Ok so. Sherlock cowboy is a loner, obviously. He really likes dark horses, he owns one called Black Hole. He lives in a little county house [tipo leone came fifone] AND JOHN IS THE GUY IN CHARGE TO TAKE HIM THE FOOD FROM THE CITY
[cont]AND John comes with the van every Friday bringing him food and one day it breaks off, and Sherlock makes him call from his house and they start talking and it turns out that Sherlock is super smart
[cont]Omg CHEKED SHIRTS EVERYWHERE
OH mAN I love TISs and then Sherlock shows him around his house the next time John comes around with the van and he teaches him to ride a horse and gives him the light brown one named Bee so they can go to long rides in the fields
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
âś“ Live Streamingâś“ Interactive Chatâś“ Private Showsâś“ HD Qualityâś“ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Unbranded Air is an historical AU set in 1890s Wyoming. Sherlock has been sent to America by his family after causing a scandal and Engliish widower John has bought a ranch in Wyoming, seeking to leave his grief, memories and medical career behind him. Injured while investigating cattle rustlers, Sherlock is brought to John and the two find common ground in more ways than either expected.
Story plot dreamed up by acafanmom who I am beginning to believe has a cowboy kink.
I'm working on a fairly significant (monstrous?) Johnlock AU based on a plot bunny deliciously dangled in front of me by acafanmon. I'm calling it Cowboylock (well, she is, so I titled the GoogleDoc as such) - it's an AU in the 1890s American West with John as a widowed doctor come to America to start over and Sherlock as a privileged son who's embarrassed his family and who's been sent to America until things "blow over" back home. He's still Sherlock, still a detective, and is using his soil knowledge to help break a cattle rustling ring when he's injured and brought to John's ranch. In the HP world where I first experienced fandom, many readers shun stories which place our British heroes in the States, I have no idea if anyone will read a Johnlock AU set in 1890s Wyoming, but am forging ahead anyway and am considering posting chapter by chapter as a WIP. Here's a snippet - Mrs. Hudson is John's housekeeper and Sherlock, laid up at John's house for a couple weeks until his broken leg heals enough to move him, deduces her.
ooOoo
Sherlock was eying Mrs. Hudson with something between interest and suspicion when John slipped out of the room. He’d need to take care with his time – he’d have to check on Sherlock several times a day and still manage to get all his work done. He was already concerned about the amount of swelling around the ankle – it should have been iced earlier, but there was nothing for it.
He made the tea and steeped it strong, added a touch of milk to one cup, and carried them both back to the room. Sherlock was sitting up with pillows plumped behind his back and Mrs. Hudson was standing near the foot of the bed, mouth agape, staring at him.
“How do you know those things?” she asked. She whirled around to face John. “Mr. Watson– why would you tell him about Carl?”
“No – Mrs. Hudson – please….” John hurried over and took her hands in his. “I didn’t tell him a thing – he guessed is all. Did the same thing to me last night.”
She looked at him, then nodded and blew out a breath.
“I’m sorry. Of course you didn’t say anything.” She chanced a glance at Sherlock, who looked a bit smug and not at all concerned that he had upset his host’s housekeeper.
“Look at her!” he said, sweeping an arm to the side at the room in general and Mrs. Hudson in particular. “Store-bought dress, hands only just getting accustomed to this kind of work. East Coast accent. No wedding ring. It’s as plain as the nose on my face, John. She’s lost her husband, her money and fallen in social status in the….”
“Mrs. Hudson was widowed less than a year  ago, Mr. Holmes,” John said, glaring at his guest and cutting him off mid-stream. “She was gracious enough to come to work for me when I needed someone to look after things here.  She’s indispensable to this household and I will not tolerate your rudeness.”
“But – ”
“I think you should apologize to Mrs. Hudson.”
“I’m not a child – and I certainly meant no harm.” Sherlock looked like he was teetering on the edge of a sulk.  John glared. Sherlock looked at the wall behind the bed.
“Mrs. Hudson – my apologies. It was … unkind …of me to point out that your husband might have been involved in unsavory activities. However, I was simply – ”
“Thank you – apology accepted,” stated Mrs. Hudson in a hurry. She turned so her back was to Sherlock and gave John the look – the look that meant she wasn’t about to cede the upper hand to this man.
John approached Sherlock’s bed and scooted the chair closer with his foot.
“Milk?” he asked.
“A touch,” answered Sherlock. He looked suspicious when John pressed a cup into his hand, but immediately put the cup to his lips and sipped. John watched his eyes close in pleasure.
“You should eat something  too – I know you won’t be too hungry, but perhaps some toast and eggs?”
Mrs. Hudson came in with a second plate for John, and he took it from her with a polite “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” She smiled at him, looked side-long at Sherlock, then left the room.
“You’re observant,” John said as Sherlock ignored the food on his place and drank his tea. “More than observant.”
