#rodeolock

“Somehow,” Sherlock drawled, “I don’t think I’m the one who’s going to be risking arrest…” He leaned forward and snatched the dark wig and sunglasses from the woman’s head and face.  “Kitty Riley.”

“What?  Don’t you dare touch me!  I’ll have you up for battery!”

Sherlock blinked again, his mind rapidly shifting through various replies.  Indulging Molly’s obvious pash for him had proven useful thus far for getting her cooperation.  It wouldn’t be a hardship to go dancing with her, as long as she didn’t expect him to try and kiss her goodnight.  And hadn’t John also said something about Contra dancing?  Or at least appreciating the music?  There was a chance, however faint, that John might also appear at the dance and if he did, maybe Sherlock could convince him to listen to his apology... 

Sherlock stared into the mirror, styling and restyling his fringe with his fingers.  He was aiming for ‘effortlessly sexy’ but instead kept ending up with ‘shaggy dog.”  He growled, intending to find a pair of scissors to rectify the situation, but was fortunately forestalled by a knock from outside.  He gave one last disgusted look at the mirror before hurrying to open the door.

Molly was standing on the miniscule porch, waiting. She’d exchanged her usual jeans and flannel for a pretty, tea-length red dress covered with flowers, and braided her hair up into a crown.  Black, t-strap character shoes, red lipstick and a matching white shawl completed the outfit... 

Sherlock grimaced.  “Straker’s trailer was clearly the target, but it’s impossible to tell what the culprit was after without taking a closer look.  I don’t suppose you have an inventory of the contents?”

“Actually, I do,” Ross replied, stepping up and peering through the open doorway.  “Probate lawyers are nasty that way.  I ordered a list made up just before we put everything in storage...” 

Title: The Devil’s Blaze

Rating: E (eventually)

Relationship: Eventual Sherlock/John

Genre: Rodeo!lock AU! Casefic/Action/Adventure/Romance

Synopsis: Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Equestrian Expert, is the individual called when horse owners are out of their depth.  At the behest of his elder brother, Sherlock travels to Amarillo, Texas, to investigate why a valuable bucking stallion has seemingly gone berserk for no reason and killed his trainer.  The local authorities suspect the owner fraud and possible animal abuse, but Mycroft sees parallels to an unsolved case from the 1980s wherein a racehorse killed a stableman. Complicating the situation is John Watson: bronco rider, rodeo veterinarian and one of case’s primary suspects…

“What the Hell?  How did you get past–?”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock replied, waving a dismissive hand.

“Not irrelevant!  We’re talking about a potentially serious breach of department security!”

“Oh, please, Sherlock sneered.  “If you were that concerned about security, somebody would have locked the door labeled ‘employees only.’  As it was, all I had to do was look like I knew where I was going.”

Donovan reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger and muttered something under breath that sounded like “Grandmother give me strength,” before raising her eyes to nail Sherlock.  “Right.  So why shouldn’t I just lock up you for trespassing?”

So personal update: my dad (finally!) got his lung transplant and I'm taking shifts like the rest of the immediate family. Sitting around on hospital floors is terrible for my hips (believe me, trying to sit in the chairs they provide is worse!) but it does give me hours of quiet time for writing!

~*~

Later, back in his cabin, Sherlock gave into the urge to pace.  “It makes no sense!” he growled to the room’s other occupant, only to receive a sleepy doggy yawn in reply.  “There is a pattern here; there must be, but what is it?”

Spinning around Sherlock let his gaze fall on the mostly-unadorned walls.  The cabin was made up of split logs–hardly the best surface to adhere items to, but beggars, choosers and all that.  Sherlock sighed again.  There was nothing else for it.  He’d hoped to keep his evidence wall locked in his mind palace in the interest of preserving his cover–his cabin was cleaned weekly, after all–but the concussion was making it impossible for him to do so...