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Chapter Text

The first rays of sunlight emerged from behind the eastern hills and sparkled on the dew-coated grass. John Watson took in the dawn's beauty as he rode the mare bareback toward the cluster of low buildings that made up Hill Top Equestrian Centre.  

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

Her hooves created an almost hypnotic rhythm as they trod the dirt path. The rope attached to her halter was slack; a creature of habit, she needed no guidance from John to make the trek from pasture to barn.  

It was late September, and the coolness of the night still lingered. John turned up his collar against the chill and inhaled the earthy, moist smell of morning. Hill Top would become a bustling hive of activity in another hour, but now, at the dusky border between night and day, it was serene.

After a night of freedom in the pasture, the horses were brought back to the stable to earn their keep. They waited patiently for him at the gate, blowing air from their nostrils in soft bursts that made pleasant “whuff” sounds, eager for the oats he’d bring them once they were snug in their stalls.

John knew each of them intimately. Knew where Patsy liked to be scratched (under her chin), that Boris loved bananas in his mash, and that huge Max was afraid of mice. It was his job to know, and he was very good at his job. He was just a stablehand, even though he’d been given the ridiculously grandiose title of “assistant equestrian facility manager”, but he took pride in his work. And he had a way with the horses. So much so that Mrs Hudson had let him have a go at Blaze.  

Standing almost seventeen hands high, Silver Blaze was the colour of a coffee bean, dark with golden highlights and a jagged white stripe on her face, for which she had been named. She was high-spirited, stubborn, and had refused to be broken. She landed at Hill Top after two different stables had given up trying. “Impossible,” said the first. “Worthless,” said the other.  

And then she met John.

Once in the barn, John slid from her back and led her to her stall. Before leaving, he gave her an affectionate scratch behind the ears.

“I’m glad you finally came ‘round, love. Because my arse was getting sore from hitting the ground, and if you and I hadn’t come to an understanding, Mrs Hudson might’ve had to sell you.”

Blaze looked at him with big brown eyes and blinked as if to say, “Who, me?” as if she’d never bucked him off, when in fact, she had sent him arse over tit at least a hundred times. Sometime after that hundredth time, and it felt more like a thousand, she had realised that he was going to climb back on no matter what. He was patient and didn’t lose his considerable temper—he only did that with people. But he wasn’t about to lose. John hated losing. And so he got back on. 

And got back on. 

And got back on. 

Ultimately, he had won the fight and her respect. 

As he scooped oats into each feed bucket, and the horses snorted and pawed the ground in anticipation, he glanced at his watch; Molly would be in soon. Mike was off today.

The three of them, John, Molly Hooper, and Mike Stamford, made up the staff of Hill Top, owned and managed by Martha Hudson. The farm boarded horses, gave lessons, and served as home for the Cambridge University Equestrian Team. 

Molly, who ran the children’s programmes and helped care for the horses, lived nearby and cycled to work. John liked her and had even flirted with her when he’d first taken the job. But he had also been trying to work things out with James, and by the time that relationship had fallen apart, in a grand finale of drunken shouting and accusations, she was off the market. Mike was a chubby, good-natured fellow, with spectacles he was forever pushing up his nose. A gifted mechanic, he could fix anything and kept all the vehicles and equipment at Hill Top running smoothly.     

“Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down...” The slightly off-key soprano signalled Molly’s arrival.

“Back here!” he shouted from the feed room.

Still humming, she joined him. “Morning, Johnny!” She was the only one besides his mum and his sister, Harry, who was allowed to call him Johnny. 

“You should consider updating your repertoire to the twenty-first century,” John ribbed. “Maybe some Taylor Swift?”

“Hmph,” she snorted. “These are English horses, Johnny. They adore Julie Andrews. And Mary Poppins is timeless.”

He laughed. “I reckon she is. I’ll throw some hay down; they’ve already had their oats.” He headed toward the ladder and climbed it to the hayloft. At the top, he hoisted a bale of hay and tossed it down to the barn floor.

“We’ll be getting some Cambridge kids tomorrow, I think,” Molly said as she cut open the bale and divided it into flakes. “Term begins next week, and they’ll be showing up to check out the horses.”

“Don’t remind me,” John said, grimacing. “Posh twats, the lot of ‘em.”

“Oh, come on, they’re not that bad! Molly laughed. “I rather liked Irene. I’m glad she’ll be back this year; she’s fun!”

“Yeah, OK, Irene is fun,” John admitted.

Irene Adler was a returning third-year international studies student at Pembroke who had made first team in her second year and was president of the University Riding Club. President of mischief would be a more fitting title, John thought. 

“Remember that skinny-dipping party she orchestrated last term?” Molly said. “I still can’t believe Hudders didn’t hear us carrying on at the pond.”

“I don’t remember much,” John said. “And I ended up with a bloody jackhammer in my head the next day.” 

“You and Sally…” Molly made a little tsk-tsking sound. “If Mrs Hudson ever finds out...” Then she did her best Mrs Hudson impression.

“Students are off limits! This farm is not a brothel." 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” John said. “Without the team contract, she couldn’t keep the lights on. So we’ve got to keep the parents happy.”

“And they wouldn't want their precious darlings seduced by the help,” Molly added.

“In my defence, Sally started it,” John said.

“I can’t say I blame her,” Molly giggled. “Your little white bum was so cute.”  

John responded by throwing a handful of hay down on her head. “Can we just forget the Sally thing, Molly? It was nothing.”

And it had been.

Against his better judgment, on which John blamed the enormous quantity of wine and weed he’d consumed, he’d kissed Sally Donovan, another third-year, in the pond. She had indeed started it, swimming up behind him and wrapping her slim, bronze legs around his waist, then blowing in his ear. Teasing. One thing had led to another, and they’d ended up shagging in John’s bed in his little cottage behind the main house.

She was gone when he woke up, and he hadn’t seen or heard from her since. He had texted, but she didn’t respond. And she wasn’t going to. He knew this by now. These were rich kids with the world at their feet, and he was just the help. She’d pretend it never happened.  

Because he was a nobody. 

He would be happy to have Irene back, but the rest of the students were another story. With their fancy cars, their fancy educations, and their wealthy mums and dads paying for them to ride and compete on the horses that John cared for, it was hard not to be bitter sometimes.

After Sally, he promised himself never again. To never let his dick overrule his head. He needed this job. Eighteen more months of scrimping, and he’d have enough money for farrier school. As a farrier, he’d still be surrounded by the wealthy. It was a given in the horsey world. But he intended to be the best farrier in England.

So they’d have to respect him.

Chapter Text

“Oi! John. Can you give me a hand with the truck?” Mike Stamford shouted from the irregular patch of gravel that served as Hill Top’s car park. 

“Coming, mate.” John made the final strokes with his rake and turned to admire his handiwork. The long dirt aisle of the barn was spotless. Not just spotless but adorned with an even pattern of rakework. Overlapping diagonal strokes, seven to the left, seven to the right. Over and over, just the way Mrs Hudson had taught him. 

“Excellence in everything, John. It’s not just a barn floor. It’s a reflection on you, dear.” 

He leaned the rake against the wall and hurried outside. 

Mike’s ample backside protruded from the open bonnet of a black pickup truck emblazoned with the Hill Top logo as he bent over the engine. The space between his sagging trousers and the hem of his shirt revealed soft, pale flesh bisected by the cleft of his arse. 

“Just turn her on and pump the accelerator,” Mike directed, fiddling with some wires. 

John jumped into the truck and turned the key. The engine sputtered, then caught, then sputtered again as John pressed the accelerator. He listened as Mike alternately cajoled and berated the engine.

“Come on, love…come on…I think I see your problem…Just a little adjustment…Dammit! Turn you little bugger!” That seemed to do the trick, and the engine hummed steadily.

Mike slammed the bonnet and smiled triumphantly at John as he pushed his spectacles up his nose, leaving a streak of black grease. “Thanks, mate!”

“Anytime,” John said. As he exited the truck, both he and Mike were startled by the roar of an engine and the sound of skidding tyres, and they turned in unison to see what had caused the commotion. There was a pinging sound as pebbles bounced off the rims of the pickup’s tyres. 

As the dust settled, a bright red coupe was revealed, sleek and low to the ground, with the yellow Ferrari emblem just behind the front wheel. It had come to rest just a few metres from the truck. 

“Blimey,” Mike whispered. “That's a Four Eighty-Eight Spider.” 

John was not so impressed. “Hey!” he shouted, “Slow it down, mate!” Whoever was in the car didn’t respond, and John couldn’t see much through the roiling dust and tinted windows. 

“Sign says fifteen,” John shouted again, annoyed. 

Still, there was no response from the driver. 

John was just about to shout again when the door of the coupe opened, and a man emerged. First, John saw the dark, wavy hair, undulating Medusa-like in the breeze. Then the mirrored aviator-style sunglasses. Then the stub of a cigarette hanging from his mouth. 

As the man rose to full height, John wondered how he had fit in the little sports car. He was tall, taller than Coach Lestrade, but slender. He wore a form-fitting white technical shirt with a zip at the throat and black riding breeches. The black breeches paired with the shiny black riding boots made his legs appear impossibly long. 

He took an extended drag on the cigarette before dropping it to the gravel and grinding it with his boot. Then he pulled off his aviators, fixing John with a cool stare as he exhaled a stream of smoke. 

The latent shout died in John’s throat. In fact, he had no idea what he had been about to say. Something about speed?

Maybe. He couldn’t remember. 

For a heartbeat, he was frozen, held in place by the man’s stare like a mounted butterfly. 

The heartbeat passed, and John recovered. This wasn’t a man at all. It was a kid. Twenty-ish. And that was being generous. 

A fucking student. 

John took a breath. “...fifteen miles per hour,” he said, still off-kilter. 

The man—kid—gave him a crooked half-smile. More like a smirk, really, and John took in his features. His face was long and narrow, with movie star cheekbones. His eyes were a bright shade of blue and somewhat slanted, which gave him an odd, alien look. But it wasn’t unattractive. 

Not at all. 

John swallowed hard. 

“Noted,” the newcomer said. His voice was low and melodic. Auditory velvet. Not what John had expected from the slight figure. 

“Nice car,” Mike said. 

“It is,” the kid replied. 

At that moment, the passenger door of the sports car opened, and Irene Adler stepped out.

“John! Mike! It’s splendid to see you again. Let me introduce you to Sherlock Holmes.” 

Chapter Text

Irene strutted around the Ferrari to stand beside Sherlock. She was similarly dressed in fashionable riding attire and lipstick that matched the hue of the car. John had never seen her without perfectly painted lips, and today was no exception. 

She slipped an arm around the tall man’s waist and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “Sherlock’s trialling for the team this year. And he’ll make it.” She looked up at Sherlock and winked. “He’s a shoo-in. I’ve brought him to check out the horses. Sherlock, darling, this is John, Mrs Hudson’s right hand, and Mike takes care of the um…what is it you do, Mike?”

“I’m the handyman,” Mike said, extending a greasy hand. Sherlock looked at it and hesitated, but Irene gave him a pinch, and he shook it. “Pleasure,” he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“John Watson,” John said, offering his hand after glancing to confirm its cleanliness. Sherlock pumped it, and John was struck by how huge his hand was. It engulfed his own as if it were a child’s. 

“So you’re the stable boy then,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. 

John felt heat in his cheeks. “I’m the Assistant Equestrian Facility Manager,” he said, throwing his shoulders back and standing tall. Which didn’t feel tall at all compared to Sherlock.

Sherlock rubbed his chin as he regarded John. “As I said, stable boy.”

The heat in John’s cheeks intensified. “I’m the Assistant Equestrian Facility Manager,” he repeated firmly. And I’m twenty-eight years old.” 

“Congratulations,” Sherlock said. 

John could not believe the cheek of this student. He glanced at Irene, who had slipped her arm around Sherlock’s. She looked from him to Sherlock with amusement, as if she were enjoying John’s humiliation. 

Before John could retort, she broke in. “Enough chit-chat! Let’s go see the horses, Sherlock!” And she began pulling him toward the barn. 

John watched them walk away, with tiny Irene taking two steps for each of Sherlock’s long strides. The tight riding breeches accented the fucking perfect shape of what was underneath. 

