the long way back to the house, stopping a few times to look at some strange wild flower or just appreciate the beauty of the countryside. He could see now why this would have such a healing affect on Sherlock; the fresh air and lack of noise or air pollution would lift anyone's spirits.
Back in the house, John went straight for the sunroom on the third floor which connected to the uppermost part of the library. The sunroom itself was filled with bright daylight, made of large panelled glass that arced into a curve for the roof. There was a sliding glass door leading out to a balcony, which overlooked the fields and trees in the distance. In the centre were two Victorian style loveseats facing each other and made of fine white velvet. A small black coffee table (Victorian style again, to match the theme of the room) was between the loveseats, with two vases of fresh purple petunias decorating either end.
John let out a breath at its beauty and could only imagine what the stars would look like with a view like this. A little meow cut his admiration, and his attention was brought to a ball of fluff running towards him.
"Bitsy!" John knelt down and allowed the kitten – who had grown quite a bit since they first got her – to hop onto his lap and nuzzle into him. He stayed there for a minute, laughing and giving her ear a little scratch, before picking her up and looking around. "Where's Tobias, eh?"
As if on cue, the striped tom cat poked his head out from the entrance to the library and looked (more like glared, actually) at John. Bitsy wriggled out of John's grasp and scampered over to the other cat. As John got closer, Tobias took a hesitant step back, but when John stopped and just stooped down with his hand outstretched, he poked his nose forward and sniffed.
"It's alright, boy. Come on." John coaxed, rubbing his thumb and index finger together. "I've missed you, you know. We didn't mean to leave you both alone but we're back now. For good."
"John, I'm not quite sure they understand what you're saying." Sherlock smirked and appeared at the door of the sunroom, hair still damp from his shower. His white shirt was open and his riding coat draped over his arm. The khaki jodhpurs looked as gloriously tight as ever. "Or do you, kids?" Tobias padded carefully over to Sherlock and stopped a few feet away, giving him a look that said 'If you ever leave like that again, I won't be this forgiving.'
"Well, it seems Tobias understands." John smiled and gave his lover a very appraising look (obviously satisfied.) "Do you need me to apply a new dressing?"
"Please." Sherlock was granted permission by Tobias to pet him, and he chuckled as he did so. "It's not as sore anymore."
"That's a good sign. Come on then, I'll have it done before lunch." He took Sherlock's hand and they went to the bedroom, letting the cats go back to their lounging. The scar was scabbing, starting to heal itself. With the help of the burn cream and the change of dressing, Sherlock's back would heal fast (as fast as serious burn healing went, that is.) The whip marks were all but gone, with the exception of one or two feint marks towards the middle of the detective's back. John helped Sherlock back into his shirt and smoothed down the front of it.
"We'll be eating lunch outside today. There's a nice picnic table on the back lawn." Sherlock wound an arm around John's waist, lead him away from the bedroom and down the stairs. Deirdre turned her head sharply away from the direction of Sherlock; the riding dressage obviously making her blush profusely.
"Oh, lovely. What's Rory cooking, love?" John was well aware that Deirdre had an obvious crush on the detective, which was kind of sweet considering she was only in her late teens and more than likely not used to seeing him in all his glory. And she had good taste.
"Chicken soup with grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. Well, mine will have tomato in them."
"My favourite soup, very nice." They picked their way out the back door and to the well manicured lawn where a wooden picnic bench sat.
"You know that young maid in there, Deirdre," John rested his elbows on the wooden table-top and smirked at Sherlock. "I think she's quite fond of you."
"Well, I'm yours. So she'll just have to observe unfortunately." Sherlock did his best to hide a smirk creeping onto his face.
"Observe? Observe what exactly?" John raised an eyebrow at his lover.
"This." The detective leaned forward and gave John a quick kiss. John could feel Sherlock smirking against his mouth, and kissed back. A little cough coming from behind pulled them apart.