Sherlock shrugged. “The tea is good. The best I’ve had in some time.” He blew on the surface of the cup and looked at John again. “Thank you.”
John laughed. “You reduce Mrs. Hudson nearly to tears then thank me for a good cuppa.
“It’s a very good cuppa.”
“So – how did you … ?” He waved his hand back toward the kitchen.
“Oh – that?” Sherlock lifted one shoulder casually. “I’ve already explained, haven’t I? Connecticut accent, well-tailored, store-bought clothing. No ring but she tried twisting it anyway – as if she were long accustomed to doing so. Working here – clearly lowering of social class. So – husband gone and she’s taken off the ring. She’s ashamed.”
John realized he was gaping, but Sherlock seemed quite matter-of-fact.
“I like her,” said Sherlock. He held out his cup to John. “And I’d like more tea.”
John stood and gestured to the plate. “Eat something,” he said.
Sherlock frowned at the plate, sighed and picked up a triangle of toast.
John clatters down the stairs to his room two at a time, grinning at the exaggerated noise his boots make against the scuffed wood. There's something of a thrill in getting dressed up for a case, he thinks, and October has provided them with the perfect opportunity.
Sherlock had managed to find him something to wear that is still somewhat practical, while also a costume; it wouldn't do to be caught in the fall London chill, or be unable to chase criminals because of improper footwear. No, John's costume is perfect for all of that, if otherwise erring on the side of understated rather than extravagant.
He slows as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, and enters the sitting room as he fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt. John can't help but grin at his reflection in the mantle mirror; the sun-lightened denim of his jeans is a near match for his eyes, and he can feel how the cut of them accentuates his arse. His shirt is red-plaid with gold, diamond-shaped snaps at the wrists and down the front, as well as on the twin saw-tooth breast pockets; he's deliberately left the top button of his shirt undone. The rich, warm leather of his cowboy boots and matching belt and complete the picture, and John knows he looks good. Even without the hat, which John had left in the sitting room, it's the little details that make him look the part.Â
He licks his lips, still smiling; Sherlock's been silent on the case details, as usual, but John hopes wherever they are going is warm, so he has the excuse to roll up the sleeves of the shirt to his elbows, show off his tanned forearms. He didn't grow up with westerns, but the idea of being a cowboy, being with a cowboy is romantic - maybe exotic - and undeniably attractive, right?
John turns, about to shout down the hallway for Sherlock to stop preening - but there he is, leaning against the kitchen worktop and watching John with hooded eyes.
John's mouth goes dry.
He hadn't - he hadn't thought, when Sherlock had given him the costume, that Sherlock would also be dressing as a cowboy.
Sherlock, like John, is dressed in soft plaid; how he managed to find one that is predominantly the same purple as his preferred shirt is a mystery to John. He's wearing dark jeans - tight ones - with the sharp toes of his own cowboy boots peeking from underneath the hems, and a large silver belt buckle gleams in the half-light at his trim waist. John tries not to stare, and fails.Â
"John?" Sherlock says, and John's blood rushes south. It's the cherry on top - of course Sherlock can perfectly emulate the accented drawl, the elastic vowels, and his name in that deep voice -
"Sherlock," he manages to squeak in reply.
Sherlock smirks at him, his pale eyes sharp and assessing as he drags them up and down John's form. John shivers. Sherlock pushes away from the counter with an easy grace, but the swagger as he ambles closer is all country-western, loose in the hips with the added chime of metal-on-metal of his heavy buckle and- is he wearing spurs?
"You done clean up good," Sherlock says, nodding to John's outfit as he looms closer. The twang in his deep baritone has John rooted to the spot, a hot throb in his veins as his heart beats double-time.Â
Sherlock is so close that John has to tilt his chin up to keep meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Thanks," he says, willing his voice not to tremble with lust. "You ain't so bad yourself."
John's heart jumps to his throat when Sherlock reaches out to touch him, smoothing the fabric over his chest with one broad hand, pulling out a gleaming gold star to pin with the other. He pins it to John's shirt with surprising gentleness; even upside-down, John can read the bold SHERIFF stamped into the metal.
"I'm the sheriff?" he asks, his eyebrows lowering in confusion, "Wouldn't you want to be the sheriff?"
"Please, John," Sherlock snorts, "I reckon you'd make the better sheriff. You're the better shot. And-" Â he shuffles closer, until their chests are almost pressed together, to reach around John and grab the black cowboy hat that is resting on top of the skull.
"- It's rather fun being the outlaw once in a while," he breathes against John's parted lips, grinning devilishly as he whirls away and perches the dark hat on top of his curls. He's grabbing a jacket and bandanna and traipsing down the stairs before John has caught his breath; John has to adjust his now-tight jeans before he can walk very far, and he grabs his own hat on the way out the door.
What's really illegal is how Sherlock's arse looks in those jeans; luckily, if he is the outlaw and John is the sheriff, at least he's going to have a great view if they're off on a chase.