The slim hips and round arse. 

Sherlock’s arse.   

Irene had a nice bum, too, but something about Sherlock drew John’s eyes. 

“Can you believe that guy?” John said, still watching. 

When there was no response from Mike, John turned to find him standing beside the Ferrari, running his fingertips lightly over the fender with an expression of wonder on his dirty face and ignoring John completely. 

“Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock arsehole more like it,” John muttered, looking back toward the barn. 

But Sherlock and Irene had disappeared.  

Chapter Text

John was putting freshly cleaned bridles back on their hooks when Sherlock appeared at the tack room door. John sensed his presence but didn’t turn. Instead, he continued to fiddle with the bridles, arranging and rearranging them until it bordered on the ridiculous, waiting for the man to speak. 

A second passed. Then two, then three. And suddenly, John was self-conscious. His flannel shirt was ancient, and his frayed jeans sported a patch on the back pocket where an ever-present hoof pick had worn a hole. Was Sherlock judging him? And why didn’t he say something? 

Anything. 

And when he finally spoke, John immediately missed the silence.  

“Hey, you—Assistant Equestrian…what was it? Manager? Really, that title is quite long. May I just call you stable boy? No. I perceive you took offence at that. Lord of the Barn? Only joking; that’s too complicated—defeats the goal of simplification—and it’s still pretentious. Stable Assistant? SA for short? Could also stand for short arse—which fits. SH for Stable Hand? But those are my initials, so strike that.” He paused for a breath. “Has my gear arrived?” 

John’s head was spinning, and it took a moment to comprehend the multiple insults embedded within the torrent of words. Be civil, John. He inhaled. Exhaled.

“You could just call me John.” 

“Pardon?”

Now John turned. “John. My name is John Watson.”  

Sherlock looked perplexed. Apparently, his train of thought had barrelled past the question of how to address John properly and was now focused on the whereabouts of his gear. 

“Oh. Yes. Fine.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Has my equipment arrived? My saddle and helmet. They were to have been delivered.” 

“Sorry, mate. I’ve not seen them.” 

“Hmph.” Sherlock looked annoyed. “I was hoping to ride—” 

He broke off, flinching as Irene appeared and cupped his buttock, giving it a squeeze. His frown deepened for a split second but smoothly transformed into a close-lipped smile as he removed her hand from his backside. 

“Not here, darling,” he said, still smiling, but the smile seemed forced. 

“Sorry, love, I just can’t keep my hands off of you,” Irene replied, now running a hand up Sherlock’s chest. She looked over her shoulder at John. “Can you blame me, John? I mean, look at him.” 

John looked at the floor instead and wondered how to respond. Yeah, Irene. He may be a dick, but he’s gorgeous, and I’d like to run my hands over him too, seemed out of the question. 

“So you two are a thing, then?” He said, looking up again. 

Irene looked at Sherlock expectantly. 

“We are,” he said. “A thing.”

She smiled at him and then turned her attention back to John. “The horses look fit. I noticed a few new ones. The grey one with the blue halter? I didn’t see a name.”

“Ghost,” John supplied. “Just arrived last week. I saw Coach Lestrade working with him yesterday. A nice piece of horseflesh. Whoever draws him for team trials is one lucky girl—um, or guy.” John glanced at Sherlock. The riding club and the university team were predominantly female. When John had arrived two years ago, there had been just a single man on the team, Percy Phelps, but he’d graduated last term. 

“And the tall bay, Silver Blaze?” Irene said. “I’ve heard stories about her. A handful, I’m told.” 

“She’s coming along,” John said. Suddenly, he felt the urge to boast, to impress them—especially Sherlock. “I broke her myself.” 

Irene did look impressed. “Well done, John. Mrs Hudson must be pleased.” 

“It was nothing. I just don’t like to lose.”

Sherlock looked at John, and John could swear he saw an evil twinkle in his blue eyes. One corner of his mouth twitched. Like he wanted to say something but had thought the better of it. 

John felt his pride melt into irrational defensiveness. “You’ve got something to say, mate?”

“I was just picturing you climbing onto that mare. Must’ve needed a step ladder—”

Irene elbowed him in the ribs. “Play nice! Don’t mind him, John. He’s really a big pussycat.” 

“I am really not,” Sherlock said, with no hint of playfulness. And he wasn’t looking at her when he said it. Instead, he had his eyes locked on John’s and the twinkle that had been there a moment ago was gone, replaced by something else, something almost predatory that made John’s mouth go dry. 

“Oh, but you are, darling,” Irene said. 

John believed Sherlock.  

Chapter Text

That night, John sat on his bed with a beer, going through the post with Theodora, the barn cat curled up beside him. A credit card application and an advert for a men’s clothing shop went directly into the bin, unopened. There was a letter from his mother. He set it aside. His mum’s letters took a certain amount of mental preparation to read. If she’d written it on a bender, it would be rambling and incoherent, and if she’d been sober, she’d likely be asking for money. Money he didn’t have. 

There was a recruiting letter from the British Army with a Union Jack and the motto “Army. Be the Best.” on the envelope. He ripped it open, took a swig of beer, and read it. It promised adventure, glory, and marketable skills—if he didn’t get his legs blown off in Afghanistan first. 

He’d been to the recruiting office when he was twenty-one. But he’d stopped short of committing. Then came a series of menial jobs before he had landed at Hill Top. He liked it here. And he loved the horses. But it didn’t offer much of a future. “Assistant Equestrian Facility Manager.” He really was only a glorified stable boy, just as the Holmes kid had said. 

He folded the letter and placed it on his bedside table. Maybe he would give the Army some thought. He’d checked their website and learned that they offered farrier training. But it would be hard to make a living shoeing horses if you were missing limbs.  

The last item was from Thomson, Webb and Corfield, Solicitors. SECOND NOTICE - DO NOT DISCARD! was printed across it in all capitals. Cursing, he flung it like a frisbee and watched it hit the far wall and fall to the carpet. 

He’d been arrested after a bar fight a few months back and still owed his lawyer. He closed his eyes and remembered how embarrassed he’d been when Mrs Hudson came to bail him out. But she didn’t seem angry, and if she was disappointed in him, she didn’t say so. 

“Did you win the fight?” was all she said as she drove him back to the farm. He had, of course. The other guy, an Italian with a thin moustache and a backwards baseball cap, had refused to pay his wager when John beat him in a game of pool. Insults were exchanged and then blows. John had walked away with only a split lip. It had taken two bouncers to pull him off the Italian, who ended up in the A&E with a broken nose and a concussion. 

He never did get his forty quid, but he had the satisfaction of winning—both the fight and the game. 

So there was that. 

He downed the rest of his beer and turned off the light before stroking Theo’s ginger head and falling back onto his pillow. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He turned to his side, then to his back again, prompting his bedmate to meow in protest at the jostling. A beam of moonlight shone through the window, and John raised his hand, slicing into it like a warm knife into butter. He examined it, turning it and flexing his fingers. It was calloused and rough. A labourer's hand. He thought of Sherlock Holmes’s long white fingers. Probably baby soft. 

He sighed. He had no idea why he’d thought of the Holmes kid’s fingers. The guy was such a prick. With any luck, he wouldn’t make the team, and John would be rid of him. 

But, since when have I been lucky? 

John formed his hand into a rabbit shape, making a shadow on the wall beside him. He bounced it up and down a few times. Then raised his other hand, joined them, and made a bird with flapping wings. He wished he had more beer. 

Dropping his arms, he turned his mind to Sally. He wondered if she’d say anything to him about the night they’d spent together. He reckoned she wouldn’t. He closed his eyes and tried to remember it. He’d been pissed, but he could still recall how she had breathed obscenities in his ear and how her long curly hair smelled faintly of honeysuckle. He imagined her now, riding him, her breasts bouncing. As John drifted toward sleep, Sally morphed into James, who, instead of bouncing breasts, had tawny chest hair and a Manchester United tattoo. And just before the black fog of sleep enveloped him, James faded away and was replaced by a vision of Sherlock Holmes in the doorway of the tack room with the eyes of a wolf.

And John was the rabbit.   

Chapter Text

The first day of Michaelmas term started well. Great, even. Crisp and sunny; a perfect autumn day. John had slept soundly the night before and woke up in such good spirits that he decided to open his mum’s letter. It wasn’t a drunken rambling mess, nor was it a request for money. Instead, it was a birthday card. His birthday had been over a month ago, but the fact that she had sent him a card at all made him happy. 

He and Molly brought in the horses, fed them and readied the stables for the students. There would be lessons today with Coach Lestrade. Lestrade had ridden in two Olympic Games for Great Britain and had won the individual showjumping silver in Sydney. Once, he’d brought the medal to show the students and let John hold it. John had turned the heavy disc over and over in his hands, in awe of not just the beauty of it but of what it represented. Endless hard work. Excellence. National pride. 

He had just finished raking the aisle when Sally arrived wearing navy blue riding breeches and an orange puffy vest that complemented her complexion beautifully. She spotted him, hesitated, and then said cautiously, “Hello, John.”

At least she remembered his name. 

“Hello, Sally.” They made awkward small talk for a few minutes before John plunged in. “Hey, about that party—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” she interrupted, not meeting his eyes. “It’s just that, um…I was drunk and…I really shouldn’t have. You’re a nice chap...” Now she looked up at him. “And that thing you did was,” she lowered her voice, “bloody amazing. It’s just that—”

He held up a hand. “No need to explain. And I could get in trouble with Hudders for it, so let's just forget it ever happened.”

She looked relieved and said, “Yeah, thanks,” before giving him a peck on the cheek. 

She walked on, and John smiled a little smile. That had gone better than expected. He had been dreading the encounter, and now it was over. And she had been nice to him. He had no idea what the “thing” was she had referred to; the details of the encounter were too fuzzy, but he was chuffed just the same. Another satisfied notch on John Watson’s bedpost.

John’s smile inverted when the sound of a roaring engine and flying gravel reached his ears. 

Holmes!

His good mood ruined, John strode to the barn door, preparing to give him an earful for speeding again. 

“Ooof” As he rounded the corner, he collided with Sherlock, who stopped short when John slammed into him but did not yield or make a sound. It was as if John had walked into an oak tree. 

John looked up, surprised. Sherlock looked down, also surprised. They were so close that John could see the individual hairs of Sherlock’s furrowed brows. Could smell his expensive cologne. He opened his mouth, intending to give Sherlock the comeuppance he deserved, but it was suddenly dry, and the words wilted on the back of his tongue. He could feel the echoes of the collision from his chest to his thighs, and the air between the two men seemed to hum with electricity.  

They stared at one another, each unwilling to move. It was a contest, John realised. A stupid, petty power struggle. And he set his jaw, determined to prevail. Sherlock’s eyes twinkled. The same twinkle that they’d had in the tack room the week before. One corner of his mouth twitched. And then…

Sherlock took a step backwards. 

“My apologies,” he said.

And John relaxed, relishing his victory. 

Sherlock continued. “I didn’t see you down there.” 

The cocksucker. 

John had had enough of the short jokes. He’d had enough short jokes to last a lifetime by the time he left secondary school, and he’d certainly had enough from Sherlock.

 “What the fuck is your problem?” he demanded. 

“Are you going to hit me?” Sherlock said.

“What? No! I’m not going to hit you. I’m just wondering if you could possibly pull that silver spoon out of your arse and be civil.”

Sherlock ignored the question. “Pity. It would’ve been rather hot,” he said. Then he winked and walked past John, giving his bicep a squeeze as he went. 

John stood frozen and confused. What the hell just happened? Then he turned and said the only thing he could think of. 

“Speed limit’s fifteen miles per hour!”

Sherlock ignored him again and continued down the aisle, and John could have sworn he purposely dragged his boots in the dust more than was necessary, spoiling John’s meticulous rake pattern. 

John’s hand went to his bicep, where Sherlock had gripped it as he watched him walk away. He flexed and felt the muscle harden under his fingers. The wink, the touch, and the comment. What the devil was that about? How could Sherlock know? It wasn’t a secret, but still—

Irene.

Of course. Irene and Sherlock were dating. She had told him that John played both sides. And now Sherlock was using that knowledge to taunt him. Jesus. Was he this big of a dick to everyone, or was there something special about John? 