"Here's your lunch, Sherlock Sir." A boy who looked just as young as Deirdre, with brighter ginger hair and freckles that connected when he smiled put down a plate of sandwiches and two bowls of chicken soup in the centre of the table.
"Ah, Rory. Nice to see you again." Sherlock gestured back and forth between the two to give introductions. "John, this is Rory, our New Yorker cook. Rory, this is John, my boyfriend."
"It's very nice to meet you, Rory. Your meal last night was excellent." John offered his hand and Rory shook it nice and strong.
"Only the best for Sherlock and his partner. You two enjoy that meal now. The sandwiches on the top have no tomatoes. Sherlock made sure I knew you weren't fond of them." Giving a wink to Sherlock, Rory flipped a tea towel over his shoulder and went back inside. John looked over at Sherlock and smiled, maybe even blushed (it could have been the heat.)
"You made sure he knew I wasn't fond of tomatoes?" Sherlock nodded and picked one of the grilled sandwiches from the plate. When he looked up at John, the older man was still smiling to the point of grinning.
"What?"
"Nothing. That was just… Nice of you." John dipped one of the cheese grills corners into the soup and ate it, licking his lips. They ate in silence, free hands finding eachother across the table at some point. They seemed to be moving by themselves; palms touching, fingers spacing out and interlacing, and sliding away eventually so they could both scrape the remainders of soup from the bottom of the dish.
Finally done and after a nice, pointless chat – Sherlock had moved to John's side – they decided it was time to move. Actually, it was more John's idea, Sherlock would have been contended enough to sit there all day, but John wanted to go for a nice walk (not to see Sherlock's bottom in those trousers, no of course not…) through the fields.
"Actually, John," Sherlock started, as they made their way away towards a large yellow-flowered field, "There is something I want to show you. I think you'll like it." They joined hands as they walked through the field, John almost tripping over a clump of grass at one point. Some of the flowers were just as tall as the doctor, and almost as tall as Sherlock save for a few inches.
They walked for about two minutes through that field before coming to smoother, rolling green fields with daisies scattered about. "You see that u-shape valley over there?" Sherlock pointed to the dipping hill in front of them.
"Yes?"
"Down the hill is a huge oak tree. Mycroft and I built a tree house in it when we were younger."
John had a hard time picturing Sherlock, even a young Sherlock, building and playing in a treehouse. For that matter, he had an even harder time picturing a young, dapper-on-a-much-smaller-scale Mycroft doing the same thing.
"Yes, I know it's a bit ridiculous. But we were children, John, and children sometimes do ridiculous things. In our case, it was building an overlarge tree house in an equally overlarge tree." As they came over another gentle swell of the hill John once more found his jaw on his chest. In the valley below stood an oak, just as Sherlock had said, and in the oak tree was what looked like a small condo. Nestled firmly in the branches, the making up the outside walls had weathered to a pleasant silver-grey and the whole thing had a very rustic, antiqued look about it.
"You and Mycroft built that?"
"Well, we had a bit of help hauling everything down here, but Mycroft and I did all the structural engineering ourselves." The detective sounded quite proud of himself, really, and John looked up to see a smug little smile on his face. "Took us three summers to put the lot together, working from lunch to dinner just about every day."
"It certainly doesn't look like something children would make! Maybe you should have been a builder, eh?" John smirked and poked his boyfriend lightly to show he was joking. At the top of the hill, John stopped and looked to Sherlock before looking pointedly back down towards the tree.
"Go on then." Sherlock chuckled, releasing John's hand and stepping to the side. John grinned and sat down on the soft grass, giving the soft fibres of green a testing run over with his hand.
"God, this is so childish. But…" John trailed off and his eyes had a mischievous, child-like impishness about them just as he lay on his side. Crossing his arms over his chest, the doctor swung his body over and let himself roll at full speed to the bottom of the hill. He stopped face down in a fit of giggles just before the tree. The giggling continued until Sherlock caught up and helped him to his feet with a small chuckle.
