Okay. This looks bad.
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Likes: Sherlock, LOTR, Space, Tom Hiddleston & Game of Thrones Dislikes: Spiders, Furries, Haters & Winona Ryder.
get to know me meme: [1/5] tv shows → broad city
The sorites paradox (/soʊraɪtiːz/; sometimes translated as the paradox of the heap) is a paradox that arises from vague predicates. A typical formulation involves a heap of sand, from which grains are individually removed. Under the assumption that removing a single grain does not turn a heap into a non-heap, the paradox is to consider what happens when the process is repeated enough times: is a single remaining grain still a heap? Or are even no grains at all a heap? If not, when did it change from a heap to a non-heap?
my parents definitely did not raise me to be a queer feminist filled with the wrath of a thousand enraged dragons and yet here i am
God he was big. Really big.
Sherlock looks him over carefully. Fights the urge to step away. He feels sure they’re not generally this…large. Or maybe they are. Frankly he hasn’t ever been this close to one, or if he has he didn’t really look. They’ve never had any relation to The Work, so why would he?
Still, now that he’s up close, just about touching it, he’s surprised at its delicacy, its warmth, its beauty.
Oh yes, that. That bit, there.
Sherlock’s startled to find it beautiful, and he rarely lets himself see that, much less say it. But he’s just now spoken that word, just now touched the softness, the—
Sherlock Holmes looks up, at the man between whose thighs this beauty stands. Again he’s amazed at the size, and again Sherlock murmurs something complimentary and the blond-haired man grins wider, and says, “Would you like a ride?”
Sherlock can’t answer for three long seconds.
Then Sherlock takes one second more to tease through the jaw-dropped reality that his throat’s gone dry and he’s breathing funny and… “Yes.”
John Watson smiles wider, then reaches for the man’s hand. He’s long since learned that if he seems to need help dismounting, somehow it makes the horse less threatening.
On the ground John strokes the gelding’s soft side. “Mike belongs to an old army friend of mine. Now and again I get to take him out for a bit of a bareback stroll through the park.” The man smiles. “I’m John.”
At Sherlock’s muttered name, John grins, taps his guest’s right arm. “So now, take hold of his mane here. Yes, just like that, then pull and step…yes that’s good, now up you go!”
John Watson doesn’t wait, simply reaches for Sherlock’s hand, murmurs, “Hold tight,” pulls and swings behind his guest.
"Well done. Are you ready?"
Sherlock is busy being distracted by the heat of the big animal between his legs and the heat of the small one at his back. Again John Watson doesn’t wait, but squeezes the horse with his thighs and the moment Mike moves Sherlock yelps (“No I didn’t,” he’ll say one year from today. “Yes you did.” John will reply.), so John takes hold of his guest’s waist.
"I’ve got you."
The genius who notices the furled-up edge on a plaster, the stopped watch on a wrist, the stain on the knot of a tightly-tied tie, does not for the next five minutes notice when they stop so a child can pet Mike; doesn’t feel it when a low-lying branch brushes across his forehead; doesn’t see the Queen’s Guard contingent of twelve plumed soldiers ride by on their own fine mounts.
No, all Sherlock Holmes notices is the measured breathing behind him, the sweet smell of it (apples, the man’s breath smells of summer apples), the hand gently holding him steady.
Actually he notices much more than that. The flex of hip and thigh as John guides the horse with subtle pressure. He feels the puffs of breath when the man murmurs words surely the horse can’t hear and yet seems to and—like Mike—Sherlock relaxes when John reassures, “It’s fine, it’s good, such a good, good boy.”
And for the first time in Sherlock Holmes’ life he deduces strange things. Things like he would be kind; he would listen; maybe he would…
They stop and smooth as you please the small man dismounts. Before either of them has time to school his expression to placidity Sherlock is hopefully looking down at John hopefully looking up.
Yet somehow they’re about to let the moment pass, because each has been alone long enough that it’s begun to seem normal, maybe safe. Then Mike makes a chest-deep sound and turns his head. It’s difficult to tell which man he’s looking at, but it spurs one of them to speak.
"A past client of mine works in the Shard lets me onto the observation deck whenever I like would you like?" The words fall out of Sherlock’s mouth as if aided by gravity and he wonders if John, all the way down there, can see the flush he feels creeping up his neck. ("I totally did," John murmurs a month later. "Oh you did not," Sherlock whispers back.)
Still and all, John’s about to say something along the lines of, “Thanks a lot but no…” because John’s still not ready to acknowledge certain personal things, but you know what? Mike has pretty much had it.
The horse, who is exceedingly fond of apples, lowers his head and noses at John. He does not, however, press his velvet against the pocket in which John still has a half dozen succulent slices. He presses it between John’s legs.
It is at this time that both men drop their gazes. It is at this time both become acutely aware that neither of them is, well, gelded.
John clears his throat. John clears his throat a second time. Still and all his voice is a bit croaky when he reaches a hand up to Sherlock and says, “Let’s keep riding awhile.”
Quickly they again settle one behind the other. For a long time neither is aware of much but the other’s breathing, of murmured words, low laughs. For a long time they completely forget to guide the horse.
It’s fine, it’s all fine. Gentle and steady Mike takes them through dappled light. He’s got them. Mike’s a good boy. A good, good boy. And he’s got them.
Previous: The Tell-Tale Heart
LeMisanthrope wanted John on horseback. I wanted innuendo, a bit more innuendo, and then true love. Thank you LeMisanthrope!
Merlin/Arthur + little touches
Pushing Daisies - This show ruined my life