As he pondered this, Mike appeared and asked if he was ready for lunch.

“Yeah, sure—Hey, Mike. Have you talked to that Holmes kid?”

“A bit.”

“Was he a jerk to you?”

“No. Little snobbish, like most of ‘em, especially the pretty ones, but nice enough. Mike’s face brightened. “He offered to let me drive the Spider sometime—on the condition that I was clean, and I can’t fault him for that. She’s pristine.” 

“You’re joking. He’s going to let you drive his Ferrari? And did you just call him pretty?”

“I’m serious,” Mike said. And he is awfully good looking. Not that I go for that kind of thing. Just objectively speaking.”

“He’s been nothing but an arsehole to me since we met,” John said. “I’d like to see him taken down a peg.” 

Or two.  

Chapter Text

John and Molly hung over the fence watching Irene, Sally, Sherlock, and a new girl named Soo Lin Yao circle the arena at a trot. 

Coach Lestrade stood at the centre of the ring with a thermos of coffee in one hand and a riding crop in the other, calling out occasionally as the riders warmed up. 

“Yao, Boris is fighting you; relax your hands a bit, yeah? That’s it. Better.”

“Holmes, heels down!” 

John had wanted to watch Sherlock ride last week, but he was still smarting from the insults and didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction. Still, he wanted to know if Sherlock was a good rider or if he was all talk. Part of him hoped he’d fail and wanted to witness his humiliation. Wanted to revel in the sweet satisfaction of hearing Coach dress him down. Lestrade was good-natured outside of the ring, but he could be brutal in lessons. 

A small part of him, a very small part—infinitesimal, really—wanted Sherlock to make the team because that meant that he’d be training at Hill Top, and John would continue to see him. He wouldn’t get close enough for more verbal abuse, but he could look, couldn’t he? Like wolfsbane with its beautiful flowers that drew you in but could kill by mere touch, Sherlock Holmes was best admired from afar. Besides, someone like that would never be interested in someone like John.  

It was pointless to even consider it.

They’d barely spoken since Sherlock had winked at him last week. In fact, Sherlock had pointedly ignored him. Once, he’d even called him Jim, not John, as he handed him Max’s bridle after a lesson, telling him that there had been crusted grime on the bit when he’d taken it from its hook earlier, and to clean it more carefully next time. He hadn’t said it sarcastically, and he had barely even looked at John. He said it with the air of someone accustomed to giving orders and having them followed. John had swallowed his anger and taken the bridle without comment. Mrs Hudson was within earshot and would not approve of a row with a student. But he knew the bit had been spotless. 

To add insult to injury, that night, in the wee hours, he’d woken up with a pounding heart and wet shorts. And it hadn’t been Sally or James in his dream. It had been Sherlock. And in the dream, Sherlock had remembered his name. He had whispered it as his fucking perfect lips had roamed over John’s body, and John could still remember the feel of hot breath against his skin. 

He cursed as he cleaned himself, then tossed the flannel and the soiled pants in a corner before crawling back under the covers, naked and thoroughly annoyed. Was the admittedly sexy but infuriating toff going to torment him even in his sleep? 

A fluke. It had been a fluke. He’d had Sherlock on his mind because he’d been fuming about the slight earlier that day, that’s all.

It meant nothing. 

******

“What do you think of the new girl?” Molly said as they watched the lesson.

John shrugged. “Soo Lin? Quiet, smart, rich, of course. Dad’s the head of some big tech company. Mum’s the director of some museum in London. The National Antiques…Antiquities? Something like that.”

“Must be nice,” Molly said, without bitterness. 

“That one’s an arsehole,” John said, pointing to Sherlock. 

She laughed. “Did you know I used to work for his family? They have an estate in Warwickshire—Musgrave Court. I worked in the stables there for a summer when I was eighteen. Huge place. Practically a castle. His mum and dad died when he was little; the place belongs to his grandmother. There was an older brother too—Mycroft.”

“And you knew Sherlock?”

“A little. He wasn’t the sociable type. He’s a year younger than me, I think, and as I remember, he was kind of a jerk. But I always forgave him because he was so hot.” She watched him trot past and sighed. “Still is. There’s not a girl in the club who wouldn’t love to be with him and half the guys. Irene is a lucky woman.”

A year younger than Molly. So twenty-three. Older than he looks.

Molly sighed again and continued. “I used to think he was gay. He hung out with a fellow named Victor, and there were rumours about Vic. I tried flirting with him—Sherlock—once, but he just ignored it. Looked at me like I was speaking Swahili, then made a silly comment about my mouth being too small.” 

She turned her head. “John, look at me. Do you think it’s too small?” She alternately smiled widely and pursed her lips, presenting a full range of motion for his evaluation.

“It’s just right,” John assured her. “Lovely.”

She looked pleased.

“It would be a shame if he were gay,” she said. “At least for my side.”

John shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah, a right shame,” he said, with as neutral an expression as he could muster.

She cocked her head and studied him.  

“What?” John said, suddenly defensive.  

Her brows knitted, then relaxed, and finally, she grinned a sly grin.

“John Watson, you can’t fool me. You fancy him!”

“I do not!” 

“Do too. You’ve had your eyeballs glued to him the whole time we’ve been here.”

“I was watching him because he’s a bloody good rider.”

“Yeah, right,” she replied, continuing to grin.

And it was true. Sherlock’s riding was impressive. Instead of a passenger, he appeared to be an extension of the big black gelding, making it look effortless as he communicated to Max through imperceptible shifts in weight and changes in pressure. Elegant was the word that came to John’s mind. They watched him clear series after series of jumps beautifully, and when he cantered past them, he glanced briefly at John with a smirk that seemed to say. “Of course, I’m going to make the team, and then I’m going to make you miserable.”

“He’s going to make the team for sure!” Molly exclaimed. 

“Just fucking great,” John muttered under his breath. 

Chapter Text

John stepped from the feed room at the back of the barn and immediately stopped short, sniffing the air. 

Smoke! Tobacco smoke. Just a hint, but definitely there. 

He scanned the barn but saw nothing. Then he noticed footsteps in the dirt. Not just footsteps but swishes and drags as if someone had literally danced down the aisle. He remembered how Sherlock had dragged his boots, purposely disturbing John’s neat rakework. It was silly for John to care. After all, it was a barn, and horses and people trod upon the floor all day long. But somehow, it did matter to John, and Sherlock knew it. The bastard knew it and was making fun of him.

John’s hands flexed, opened, and then balled into fists, getting angrier by the step as he followed the footprints and the smell of smoke. 

He walked the full length of the barn and then out into the car park. There, Sherlock leaned casually against his car, scrolling through his phone with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth like James fucking Dean. 

“Holmes!” 

Sherlock looked up, plucked the cigarette from his lips, and let the smoke drift out slowly, enveloping his face in a hazy cloud with only the piercing blue of his eyes visible. 

“Holmes!” John repeated as he advanced. “You little shit! You were smoking in the barn. THERE IS NO SMOKING IN THE BARN!” He jabbed his finger in the air inches from Sherlock’s chest, punctuating each word.  

Sherlock grinned. “Well, that’s amusing, you calling me little.” He took another drag. 

“It isn’t funny,” John snarled. “You should know better. You do know better. I’ll be letting Coach Lestrade know about this.” 

“What proof do you have?” 

“I smelled it.” 

“There was a breeze; the smoke could have drifted. You can’t prove anything.” Sherlock dropped the cigarette and ground it with his heel. 

“You cocksucker.” It was all John could do to keep from slamming the kid against the stupid, fancy car and pounding him within an inch of his stupid, charmed life. He wanted to. He really wanted to. 

Sherlock grinned again as he opened the door of the Ferrari and slid in. 

“Guilty as charged,” he said before throwing the car in reverse and leaving John standing, red-faced, in a cloud of dust.

Chapter Text

The next day, John replaced the “No Smoking” sign in the barn with a bigger one that proclaimed “ABSOLUTELY No Smoking!”

He also told both Hudders and Lestrade about the infraction. He hoped it would get Sherlock barred from team trials that Saturday. It didn’t, but John had the satisfaction of overhearing Hudders give the kid a tongue-lashing in the tack room as John sat on a stool near the barn door, cleaning brushes. 

“Just because your family owns half the country doesn't mean you can...*unintelligible*…do you understand, young man?”

“Yes, ma'am.” 

Sherlock didn’t argue but instead sounded deferential and contrite. John could hardly believe his ears. 

After being dismissed by Mrs Hudson, Sherlock stalked out, glowering at John as he passed. 

John just smiled pleasantly and then watched him until he was out of sight. Then he went back to work, whistling a cheery tune. 

********

Trialling day meant that John was up and about before the first rays of sunlight even thought about peeking over the horizon. The horses had to be fed, groomed, and ready to go, and the grounds spotless before the first students arrived. Twenty-odd of them would be competing for twelve coveted spots. Some students would come confident, and some pale and anxious. They would draw lots for horses, each riding two different mounts through dressage tests and jumping patterns as Coach Lestrade and Assistant Coach Sawyer watched with their pens and clipboards, awarding points. And, at the end of the day, there would be triumph, and there would be tears. There were always tears. 

The day was hectic, but John managed to take a break here and there to watch the action. He’d seen a few jumping rounds in the morning and was now watching Irene take Ghost through a dressage test. Dressage wasn’t as exciting as jumping, but it was still enjoyable to watch. It was like ballet on horseback, precise and controlled and beautiful. He watched as the pair turned at A, trotted down the centre line, stopping at X. The halt was perfect, with Ghost standing square, his weight evenly distributed among all four legs. Irene dropped her left hand and bowed her head, saluting Coach Lestrade to end the test. John clapped as she exited the arena, and she smiled at him. 

He smiled back. 

“Holmes, you’re up!” Lestrade called over the loudspeaker, and Sherlock, riding Patsy, headed toward the ring. When he glanced at John, John made a point of turning his back and walking away. There was no way he was going to watch him ride, no matter how perfect his cheekbones were. 

Irene followed John back to the barn since Ghost was done for the day, and he took the reins as she dismounted. She sprang lightly from the horse’s back and landed with a flourish. The girl did everything with style. She took off her gloves and used them to smack John’s backside playfully, a move he could have taken offence to but didn’t.

“Give him an extra scoop of oats. He was a champ today!” She kissed Ghost’s nose and cooed, “Such a good boy you were,” before addressing John again. 

“We’re going to beat Oxford this year, you know. It’s going to be glorious.”

“You haven’t made the team yet.”

She laughed merrily. “I will. I’ll get top score too. I’m going to enjoy beating that man.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes. I may be his girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to beat him.” She tapped her riding crop against her palm as she spoke. “He’ll make the team, no doubt, but he’s an impossible git, and I’d like to take him down a peg.”

Don’t we all, John thought, but said, “Why don’t you go back out and watch him? I’ll take good care of Ghost.”

“You’re a dear! Join us at the firepit later?” Irene said.

“Maybe,” John replied.  

Irene left, and John began to unsaddle Ghost. As he did, his boot kicked something hard. He looked down and saw bright, glittery red. It was a mobile phone case, and based on the colour, it had to be Irene’s. Just then, it chimed. He picked it up and glanced at the screen. It was locked, but a partial text message was visible. He shouldn’t have read it, but it was right there, and before he could decide not to, he had. 

Ditch the pretty boy and come see me tonight. I have something I know you want. *aubergine emoji.* Meet me at 8 at—

Aubergine emoji. Interesting.  

It could be perfectly innocent. Irene was popular, and there were probably loads of guys—and girls—interested. It meant nothing. But what if it did? What if she were cheating on Sherlock? Oh, to see Sherlock cuckolded! That would be immensely satisfying. Taken down a peg indeed. 

He put the mobile in his pocket.   

********

John sighed as the hot water ran over his body, carrying away the day’s accumulation of sweat and caked dust. Farm work was dirty, and dust worked its way into every crevice. Even blowing one’s nose was likely to yield a tissue full of something like mud. Grime and stink were a testament to honest hard work, and John didn’t mind them, but getting clean felt sublime. He worked shampoo into his hair, scrubbing his scalp with his fingertips. It smelled good, like alpine sage, according to the bottle. Then he stood under the spray far longer than necessary. When the water ran cold, John turned off the taps and dried himself.