Calming down, John looked up at the looming tree. It seemed monstrously big up close, with its wide and spread out branches. "Right. How do we get up?" He asked, seeing no ladder anywhere.
"Climb." Sherlock replied casually, as if had just suggested walking down the stairs. When John blinked back incredulously, the detective rolled his eyes. "Like this." Placing his hands on the lowest branch (which was just about John's height), Sherlock quickly and rather gracefully swung up and onto the branch.
"Alright, let me try." John rubbed his hands together and bent his knees. Giving a little jump, he managed to grab onto the branch and wrap his arms around it, legs dangling.
"Pull yourself up." Sherlock was already making his way onto the next branch, looking catlike as he lithely landed in a sitting position. John muttered something about his own height and Sherlock's long limbs, but he managed to haul himself onto the branch. He didn't land as smoothly as Sherlock, though. Instead, he was lying on his stomach and scrabbling to his knees.
John managed to get onto the next branch with a bit more ease, and was close behind Sherlock now. The tree house was about five branches up, and by the time they both got onto the fifth branch, John was only slightly out of breath.
"This is the tricky bit." Sherlock gestured to the tree house; there was a three foot gap between the branch they were on and the next branch over to where the tree house was situated, near the centre of the tree. "You'll have to stretch your legs or jump. The former is a bit safer, though. I'm not sure if the wood is strong enough to take the force of a jump after all these years. Especially not after Mycroft jumping onto it as a child." The detective was trying desperately not to add 'because he was very heavy back then'.
"Right, I think I can just stretch across. Let me go first." John shimmied in front of Sherlock and, resting his hands on a random branch, reached his better leg forward. It reached the sort of porch area of the tree house (which had wooden fencing surrounding it!) The doctor thrust his body forward and landed just by the door. Sherlock followed a bit more balanced.
Sherlock led him inside the oversized tree house. By the one large window was a varnished wooden trunk chest. It served as a sort of window seat. It certainly didn't look like a child built this; the floorboards were so exact and neat, and there were no nails sticking out dangerously. On the far corner wall there was a little shelf, holding a plastic, yellow lidded box with small rectangular wooden blocks inside - jenga. A small, felt tip drawn picture of the stately home was stuck up with a thumb-tack over the shelf. It was obviously child-drawn, but so nicely drawn that the child who drew it must have been a very bored, genius, soon-to-be consulting detective.
"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked, and John smiled and nodded at the question.
"It's the best tree house I've ever seen. Better than the dog house that Harry and I used to crawl into in my old back garden."
"Well, it took three years to build. I would have liked to have slept in here but Mummy would never allow me." Sherlock shook his head and sat down on the ground.
"What's in that?" John pointed to the chest. Sherlock shrugged, and quickly changed the subject. "Come and sit down John. I'm sure it's locked anyway. One of Mycroft's ideas."
"Alright." John walked over to the shelf and took down the plastic box. "Play with me?" He sat down cross-legged across from Sherlock and poured the rectangular wooden blocks onto the ground. Sherlock smirked and John looked up. "What?"
"Will you play my way?" The detective grabbed one of the blocks and twirled it around his fingers. John knew that tone of voice all too well.
"And how do you play jenga?"
"Well, there are certain rules. If you wobble the tower you have to kiss me. If I wobble the tower, I have to kiss you. But, whoever knocks down the tower has to do whatever the winner wants." Sherlock arched an eyebrow and started to make the jenga tower. "And no cheating, John."
"I don't cheat! And besides, I always win at jenga." He looked sort of smug. Even if the tower wobbled, it would definitely not be on purpose. And John was a very good jenga player…
Review replies:
OnTheWinterSolstice – I will gladly accept your high five! Keep on being great, yo :D
Bbmcowgirl – The house is actually my RP partner's great imagination. I needed help with the imagery and viola, there it is! It could be based on a real one, though.
Chibiwolfgurl – They are cute, aren't they? Second favourite OTP, of course.
Pilikia18 – Thanks!