After donning pants and fresh jeans, he surveyed his wardrobe. Which shirt to choose? The red? No—coffee stain. The green? No—ripped at the shoulder. He took the blue plaid from the hanger. It would do. As he buttoned it, he glanced out of the window. It was getting dark, and he could just make out the orange glow of the fire pit down near the pond. The post-trials celebration had begun. 

He pulled on a pair of boots and looked in the full-length mirror that hung on the bathroom door. Presentable. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, pushing it off his face. He could use a haircut. 

Tuck or no tuck? He tucked in his shirt, then turned and looked over his shoulder. His arse looked good in these jeans, but did a tucked shirt make him look uptight? Untucked would be more casual, better. Like he wasn’t trying. 

And he wasn’t. 

He pulled his shirt out of his jeans again and grabbed a jacket before heading out. 

Thirty seconds later, he returned and slapped on some cologne. 

Just in case. 

Just in case of what, he wasn’t sure. Sally would be there, but that was over. And he’d sworn off students. 

But there was nothing wrong with smelling good, right? 

********

Students stood about holding bottles of beer or plastic cups, laughing and drinking. Others were seated on folding chairs around the fire. John could make out Lestrade and Assistant Coach Sawyer, standing off to the side, just out of the glow cast by the flames, deep in conversation. The low thud of bass and unintelligible rap lyrics streamed from a portable speaker. 

He figured most of the winners were here: Irene, Sherlock, and Sally among them. Some of the losers, too. All were invited, but those who hadn’t made the cut probably didn’t feel like partying. John took a bottle of beer from a cooler and scanned the crowd for Molly or Mike. He spied Molly and her boyfriend, Tom. Molly waved him over. 

He shook hands with Tom, then took the empty chair beside Molly. 

“Another trial day in the rear-view mirror,” she said. 

“I’ll drink to that,” John said, and they clinked their bottles together. 

“Have you seen Irene? John said. “I found her phone earlier, and I’d like to get it to her.” He checked his watch. It was nearly seven, and the sender of the message had asked to meet her at eight.  

Molly shrugged. “She and Sherlock are here somewhere. Probably snogging in the—” She caught herself and smiled impishly. “Oh. Sorry, John.” 

“Jesus, Molly. I told you. I don’t fancy the guy. Can’t stand him, actually. He’s a royal prick, and I don’t know what Irene sees in him.”

“Other than the obvious? Rich. Handsome…” Molly said. 

“Could be good in bed, too,” Tom offered. 

John pinched the bridge of his nose, annoyed at where the conversation had gone and that it had prompted an unwelcome visual of Sherlock and Irene in bed together. 

“Who’s good in bed?” 

They looked behind them to see Irene walking out of the darkness with Sherlock in tow, carrying a bottle of wine and two cups. They were still in their riding clothes, although she had added a light green team fleece, and Sherlock wore a stylish jacket over his riding shirt. His hair was pulled into a messy knot at the top of his head from which a few stray curls had escaped. He looked bored. 

“It’s you, John, isn’t it?” she said. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

Sally must’ve talked. 

John laughed. “What can I say—it’s me,” then glanced around the circle. The only open chair was the one next to him. Shit.  

Irene pushed Sherlock into the chair and climbed onto his lap, then held out a cup as Sherlock poured wine into it. He hadn’t spoken, and he still looked bored. Far too bored for a man with a woman like Irene in his lap. And he hadn’t even acknowledged John. 

Sherlock’s ignoring him seemed deliberate. Not that John cared. 

Irene cupped Sherlock’s cheek with her palm, frowning. “Seriously, darling, I told you, I hate the man-bun.” 

“My hair is a sweaty mess from being in a helmet all day,” he said. 

“I don’t care. You look ridiculous!” She reached up and pulled the tie from his hair, letting the dark curls fall around his face.

John couldn’t help noticing that, even sweaty, his hair was fucking perfect.

“Better,” she declared after taking a sip of wine. “I beat you today, so you have to do what I say. To the victor go the spoils.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Congratulations to both of you,” Molly said. 

“Yeah, well done,” Tom said. 

John felt the pressure to add his congratulations, but there was no way he was going to say something nice to Sherlock. 

No way in hell. 

Suddenly, he remembered the phone. 

“Irene! I found your mobile today. You dropped it in the barn.” He pulled it from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. 

“Fabulous! Thank you, John. I wondered where I’d lost it.” She took it from him, immediately unlocked it, and began scrolling. 

As she did, Sherlock addressed John. 

“That bay mare, Silver Blaze…” 

“What about her?”

“Is she for sale? I might like to buy her.”

John’s chest tightened. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The thought of Sherlock buying Blaze had taken him completely by surprise. Why would he do that? There wasn’t anything special about her. She was just a horse. A horse that John had broken. A horse that John loved. He looked at Sherlock. That glint was in his eye again. He was doing this on purpose. Perhaps as revenge for John reporting his smoking. 

“No, I don’t think she’s for sale.” 

“Everything has a price, Josh. Horses and people both.” 

John seethed. If he wanted to buy her, there was nothing John could do to stop him. He decided the best thing to do was to pretend he didn’t care. About Blaze, or the fact that Sherlock had called him Josh. 

“Whatever. Ask Hudders. Not sure why you’d want her, though. She’s stubborn.” 

“I like a good fight,” Sherlock replied. “I like to win. And I usually do.”

Then John’s pretending went out the window. 

“I could beat the shit out of you and not break a sweat.” John didn’t mean to say it. He meant it, but he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Starting a fight with this kid had no upside. Sure, John could mop the floor with him, just like the Italian in the bar, but that would be monumentally stupid. Satisfying, but monumentally stupid. 

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “I doubt that.” 

They stared at one another. 

Just then, Irene, who had been engrossed in her phone, ignoring the conversation, looked up. “Sherlock, I’ve got to run. Beth texted. She’s had a terrible row with Nigel and wants me to meet her at eight. She sounds desperate. Sorry, love. Walk me to my car?” 

John was pretty sure that Beth hadn’t texted at all. Not unless Beth had a dick, and who knows, maybe she did, but what mattered was that Irene was cheating on Sherlock. Good.

“No worries,” Sherlock said. “Parties are dreadful anyway.” If he was suspicious, he didn’t show it. They got up and, after saying goodbye, disappeared into the night. 

The party continued with drinking, dancing, and a fair amount of Oxford bashing. Oxford University was Cambridge’s arch-rival and was always the last match of the season. Sherlock hadn't returned, and John assumed that he'd gone home after walking Irene to her car.

“Do you think Sherlock was serious about buying Blaze?” Molly asked as they roasted marshmallows over the dwindling fire. Tom was off with Mike, probably talking about cars. 

“Dunno. Doubt it. Probably just wanted to piss me off.” 

“And he did, didn’t he?” 

John sighed. “Yeah, he did.” 

“Do you think they’re a good couple, he and Irene?” Molly said after extinguishing her flaming marshmallow. 

John shrugged. “They’re both rich and good looking.”

“I know, but other than that, they don’t seem very much alike. She’s so outgoing and friendly, and he’s…not.” 

“Opposites attract, I reckon,” John said. 

Molly said something unintelligible through a mouthful of white goop. 

“Pardon?"

She swallowed. “I’ve never seen them kiss. It’s weird. I mean, she tried earlier, but he kind of turned his head.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t like public displays of affection,” John said.  

Or maybe he suspects.  

Chapter Text

Eventually, the fire burned down to a pile of glowing embers, and the crowd dwindled. When all the guests had departed, John and Mike poured buckets of water into the pit and watched it steam and crackle.

“Go on home, Mike. I’ll clean all this up tomorrow.” John gestured to the party debris that overflowed the bins and littered the grass. 

“Thanks, mate. Goodnight,” Mike said and turned to leave. 

John stayed a few more minutes to ensure the fire was out, then headed to the barn. He still had chores to do before locking up. 

As he entered, the horses whinnied their greetings. He smiled. It was nice being appreciated, even by animals. He stopped by Patsy’s stall to scratch her chin just where she liked it. As he did this, something caught his eye. Something small and white on the ground. He bent and picked it up. 

It was a cigarette butt. 

John swore. 

“Problem?” The deep voice startled him.

John turned to see Sherlock standing just outside the barn, tall, elegant, and…smoking. 

“What are you still doing here?” John said.

“I took a walk,” Sherlock replied.

“And smoked in my barn.” 

“I didn’t.”

“You did.” John held up the butt. 

“OK, fine. I did. What are you going to do, tattle on me again?” He threw the cigarette in a nearby bucket of water. 

John took a few angry strides in Sherlock’s direction. 

“Is this a fucking game to you? These horses could die. I can see that you don’t care about anyone or anything but yourself. No wonder Irene—” John stopped himself. No matter how furious he was with Sherlock, he didn’t want to get Irene into trouble. 

“Irene what?” 

John said nothing. 

“No, really, Irene what?” And now Sherlock took a few steps toward John. 

“No wonder she’s cheating on you!” John blurted out, his desire to hurt Sherlock overpowering his allegiance to Irene. 

“Rubbish!” Sherlock spat. “Take that back. Now.”

The blue eyes flashed with anger as Sherlock took a step closer, drawing himself up to his full height, clearly attempting to intimidate John.

John held his ground, meeting Sherlock’s stare. “What are you going to do, posh boy? Fight me? Wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty face, would you?”

“As if you could even reach my face.” Sherlock took another step forward and continued to glare at John, but his hands stayed at his sides. Perhaps this would remain an exchange of insults, and John wouldn’t end up sacked for beating up a student. But he would like nothing better than to take down this arrogant dickhead and pummel him until the blood flowed. And if John broke his nose, so what? His family could afford a nose job for the vain motherfucker. 

However, if Sherlock were the one to take the first swing, maybe John could get his wish and keep his job.

Maybe.

John took a step closer, and they were now within spitting distance. He was vaguely aware of the snorts of the horses in their stalls and the croaking of frogs at the pond as he and Sherlock stared each other down, neither wanting to be the first to break eye contact. Just then, the soft breeze that had been wafting through the barn stiffened, and John’s eyes flicked to the dark curls fluttering around those fucking perfect cheekbones. The effect was so alluring that if John hadn’t been so angry, he might have been tempted to reach out and run his fingers through them.

Then one corner of that fucking perfect mouth quirked up in a tiny smile that showed he knew exactly what had distracted John and exactly why.

The thought of running his fingers through those curls was replaced by the urge to grab a fistful and yank it until Sherlock screamed like a girl. That would wipe the smirk from his face. As his eyes returned to Sherlock’s, his fingers flexed as if already clutching the wavy locks.  

The horses snorted.

The frogs croaked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

John licked his lip.  

Time slowed. John could hear the faint tick-tick-tick of his watch, but the ticks seemed weirdly far apart.

“Short arse,” Sherlock said.

John could no longer wait for Sherlock to make the first move. It seemed that this moment had been preordained from the day Sherlock had shown up in the red Ferrari and strode through the barn, John’s barn, like he owned the place, ordering John around and insulting him at every opportunity.

The prick.

John lunged forward and planted both palms on Sherlock’s chest, pushing him backwards with all of his strength. Just a shove, not a punch. Caught off guard, Sherlock staggered backwards, and when his calves hit a bale of hay, the momentum was too great, and he toppled over it, landing on the dirt floor with a thud.

To John’s surprise, the man was back on his feet in a flash with almost cat-like grace, fists raised defensively and shifting from side to side in a fighting stance.

“You really want to do this?” he said.

“Yeah. I bloody fucking do,” John retorted. Then added, “posh boy” for good measure.

They moved like a pair of prizefighters, making a circular track in the dust with their boots as they went.

John still wanted Sherlock to throw the first punch, to make this his fault. Because it was his fault; this was all his bloody fault. The arrogant, entitled, rich, sexy, infuriating, smooth-talking, fucking perfect, condescending TWAT.

“You’re going to lose,” Sherlock said coolly.

John snorted with laughter. He wasn’t going to lose. Not to this boy who looked like he’d never done a day of hard work in his life. Whose skin was white as milk and whose hands were surely callous-free, having never mucked out a stall or built a fence. He’d never gone to bed hungry or worn secondhand clothes. He probably had “people” to wash his Ferrari, to do his homework, and, for Christ’s sake, even to wipe his fucking perfect arse. This kid was as posh as they came, and John was going to mop the floor with him. And it was going to feel fucking good.  

As all the ways in which the Universe had unfairly stacked the deck of life in Sherlock’s favour tumbled through John’s mind, his resolve to let Sherlock throw the first punch fell away. To hell with this job. He could find another.

The time that had moved at a glacial pace now whipped forward at lightning speed.

John lunged and tried for an uppercut. Sherlock dodged it easily. Lucky move. John tried again. Sherlock dodged, but this time John felt the brush of skin against his knuckles as they grazed Sherlock’s chin.

John feinted to his right, then drove a fist upward into Sherlock’s solar plexus. It landed solidly, and Sherlock gave a satisfying “oomph” as the wind was driven out of him. John’s satisfaction was short-lived, however. A blow snapped his head back, and an explosion of pain sent everything dark for half a breath. He hadn’t seen it coming. Sherlock was so damn fast!

Instinctively, he ducked, narrowly avoiding the follow-up punch, and took a step backwards. Sherlock’s pale eyes drilled into him from above his clenched fists. John saw blood on the knuckles and realised that it must be his. They circled the floor again and again, bobbing and weaving as they danced this testosterone-fueled tango. More punches were thrown. Some landed. Some didn’t.

Soon, they were both bleeding. Sherlock from a cut on his cheek and John from his nose, although he barely felt it—too much adrenaline was flowing. John still couldn’t believe what was happening. He had expected to make quick work of Sherlock, but the kid was holding his own. More than holding his own. He had landed more punches than John, and John began to suspect that this wasn’t Sherlock’s first rodeo. The kid knew how to fight. And the git wasn’t even breathing hard!

“Had enough?” Sherlock taunted.

“Not even close,” John hissed.

“You don’t need to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Impress me,” Sherlock said.

“You think I’m trying to impress you?” John snorted.

“Yes.” The smirk was back.

Incensed, John launched himself at Sherlock, driving him against the wall of a stall. The horse within reared and whinnied. John shoved a forearm into Sherlock’s fucking perfect neck, and his head made a satisfying “thunk” as it connected with the iron bars. John pinned him against the stall and increased the pressure on Sherlock’s windpipe.

“You fucking entitled brat! You fucking think I care what you think about me? You can go straight to he—”

Before he could finish his sentence, he was on the ground with the full weight of Sherlock Holmes on top of him. They rolled in the dirt, grappling. Sherlock on top, then John, then Sherlock again. He saw stars as Sherlock slammed his head against the floor…once…twice…Oh god, he was going to lose. This could not be happening. And it was true that he wanted to impress Sherlock. And it made him furious that Sherlock had sussed this out. He hadn’t even admitted it to himself.

It wasn’t fighting fair, but John did it anyway. With considerable effort, he rolled them sideways and brought a knee up into Sherlock’s groin. Hard.

“Ahh!” Sherlock clutched his balls and rolled away, curling up into a fetal position and groaning in agony. John sat up and caught his breath, watching with satisfaction as the tall figure writhed in the dust beside him, his formerly spotless riding breeches now soiled with dirt and blood. 

“Sorry, but you deserved that,” John gasped.

“…Dirty…move…” came the breathless voice beside him. Then there was silence. Sherlock remained curled up with his hands between his legs.

“You OK?”

No answer.

“Sherlock?”

A low keening sound came from the figure beside him. Was he crying? Oh shit, was he crying? It had been a dirty move…

“Hey...talk to me.” John leaned over and touched Sherlock’s shoulder.

No answer.

“Just breathe,” John advised. “It’ll pass.”

Sherlock remained curled up beside him, whimpering. As he listened, John’s fury ebbed, and he was a little sorry—just a little. But he had feared losing and did what he had to do to win. And why exactly had it been so important to win? It was his stupid temper. His stupid pride. He closed his eyes, sighing as he remembered that he was going to get fired. And maybe end up in jail again.

And suddenly, he was on his back with Sherlock straddling him. He was no longer whimpering, and the smirk had returned. Sherlock had John flat on his back with his hands pinned beside his ears, and John had no earthly idea how this turn of events had happened so quickly.  

He'd been played!

“Arsehole!” John spat.

Sherlock only grinned.

John tried to push him off, but Sherlock remained stubbornly in place. Maybe it was strength, maybe it was skill, but whichever it was, Sherlock was winning. And for some unfathomable reason, this was kind of a turn-on.

Turn-on?

No…No. God, no. John could not think what he was thinking. He could not want what he was wanting. He hated this kid. He hated him. 

“You…” John sputtered. “I—”

“You what?”

“I hate you!”

“No, you don’t.” Sherlock’s face was mere inches from John’s. So close that he could feel his breath. It was warm and moist and smelled of tobacco. He spoke with the matter-of-fact confidence of someone accustomed to being right. Some might call it arrogance. Ten minutes ago, John would have called it arrogance. But now, face to face with Sherlock, pinned to the dirt and unable to escape, John’s assessment shifted. He wasn’t less angry. If anything, he was angrier. This man had seen through him so easily. Sherlock wasn’t being arrogant; he was simply stating the truth. 

John didn’t know what to do next. He considered spitting in his face; instead, he remained silent and simply stared into those ice-blue eyes, breathing in the exhalations coming from that fucking perfect mouth, exquisitely aware of all the places where their bodies touched. Especially those long thighs pressing against him, holding him in place.  

The air between them seemed to thrum with some sort of energy, some sort of…possibility. The sounds of the horses and frogs faded, becoming indistinct murmurs at the edge of John’s consciousness.  

Something was going to happen.

Something was going to happen.

Something was…

And then something did.

Sherlock’s mouth was on his.

It wasn’t a tentative kiss. It wasn’t a tender kiss. It wasn’t a kiss from someone who thought they might be rejected. It was a confident kiss. An “I know you want me, don’t tell me you don’t” kiss. It was a Sherlock Holmes kiss. And even though John had never had one before, it felt familiar. Like he had kissed this man in a thousand dreams and knew the feel and the taste of his lips, the smell of his skin, and the sound of his sighs.

John’s first impulse was to try again to push Sherlock off. But the impulse lasted only a heartbeat. It melted with the heat of the desire that flowed like lava from somewhere deep in John’s chest, obliterating every objection.  

And then John kissed back.

A surrender. Not like John at all.

Because John was a fighter.

But he had lost this fight, and yet it didn’t feel like losing. Not quite. He was still angry, but he was also so incredibly turned on. The contradictions were too complicated to grapple with. Later. He would figure it out later. Right now, there was only room in his head for the intoxication of this kiss. The adrenaline that had put every nerve and every muscle on high alert during the fight was still flowing but now served to magnify the sensations of this…this...thing…that was happening between them.

John wasn’t sure yet what the “thing” was, but he knew he didn’t want it to stop. God, no. He did not want it to stop.

The kiss turned into two and then three, and then he lost count. And when Sherlock’s tongue slipped between his lips, John welcomed it. It wasn’t like kissing Sally, who was all girly softness, but more like James, except that James’s face was forever stubbly. John swore the man had a five o’clock shadow by noon. In contrast, Sherlock’s face was smooth. The kid probably couldn’t grow a beard if he tried, but his kisses had a certain aggressiveness to them, an audacity. And he was strong. His viselike grip on John’s wrists had not lessened, although John was no longer trying to get free.

Sherlock broke the kiss and smiled down at John. “Hypothesis confirmed.”

“What?”

“I was testing my hypothesis that you don’t hate me.”

John’s mind stuttered. Hypothesis? Test? Had he just been played again?

“You bastard, you tricked me!”

“No, I didn’t,” Sherlock said, looking perplexed.

“You didn’t want…” John sputtered. “You don’t…” His anger was rising again, and he struggled against Sherlock’s grip. It had all been a game to him. All a fucking game. He’d wanted to humiliate John, and he had succeeded spectacularly.

“Yes, I did, and yes, I do,” Sherlock said.

Now it was John’s turn to be perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, I did want to kiss you. And yes, I do want to continue. It wasn’t a trick, not exactly. It was a means to an end.”

“And I’m the…?”

“End. Yes, John. You are the end.” 

John still wasn’t sure he understood. It was all so confusing. And he didn’t trust Sherlock. Not a bit. But he stopped struggling and stared up at his adversary…or whatever the hell he was now.  

When John didn’t respond, Sherlock sighed and bent to kiss John’s forehead, then his cheek, then his jaw, kissing and nuzzling his way down John’s neck to his collarbone and then up again to place his lips against John’s ear while pressing his hips to John’s thighs. John could feel the hardness of him beneath the breeches.

“Now, do you understand?” Sherlock breathed in a low whisper that seemed to send bolts of electricity straight through John’s body to his groin.

“You want this?” John said.

“Very much,” Sherlock said, still whispering into John’s ear.

“Me too,” John said. “God, help me.”

“I’m going to let go of your wrists,” Sherlock said. “We’re good. Right? You aren’t going to punch me?”

John shook his head.

Sherlock released his wrists but remained astride him. John flexed his fingers as the circulation returned to his hands. Then he did the thing he had been tempted to do before they had come to blows. He slipped his fingers into the hair that hung around Sherlock’s face in dark waves. And it was as soft as it looked. He grasped it, and instead of yanking it the way he had wanted to, he tugged gently, pulling Sherlock down to him.

As they kissed, John felt Sherlock fumble with a button on John’s shirt. Then a warm hand ran over his chest. It wasn’t a caress, really; it was more urgent than that. The fingertips dug into his pectorals, and he gasped when they pinched his nipple.

“I’m going to have you, John Watson,” Sherlock said in a low, breathy voice between kisses. This was the first time Sherlock had said his name. It had always been “Jim” or “Josh” or “short arse” or some term that emphasised the difference in class and position between them. And the way he said it! That melodic baritone and the way he dragged out the pronunciation as if he were tasting it made it sound almost obscene, and the lava flow of desire that had begun in John’s chest made its way south, burning as it went.  

I’m going to have you, John Watson. 

Chapter Text

“Oh yeah? What if I said that I’m going to have you, Sherlock Holmes?” John said, his fingers still buried in Sherlock’s hair.

“Ah, but to the victor go the spoils,” Sherlock replied, grinning as his hand slid down John’s belly to rest on the flies of his jeans. His grin widened when he felt what lay underneath and started to unbuckle John’s belt.  

“Hey!” Sherlock jerked away suddenly.

They had been so unaware of their surroundings that they had failed to realise that their struggles had deposited them in front of Blaze’s stall. And now, her neck was extended over the canvas webbing that stretched across the open stall door, and she was nuzzling Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock looked up at the mare, frowning. “Rude!”  

She whickered, and he laughed, sliding off of John to lie beside him, both of them looking up at the horse’s muzzle.  

John laughed too, and the erotic tension faded. He reached up and petted her nose. “Sorry, girl. Have we scandalised you?”

She blew out a snort that sent snot flying over both of them, and they giggled and wiped it from their faces.

Perhaps realising that they were not going to feed her, Blaze tossed her head and retreated into her stall.

“Hayloft?” John suggested. Lying here on the floor of the barn was too risky. They couldn’t fuck here. And that is what was going to happen, wasn’t it? Sherlock Holmes was going to fuck him, or he was going to fuck Sherlock Holmes. John didn’t really care which way it went. The former, he guessed, based on Sherlock’s bossy ways. But it was all fine. Maybe they’d just suck each other off. He imagined looking down at his fingers in Sherlock’s curls as his cock slid down that long white throat. Oh, dear god.

But he still didn’t trust Sherlock. And he was still smarting from being beaten. However, these feelings had taken a back seat to the base sexual urges that were now running the show.  

He wanted Sherlock.

And Sherlock had been right. He didn’t hate him. He wanted to. He really did. And the man deserved it. But John didn’t hate him. He was annoyed by him. Yes. He envied him. Yes. But hate? No. More like…wanting something you couldn’t have and being resentful that you couldn’t have it. It was like that long-ago summer when he would press his nose to the window of Donnegal’s Toy Shop to gaze at the Lego Star Wars Millennium Falcon set with six hundred and sixty-three pieces and a removable roof. At a hundred pounds, it seemed out of reach. He’d saved twenty-six pounds for it doing odd jobs but, in the end, had given the money to his mum for the electric bill. To all his friends, and even to himself, he pretended to hate Star Wars. 

Sherlock felt a lot like the Millennium Falcon.

“Hayloft,” Sherlock agreed, interrupting John’s thoughts.

Sherlock went up the ladder first, giving John an excellent view of his arse. John paused and watched him climb, enjoying the show and dragging his fingers over the erection that swelled uncomfortably beneath his tight jeans. When Sherlock reached the top, he turned and peered over the edge of the loft.

“Problem?”

“Er, no. Sorry, I’m coming,” John said and stepped onto the first rung. He was halfway up the ladder when he was startled by a woman’s voice.

“John! There you are. I’m so glad I found you.”

Mrs Hudson appeared at the door of the barn.

“I’m heading to the market, that one that stays open late, to pick up a few things and wondered if you needed anything—Oh, John, you’re bleeding!”

John touched his face, and his fingers came away red. When he looked down, he saw his shirt splotched with blood, some of it his, and some of it Sherlock’s. And then there was the matter of his unbuckled belt and the bulge in his jeans. He hugged the ladder, hiding these from her view. “Um. I…I…”

“That boy!” she exclaimed. “That Holmes boy! I saw his car out there. Did you hurt him? Please tell me you didn’t hurt him!”

“He’ll live.” John could imagine Sherlock up in the hayloft rolling his eyes at this comment.

“John!”

“We had a disagreement…we…resolved it. It’s all fine…really.”

“John Watson! You promised me you’d control your temper! I can’t have you antagonising the Holmes family! They are an important sponsor of the team. I know he rubs you the wrong way. Goodness knows that family rubs me the wrong way, too. And he’s a student! If he reports this to the school…you know I like you…but I’d be forced—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sure he’s not going to report me. Like I said. We resolved it.”

She looked unconvinced. “I want you to apologise to him, dear. I know it’s not easy, but I want you to promise me. We need to keep him happy. The Holmes’s are insufferable arseholes, but I can’t afford to lose the team’s business.”

What was Sherlock thinking up there in the loft as Mrs Hudson insulted his family? Was he angry? Would he hold it against John? Would he tell his grandmother or the school? Would Mrs Hudson be ruined?

He glanced up briefly, but Sherlock had disappeared.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, why don’t you come to the house, and I’ll get you sorted. Those cuts need tending.”

John glanced again toward the hayloft. “I’m fine. Really, I am. And I want to get some hay thrown down before pasturing the horses and locking up.”

She followed his look toward the loft and cocked her head. He could see the wheels turning, wheels he needed to stop.

“Gingernuts!” he blurted.

“What?”

“Gingernuts. I’d like some gingernuts from the market—If you don’t mind, that is.” He had no idea where that had come from. It was simply the first thing that had popped into his mind.

“All right, John. Gingernuts.” A shadow of suspicion remained on her face, but she said nothing more.

After she had retreated through the open barn door, John waited for a few seconds, just to be safe. Then he relaxed his grip on the ladder and re-assessed the situation. The interruption had broken the spell. The adrenaline of the fight had receded, along with John’s boner, making rational thought possible.

He looked up again at the top of the ladder. Sherlock was waiting for him somewhere up in the loft.

But…

Sherlock was an arsehole. A public-school brat who had insulted him repeatedly.

He took a step down.

Yet Sherlock had also surprised him. He had fought with skill, and he had beaten John handily. And what was even worse, John suspected that Sherlock had gone easy on him. Could have taken him down in the first thirty seconds. It had been like a cat playing with a mouse, and John was the mouse. He had won more than the fight. He'd won John's respect. 

John took a step up.

Then another.

He closed his eyes. Was he really going to do this? He knew what his body was telling him to do. The residual electricity of the encounter still vibrated through him, albeit dulled by the intrusion of Mrs Hudson. He couldn’t deny that he wanted Sherlock. But he shouldn't be doing this. 

But, was he going to anyway?

Yes...God, yes. No… Maybe…Fuck.

With his eyes still closed, he started to step down. Then he saw the blue eyes boring into him over clenched fists. The dark curls. The long, lean thighs holding him in place. The buff cloth of the breeches clinging to the fucking perfect arse. The fucking perfect lips. The kisses that had melted him into surrender. 

Jesus.

“How long are you going to keep me waiting?” The baritone voice interrupted John’s internal debate.

That voice, and the raw sexuality that dripped from every word, sealed the deal.

“I’m coming,” John said, beginning his journey up the ladder yet again.

“Bring a blanket,” Sherlock commanded.  

“Yes, your highness,” John muttered under his breath. He had to remind himself that Sherlock was used to giving commands, to being catered to, to having his every whim fulfilled without question. It was infuriating and arousing at the same time.

John descended the ladder and glanced around the barn. A plaid exercise sheet, used to keep a sweaty horse from getting chilled after a workout, hung over an empty stall. He pulled it down, tucked it under his arm, and made his way up to the loft. This time, he ascended without interruption.

He found Sherlock sitting on the floor, reclining against a bale of hay, one forearm draped casually over a knee, chewing the end of a long stalk of alfalfa. He looked John up and down.

“Do I look as bad as you?” he said finally, tossing the chewed alfalfa aside.

Sherlock’s white shirt was spotted with blood, and it was missing at least one button. Blood ran down his cheek from a nasty cut, and his left eye was puffy. Like John, he was covered in dirt, and bits of straw protruded from his mussed hair, which somehow was still fucking perfect in its mussiness.

“Yeah.”

Now Sherlock grinned. “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“You think that was fun?” John reached up to touch his swollen nose, which was beginning to ache.

Sherlock shrugged. “Winning is fun. Surprising people is fun. Getting what I want is fun.” He reached up, extending his hand. When John took it, Sherlock pulled him down to sit beside him.

“And I did surprise you, didn’t I?” he continued, looking sideways at John.

“Yes, you did. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“School. Before I was on the riding team, I was on the boxing team. First two years. Then I got bored and decided to try something new. So here I am.” Sherlock made a vague gesturing motion with his arm.

“Are you good at everything you do?”

“I am.”

“You are the most—” John sputtered.

“I’m honest,” Sherlock said. “And what’s the point of doing something if you don’t do it well? You know that. Anyone can tell you know that by looking at the barn floor. That rake work? It told me all I needed to know. It’s part of what attracted me to you.”

“And my rugged good looks?” John said.

“And your rugged good looks,” Sherlock said. “Absolutely that. I’ve wanted to get my hands on you since that first day. Now, why are we wasting time talking? That’s not why we came up here, is it?” And then one side of his mouth quirked up in a mischievous smile. “Short arse.”

“You dick!” John launched himself at Sherlock, and they rolled together onto the hay-covered floor. They tussled for a bit, but it wasn’t violent like before. No one threw a punch; no one head-butted. There was no doubt that it was a contest, but something had changed. As he struggled for dominance, John was thinking less about his grievances and more about how Sherlock’s wiry muscles rippled under his hands, how his lean belly felt pressed to John’s hip, and how the pungency of his sweat mingled deliciously with the sweet smell of hay.  

With a triumphant grunt, Sherlock was once again above him, straddling him, pinning his wrists. John tried to unseat him, but Sherlock held him firmly to the floor.

“I win again.”

“Lemme guess. You wrestle, too?” John said, breathless.

Sherlock just laughed. Then he lowered himself slowly until his face was so close that his fringe touched John’s forehead. His breath was hot and rapid, and John could feel his own pulse quicken as they stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

“To the victor go the spoils,” Sherlock whispered before kissing him hard. “Mmm, you smell good. Did you put that on just for me? Oh, you did, didn’t you?”

He released John’s wrists, and John once again buried his fingers in Sherlock’s curls as he kissed back. Sherlock began devouring John with his lips, tongue and teeth like a man starving. John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock’s mouth on his cheek, on the shell of his ear, his jaw, the hollow of his neck. The fight in him melted away under the younger man’s touch. Why they had even been fighting, John couldn’t recall. He couldn’t think of anything but the hands and lips on his body. Hot desire coiled and uncoiled in his belly as he gave himself up to Sherlock’s caresses.

Then Sherlock sat up and began to unbutton his riding shirt. The ruined shirt that probably cost more than John’s entire wardrobe. While he had kissed John with passionate urgency, he was now undressing with excruciating slowness. It was almost as if he were performing a striptease. One button, two buttons, three. Soon, an unbroken swath of white skin lay exposed between curtains of Egyptian cotton. Next, he unbuttoned the left cuff; his hand held up so that the light from the bare bulb that hung behind him in the rafters shone between his slender fingers.

He looked at John as if to make sure he was enjoying the show. Satisfied, he winked.

John swallowed hard and licked his lips.

At last, the shirt was discarded, and Sherlock wore only his breeches and riding boots. The light made a soft halo around his head and glinted off his shoulders. His skin was pale and smooth, dotted with moles like stars in the night sky. Sweat shone on his face and chest. His nipples were rosy pink and surrounded by a modest amount of wispy hair that continued in a thin line down the middle of his torso to his waistband. John’s eyes followed the trail of hair and came to rest upon the stark outline of Sherlock’s erection under the skin-tight breeches.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” John said before he could stop himself. It seemed odd to call another man beautiful. But it was true.

Sherlock seemed pleased.

“Your turn,” he said as he grasped the front of John’s shirt. John wasn’t sure what he was expecting, perhaps a repeat of the slow process with which Sherlock had removed his own shirt. But he was definitely not expecting the ferocity with which his shirt was torn open. The buttons made a soft pop pop pop as they were ripped from the fabric before flying into the hay, never to be found.

“Hey!” John exclaimed. He could have protested that it was his best shirt. That he couldn’t afford to be as cavalier as Sherlock with his belongings. But he didn’t. Because none of that mattered, because all John could think of was that what Sherlock had just done was unbelievably hot. John would consider all the reasons it was hot later, after Sherlock was gone. In the moment, he only knew that it was and that his cock agreed enthusiastically.

“I’ll buy you another,” Sherlock said, running his hands over John’s bare chest. “I’ll buy you a dozen.”

Jesus Christ.

What was happening? How had this ordinary day turned out so…unfucking believable? One minute, John was relaxing at a party, and the next, he was bruised, bloodied, and under the spell of this beautiful man. But was John just a plaything? Would he be discarded once he’d served his purpose? 

And would that be so bad? He wanted Sherlock as much as Sherlock clearly wanted him. So, it would be a mutually beneficial transaction. Right? Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am—so to speak. 

Zzzp

It was the sound of John’s zip being undone. It jolted him out of his thoughts, and he realised he hadn’t moved. That he had been lying there passively, letting the scene unfold. He slid his hands up Sherlock’s long thighs, feeling the taut muscles under the fabric as Sherlock pulled down his underwear and exposed John’s cock.

“I stand corrected,” Sherlock said, looking down. “Not a short arse at all. Not where it counts.”

John had made his way to Sherlock’s waistband, and he fumbled with the button and zip before freeing his erection from the confines of breeches and pants. It jutted from his dark pubic hair, rose coloured and uncut. And unsurprisingly, fucking perfect.  

John’s hand closed around Sherlock at the same moment that Sherlock grasped him, and they sighed in unison at the pleasure of the other’s touch. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and John watched his face with fascination. The shadows accentuated the angles of his face. His lips were parted, and the pink tip of his tongue just visible. His lashes were so long that John wondered if he was wearing mascara.

Finally, he opened his eyes to stare at John. Neither one spoke because no words were necessary. There would be time for talking later; right now, it was all about the want, the itch that needed scratching, the primal need of their bodies for release. Their heavy breathing seemed preternaturally loud in the otherwise still night. Somewhere below them, a horse stamped. John bit his lip as Sherlock’s grip tightened. If this kept up, it was going to be over very soon. And John didn’t want it to be over.

“Slow…down,” he panted. “I want—”

Sherlock snorted. “You want? You seem to have forgotten that I won. This is about what I want.” He gave a final long tug on John’s cock and let go. With John’s fist still on his dick, he leaned over and kissed John deeply before whispering. “And I want you, John Watson. I want you right now.” The words sent a thrill through John’s body. This was all so novel. John wasn’t used to being ordered around by his lovers. And although he had to admit he’d been attracted to Sherlock from the beginning, he never imagined that it would end up this way. Or that he’d like it so bloody much.

Sherlock didn’t wait for a response but stood and pulled John to his knees. Then, gesturing to his erection, he said, “I recommend that you lubricate me before we begin.” John almost laughed at his formality. This twenty-three-year-old was unlike any student he’d ever met. But he didn’t laugh because he had a much more important task for his mouth.

Sherlock moaned and watched with half-lidded eyes as his cock disappeared down John’s throat again and again. John gripped Sherlock’s buttocks, still clad in the thin fabric of his riding breeches, as he thrust into John’s mouth. The musky male scent of him, strong after a long day of riding, was not unpleasant but instead an incredible aphrodisiac.

After a few minutes, Sherlock rasped, “Enough!” and stepped away, legs trembling. Then, recovering, he grasped the back of John’s collar.

What happened next was a blur.

In seconds, John found himself bent over a bale of hay with his wrists behind his back, tied securely with his own shirt.

Shit!

Sherlock was kneeling behind him, and John felt his trousers and pants being pushed down around his thighs. This was really going to happen. Sherlock Holmes had just bested him in a fight that John had been sure he’d win, and now he was about to claim his prize.  

“Oh, god,” John said.

“Not quite,” Sherlock said drily.

“Arrogant prick,” John said.

“Closer,” Sherlock replied. Then he spread John’s buttocks and spat between them.

********

Afterwards, Sherlock untied John’s wrists, undressed them both, and sucked his dick with such skill that John nearly passed out before kissing him tenderly with a mouth still wet with semen. Overall, John concluded that it had been the best shag of his life. Better even than James. And James had been a fantastic lover.

Sherlock was better.

Chapter Text

As they lay in the hayloft, tangled together on the exercise sheet with Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder, John looked down at their bodies, his still golden with the remnants of a summer tan and Sherlock’s ghostly pale. The contrast was pleasing. They were a study in contrasts, John thought. Light and dark, tall and short, posh and common.

Sherlock traced his fingertips lazily over John’s chest.

“You called me beautiful earlier,” he said.

“You are beautiful," John said. “I hate you for it, to be honest. You have everything going for you. Looks, money. You’ve got it all.

“But I don’t, John. You think I do, but I don’t. Everyone in my life is phoney. Suffocating, predictable, boring.”

“Irene—”

“Quite right. Irene is not boring. But she’s also not my girlfriend, John. She’s a good friend. Maybe my best friend. But that’s all.”

“So she’s your—”

“Beard. Yes. She’s my beard. So my grandmother won’t find out the truth. She’s old-fashioned, narrow-minded, and obsessed with appearances. So bloody English! Our relationship is a lie. A lie among so many lies. I’m sick of lies. I’m tired of hiding. Tired of all of it. Like I said, almost everyone in my life is phoney. But John, you are real. Authentic. That’s the other reason I wanted you.” 

“Do you always get what you want?” John said.

“Yes.”

“Of course, you do,” John chuckled. “But why did you pick a fight? Why the insults? Why didn’t you just bloody ask me?”

“Ask if I could get into your trousers? Really, John? Would you have said yes if I hadn’t beaten you first? If I hadn’t goaded you into the fight?

John was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe...No, I reckon I wouldn’t have.”

“And it was more fun this way, wasn’t it?” Sherlock added, reaching up to touch his own bruised cheek and wincing.

John had to admit that it had been. 

Chapter Text

He was awakened by the tickle of whiskers on his face and a low rumbling sound. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into Theo’s furry orange face. She meowed and rubbed her cheek against his, begging to be petted.

Groggily, he sat up, the rustling of hay reminding him where he was. He was about to pull Theo onto his lap when he remembered he was naked and that her claws were sharp. So instead, he scratched her head as he looked around. Sherlock was gone. John remembered lying together on the sheet, talking and kissing, and realised that he must have fallen asleep.

Sherlock had left without saying goodbye. Just like Sally.

“Figures,” John muttered. And why wouldn’t he? He’d gotten what he wanted. John was just the help. A prize to be won, then discarded. A casual fuck. Sherlock probably wouldn’t give him a second thought.

Would he?

Christ, the way Sherlock had said his name, repeating it almost like a mantra, and the way they had held each other afterwards. It had seemed like something more than a casual fuck.

John cursed himself for even caring. Giving Theo one last head rub, he checked his watch. It was past midnight, and he still had to pasture the horses. They were surely eager for the sweet grass and wondering why John was so late.

He reached for his pants and trousers and began to pull them on. His body immediately protested. Everything hurt. The adrenaline and endorphins had drained away, and now there was only pain. Pain in his head, pain in his jaw, pain in his stomach. His knuckles were bloody and his knees raw. His bum was sore—really sore; he wouldn’t be riding Blaze to the pasture tonight, and probably not tomorrow either. His thighs were crusty with dried spunk.

Shit. Sherlock hadn’t used a condom. John had been so carried away by desire that he hadn’t objected. The tiny angel on his shoulder had warned him, but the giant motherfucking devil on the other shoulder had shouted her down. But now that John’s head was clear, he regretted the foolish risk. Who knew how many blokes Sherlock had buggered before him? Loads, probably. A flicker of jealousy flared in his chest at the thought. Shit.

As he tried to button his shirt, forgetting that all the buttons were gone, he felt something in the pocket, something that hadn’t been there before. Reaching in, he pulled out a stack of neatly folded fifty-pound notes. He counted them slowly as Theo watched from her perch on a bale of hay.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Five hundred pounds.

He waved the notes in Theo’s direction. “Can you believe this?”

She blinked and licked a paw.

“Leaving me money like I’m…a…a…prostitute? Or…or…a bloody CHARITY CASE? He was shouting now, and Theo jumped from the bale and was gone in a flash of orange.  

He stared at the notes. It was a lot of money. He thought of what he could buy with it. He thought of his meagre savings for farrier school. The unpaid bill to his lawyer. No. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock keep humiliating him. He was going to throw the notes in the arsehole’s face the next time he saw him and tell him to take his money and go straight to hell.

But it was a lot of dough.

By the time John made it back to his cottage, it was after one. Although calling it a cottage was an insult to cottages. It was more like a shed with plumbing. One room, just large enough for a bed and a kitchenette, plus a tiny wardrobe and bathroom. He smiled when he saw the package by the front door. Gingernuts.

He ate half the package before stripping down, showering, and falling into bed. Sore and exhausted, he should have fallen asleep instantly. But he didn’t. Instead, he stared at the ceiling and thought about the rich kid who had beaten him. The rich kid with the perfect lips and the perfect…everything, who had fought like a champ, then tied him up and had his way with him. And John had liked it. And what was worse, he even liked Sherlock. 

Had liked Sherlock. 

And now what? He was going to give the money back. He’d made up his mind. And he was going to tell Sherlock to go to hell. But it didn’t change the fact that he had liked it. John closed his eyes and remembered the hot breath on his shoulder, the filthy words that had streamed non-stop from that pretty mouth, the feel of rough hay against his chest, the slap, slap, slap of skin against skin, the pleasure that came with every stroke of Sherlock's penis, a deep pleasure, radiating throughout his belly from that sensitive knot of flesh within. And finally, the warm pulse as Sherlock came, filling him. That feeling, that feeling of Sherlock having left something of himself in John, the exquisite intimacy of it, it was...indescribable. Risky, but also, fucking perfect. 

And his name. Sherlock had said his name over and over as he climaxed.

“John. John. John.” Sherlock’s velvet voice made the word sound so beautiful that John thought he could listen to it forever.

Chapter Text

John reached blindly for the alarm clock and shut it off after a few ineffective swats. Then he sat up, groaning and rubbing his eyes, which he regretted immediately when the heel of his hand touched the bruised flesh. “Ow!”

It was hard to tell what part of him hurt the most. There were so many options, from his throbbing head to his raw knees. And then there was his arse. Spit for lube did not make for a pleasant day after.

He shuffled to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. And groaned again. 

His eyes were circled in shades of purple with tinges of yellow at the edges. His nose was swollen, and his face sported numerous scabbed cuts. He’d have to skip shaving for a few days. His chest was chafed and red from the bale of hay he’d been bent over. 

He considered calling off sick but decided against it because he needed the money. He opened the medicine cabinet, found a bottle of paracetamol and downed two. Then shook out another and popped it into his mouth. This was going to be a long day.  

As he was cleaning his teeth, his mobile, which he had left on his little kitchen table, chimed with a text alert. He leaned out of the bathroom door to look at it, but couldn’t make out who it was from. Next to his phone and keys on the table was the stack of notes. The five hundred pounds that Sherlock had left in his shirt pocket. The indignation that flared last night had subsided a bit, and now he re-evaluated his feelings about the money. 

It was still humiliating. The whispered words, the caresses, the tenderness with which Sherlock had treated him after the passionate violence of the sex. It was all a lie. In the end, he’d been nothing but a rent boy. 

But an expensive rent boy, so that was flattering, wasn’t it?

Maybe it was hush money? Sherlock was hiding his identity from his family, wasn’t he? What a miserable way to live. Or as miserable as one could be whilst driving a Ferrari. Maybe that’s why he was such a jerk all the time.

He wanted the money. He needed the money. He should not keep the money. He spat out the toothpaste and looked in the mirror. 

“John Watson, you are better than that. You may not have much, but at least you have self-respect, and you will give the money back. Not just hand it back; you are going to throw it—” 

His lecture was interrupted by a knock at the door. At this time of the morning, it had to be Mike. Wearing just his shorts, John opened the door.  

It wasn’t Mike. 

Standing on his welcome mat was a tall man wearing an expensive-looking three-piece suit and leaning on an umbrella. His expression was sour. Like he would rather be anywhere but on John’s doorstep. 

“Can I help you?” John said. 

“Are you John Watson?” the man said, looking down his hawk nose. 

“Who wants to know?” John said, confused. Was this man with the police? A bill collector? He seemed too posh to be either of these. It suddenly occurred to him that it might be Sally’s father, although he looked too young.

John’s mobile chimed again.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man said, but didn’t offer his hand. As he spoke, he looked John up and down and then raised an eyebrow. “He’s outdone himself, I see. Does he look as bad as you do?” 

“And who exactly are you?" John said. 

“I’m Sherlock’s brother. May I come in? You’re shivering.”

It was cold, and John didn’t want to continue this conversation in his underwear. 

“Yeah, OK.” He let the man in and hastily put on sweatpants and a T-shirt while saying, “Have a seat if you like.” The only chair was a wooden kitchen chair with a stained cushion. Mycroft Holmes eyed it with ill-disguised disgust. 

“No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.” Then his eyes alighted on the stack of notes, lingered a moment, and then moved to John.  

“What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?” John said.  

“I thought we might do something for each other,” Mycroft said. 

“I’m listening.” John still had no idea what this was all about. Had Sherlock gotten in trouble for fighting, then blamed the fight on him? John had thrown the first punch, after all. 

“I worry about my brother,” began Mycroft. “Constantly. It’s practically a full-time job to keep him out of trouble. It’s come to my attention that you might be trouble that I need to keep him out of.” He emphasised the “out of,” making clear the double entendre. 

So, Mycroft knew about Sherlock and apparently also knew about what had happened last night. 

“Your brother is an adult,” John said. His opinion of Mycroft Holmes had started low and was falling rapidly. 

“The male brain does not fully develop until the age of twenty-five,” Mycroft said. “He may be an adult, but he’s immature in many ways, including the ability to make an accurate assessment of risk. Sherlock stands to inherit a share of a sizable estate—if he behaves. If he does not, his share will go to charity. More specifically, to the World Wildlife Fund. I have nothing against snow leopards or yellow spotted tree frogs, but I prefer to see Sherlock benefit. Our grandmother is eighty-five years old. He only needs to stay on the straight and narrow for a few years longer.” 

“You mean live in the closet?” 

“Regretfully, yes. And refrain from chemical recreation—another challenge.” Mycroft sighed dramatically. 

“And he knows all this, right?” 

“Of course. Yet he continues to be reckless. Prime example, your rather rambunctious tryst last night. I am prepared to pay you a handsome sum to stay away from my brother. Far more than he paid you for—whatever it was you let him do to you.” 

“You can leave now.” John pointed toward the door. 

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.” 

“Don’t bother.” John walked to the door and opened it. 

Mycroft took a card from his jacket and tossed it onto the table before leaving. 

“Think it over, John. And stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”  

Chapter Text

After the door had closed, or rather after John had slammed it, he sat on the edge of his bed to process the conversation he’d just had with Mycroft Holmes. He ran a hand through his hair as he replayed it in his head while thinking that Mycroft was an even bigger dick than Sherlock. He laughed bitterly when he considered that the Holmes family was offering him money left and right, and he couldn’t accept any of it.  

He couldn’t accept Mycroft’s money because he wasn’t going to be a part of concealing what that family considered their dirty laundry. And because the bribe had softened his feelings toward Sherlock—a little. John’s mum and sister had their issues, but they always supported him no matter what. He’d never had to hide who he was from them. He made a mental note to call his mum later and thank her for the birthday card. 

He couldn’t accept Sherlock’s money because it made him feel cheap and used. And maybe even more than that, he was disappointed. He’d felt a spark of something between them. A connection. Physical, yes. God, yes, but deeper. Apparently, Sherlock hadn’t felt it, and the money had snuffed out the spark as surely as a bucket of cold water. 

To hell with the Holmeses. 

His mobile chimed again. He picked it up and looked at the screen. The messages had started at six a.m., almost an hour ago, while John was still sleeping. He unlocked the phone and scrolled through them. 

SH: How are you feeling this morning? 

SH: Are you all right?

SH: I’m sorry I had to leave. 

SH: I should have said goodbye.

SH: Are you angry with me? 

SH: I still smell your cologne on my skin. I don’t want to shower. 

SH: Are you all right? 

Sherlock must have put his number into John’s phone last night. But how?  

John began typing. 

JW: How did you get into my phone?  It’s password protected. 

SH: I guessed. It’s hardly Fort Knox.

“Blaze” Of course, he guessed it.  

SH: Are you angry with me? 

JW: Yes. 

SH: I’m sorry if it wasn’t enough. Send me the bill. 

What on earth was he talking about?

JW:  ????

SH: The shirts. I told you I’d buy you a dozen shirts to replace the one I ruined. I got carried away with the number of shirts, but I always keep my word. 

John stared at the screen and did the arithmetic in his head. Five hundred pounds for a dozen decent shirts was a reasonable sum. Was Sherlock serious? Somehow, John thought that he was. 

JW: So you weren’t paying me for the sex or to keep my mouth shut? 

SH: Of course not!

SH: I don’t carry enough cash to have paid you properly for the sex. 

John hesitated; his thumbs poised over the keyboard. Was it a joke? It was so hard to tell over text.

SH: That was a joke. Sorry. I’m not good at humour. 

SH: You’re still angry, aren’t you?

JW:  IDK  

JW: Why did you leave? 

SH: I got a call. Long story. Too long for text. My idiot brother.   

JW: Mycroft?

SH: He’s been there already? 

JW: Just left. 

SH: Did he offer you money to stay away from me?

JW: Yes. 

SH: Did you take it?

JW:  No! 

John watched as three dots danced on the screen. They disappeared, then reappeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Finally, the message came. 

SH: I’m glad. I want to see you again. But honestly, you could have taken it and seen me anyway. Think it through next time. 

He wants to see me again.

John stared at his phone.

SH: You there? 

He didn’t know how to feel. The last ten hours had been a rollercoaster. Hell, the last few weeks had been a rollercoaster. Did he want to get mixed up in this family drama? And what about his job? Mrs Hudson would be furious. 

He remembered the fevered passion of the night before, the primal physicality tempered by whispers and tender caresses. It occurred to him that the fistfight had been a kind of foreplay. Sherlock had won the fight and earned the right to take John any way he liked. And losing had allowed John to accept the role of the conquered. It was fair. 

And so hot…So fucking hot—

SH: John! 

John took a deep breath. He needed time to think. 

JW:  I need some time. I’ll text you later.

He pressed the power button on his phone and watched the screen go dark.  

Chapter Text

It was a dreary Sunday, cold and overcast, with a wall of dark clouds to the west portending bad weather. The horses were in the pasture and would stay there all day grazing to their heart’s content. Fortunately, John’s only tasks today were to bag the party debris and help Mike mend a section of fence that was leaning precariously. He was grateful that no outsiders would be there to see his battered face and ask questions. 

“Blimey!” Mike said when he saw him. “What happened to you?” 

“Got in a fight last night with the Holmes kid,” John admitted. 

“Does Hudders know?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, Jesus. Been nice working with you, mate.” 

********

The fence was mended by noon, just as the rain came. Mike departed, and John headed back to his cottage for lunch and to decide what to do about Sherlock. There, he made himself a sandwich and flopped down on the mattress with a groan. The exertion of mending the fence had done nothing to help the pain that still radiated from nearly every part of his body. His phone lay on the bed beside him, still turned off. 

He picked it up and was just about to switch it on when he heard a knock at his door. He rarely had visitors of any sort, and now two in one day? He wondered if it was Mycroft Holmes returning to see if John had changed his mind, and as he opened the door, he began mentally preparing to tell the guy to go fuck himself. 

For the second time, he was surprised by the person on his doorstep. 

Sherlock Holmes stood in the cold rain with his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched. His hair was plastered to his face, and rivulets of water ran down it from the dripping curls.  Like John, he was covered with cuts and bruises with one eye swollen partially closed. 

It took a moment for John to react. 

“Sherlock,” he said, finally. 

“Let me in, John.” 

It sounded like an order. 

“Please,” he added when John didn’t respond. “I’m getting soaked.”

“Yeah, come in,” John said, backing up to make room.

He watched as Sherlock removed his muddy shoes and then his coat, hanging it over the back of the chair.

“Tea?” John said.

“Thank you, but no. I just want to talk.”

“I told you I need time to think,” John said. “I didn’t expect you to show up here.” As he spoke, he retrieved a towel from a kitchen drawer and handed it to Sherlock, who sat on the edge of the bed and used it to dry his face and hair.

“I waited,” Sherlock said. “I got tired of waiting.”

“It’s just one o’clock,” John said, checking his watch. “I had to work. Some of us have to work for a living, you know.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted around the cottage, taking in the stained chair, the tiny telly, the peeling wallpaper, the bill from the lawyer still on the carpet where John had thrown it. 

“So, you live here?” he said, and John heard the undercurrent of disgust in his voice. 

“I do,” John said, and then he laughed. “Your brother had the same reaction. Guess it’s no Musgrave Court. Sorry.” 

“You’d like Musgrave Court.”

“I reckon I would.”

Sherlock picked up a brochure from the bedside table. It was from Moreton Morrell College. He held it up. “Is this the place you want to go? The one that has the farrier program?”

John nodded.

“You know this is in Warwickshire, right?” 

“Yeah, same as your castle. Why?”

“I have a plan,” Sherlock said. 

“A plan for what?”

“A plan for you. For us.”

“Sherlock, there is no us. We fucked. That’s it.” 

Sherlock looked hurt. “Didn’t you like it?”

John grinned. “Yeah, ‘course I liked it.” 

“I want you, John. And I’m used to getting what I want. Come here.” 

John took a step toward Sherlock and hesitated. 

“I won’t bite,” Sherlock said. “Unless you want me to, that is.” His good eye twinkled as he held out his hand. John took it, and Sherlock pulled him to stand between his thighs. 

John looked down at Sherlock’s upturned face as he felt the huge hands settle lightly on his hips. Sherlock wasn’t exactly holding him in place, but John suspected that if he tried to back away, the grip would tighten.

Even bedraggled and bruised, Sherlock was gorgeous. Fucking perfect. And it wasn’t just the shape of his nose, the cheekbones, the remarkable eyes, or even the hair. It was these things combined with the presence, the swagger, the cleverness. It was the whole man. John felt his resistance slipping away.

“Biting’s good,” he said, and when Sherlock smiled, John noticed the crinkles around his eyes and found them charming. 

“Kiss me, John.”

And John did. He bent and kissed Sherlock deeply and then pushed him back onto the bed, kissing him again and again. Sherlock winced as John’s weight settled on him, and John rolled off. “Sorry.”

Sherlock touched his belly, wincing again. “No worries. I suppose it will be a few days until I’m back in peak form. But I can still make you feel good. Very good, I think.” He slid his palm over John’s groin.

“Your family,” John began. “My job. I don’t think we—"

“I told you, I have a plan!” Sherlock moved his hand and, finding what he was seeking, squeezed. 

“What kind of plan?” John said, trying to stay focused.

“A brilliant plan, a devious plan. You’re going to love it.” Sherlock whispered this in John’s ear as he worked the button of his jeans. 

“Tell me.”

“You are going to take Mycroft’s offer. And you are going to ask for an exorbitant sum. I’m worth it, aren’t I?” John felt a tug as the zip of his jeans was lowered. 

“Mmm, yes.” John closed his eyes as Sherlock nuzzled his neck. 

“But we’ll see each other, anyway.” Sherlock’s hand was now inside John’s pants, and he was stroking him slowly. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy getting the better of Mycroft.” 

John was having trouble concentrating. There was some sort of brilliant plan. He was going to take Mycroft’s money… and still see Sherlock. But…He tried harder to concentrate. 

“Your…your…oh, God, Sherlock just like that…your grandmother. Your…inheritance.” 

“Don’t worry about that, John.” I have it all figured out. Mostly figured out. I know things about Mycroft. He doesn’t know I know them, but I do. And my grandmother? I can handle her. And even if I can’t, I graduate next year. I won’t need her money any longer. I can make my own. I’m going to be famous; did I tell you that?” He said this as he kissed his way down John’s stomach. 

“No, but I believe it,” John said, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  

“And forget the dozen shirts. I’m going to buy you Blaze.” 

What did he just say?

“What?”

“It’s all part of the plan, John. My brilliant plan. I was up all last night working it out. You’ll use Mycroft’s money to go to school. We’ll keep Blaze at Musgrave Court. The plan isn’t perfect yet. I need a bit more time.” “Time” was barely intelligible because Sherlock had reached John’s cock and taken it into his mouth. 

John tried hard to form words but couldn’t. All that came out was a low moan. He gripped Sherlock’s hair with both hands as he bobbed up and down over John’s hips. When Sherlock finally stopped for a breath, John gasped out, “You… barely… know… me.” 

“I know how you treat the horses, how you work, how you stood up to me. I know enough.” He flicked his tongue over the tip of John’s penis. 

“You could have anyone," John said. 

“And I choose you,” Sherlock said, looking up at John as he fondled his balls. 

“You’re crazy,” John said.

“Possibly,” Sherlock said. “But are you in?” He licked John’s cock from base to tip. 

John moaned again. “…Not fair…It’s not fair to ask me when you’re doing…that.”

“It’s completely fair. I’m merely pressing my advantage. If you want to talk about fighting fair, I’ll remind you that you kneed me in the testicles last night.” Sherlock licked his thumb, grasped John’s penis, and rubbed the frenulum in a circular motion. “Does this help you make up your mind?” 

“Fuck!” John said. 

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock rubbed a little faster.

“Come up here,” John gasped. 

Still holding John’s cock, Sherlock moved over him until their faces were inches apart. “Please say yes, John Watson.” 

“Yes,” John said. Oh, god, yes.” 

Sherlock grinned. “I win again.” And then he kissed him. 

********

They spent the rest of that afternoon spooning in John’s little bed, in John’s little cottage, as the rain pattered on the tin roof and dripped from the eaves.  

They fell asleep. 

They woke. 

They kissed. 

They worked on the plan. 

They fell asleep again. 

Just before he dozed off, with their joined hands against his belly, and the steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest against his back, John thought about the extraordinary man beside him and about what now lay ahead.

And he decided that he had won after all.