Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes stands behind the counter of Rod’s Western Palace, thinking about what he will do after graduation next month. Where will he go when he is free of this tediousness? Away. Anywhere. Anywhere but Ohio. It is so damn boring here. He is certain that middle-western America is not where he belongs. The people here, at least the ones he knows in this small town, don't understand him; half the time, he feels like a freak. He is meant for better things; his mom always told him so. Before she went and died and before he started screwing up. Europe sounds exciting, but how could he ever hope to afford such a thing, a poor kid practically on his own? But he can dream, and he does.
He's about to return to the chemistry textbook, open in front of him, when the bell on the door clangs loudly, interrupting his thoughts.
Sherlock eyes the man entering the shop. It's a Saturday morning, usually a busy time, but not today. On a typical Saturday, the shop would be full of two types of people.
Type One: Girls in love with horses. Little girls, teenagers, older women. What was it with women and horses anyway? They came in in droves, buying riding boots, brushes, jodhpurs, and chaps. Plucking show bills from the bulletin board, planning for the next horse show. Giggling. Dull.
Type Two: Men wanting to look macho, buying cowboy boots, hats, and belt buckles. For God’s sake, you would think it was goddamn Oklahoma, not Ohio.
But this Saturday, the shop is empty. There is a big horse show going on at the Franklin County fairgrounds all weekend, and most likely, the horsey people are there. Rod's has a booth, and the other employees are there now, leaving Sherlock alone for the morning.
The man entering the shop is neither type one nor type two. He is a man of somewhat less than average height, about five-eight. He seems taller, though, exuding self-confidence. He is blonde and well built, and wearing jeans, Converse sneakers, and a tight-fitting Nike tee shirt. He looks to be in his early thirties. Sherlock knows from how he carries himself that he had been in the military and maybe still is. Might be injured. The way he moves is a bit off. Shoulder? This is something Sherlock cannot turn off, this reading of people, the attention to detail that is a compulsion. It tends to drive away the people in his life before he can form a relationship with them, not that he cares.
“Hello, can I help you find something?” Sherlock offers.
“Riding crops,” the man says in a British accent, unusual in this rural Ohio setting.
Sherlock internally lifts his eyebrows. Didn't see that one coming. “Over here.” Picking up his book, Sherlock leads the way to the back of the store, and the blonde man follows.
As he walks, Sherlock has the most peculiar feeling that the man is staring at his ass. He doesn't know how he knows this; he just does, and he feels a flush creeping up his neck and cheeks.
At the very back of the store is the display of riding crops.
“So, where do you ride?” Sherlock asks casually.
“Nowhere,” the man says, picking up a riding crop and flicking it against his thigh experimentally.
“Oh.”
There was a “type three” customer, much rarer than type one or two. The employees always joked about these men, and they were always men. Women interested in "recreational punishment" were probably too embarrassed to walk into a tack shop and purchase just a riding crop; they likely bought them discreetly on Amazon, just another cardboard box on the porch, alongside identical boxes filled with romance novels, Barbies, and socks. Men didn’t seem to care. Sometimes, two men would come in and select one together.
“I think I’ll just look for a minute,” the man says.
“OK,” Sherlock says, taking a few steps away, pretending to highlight something in the chemistry textbook.
He watches with his peripheral vision as the man, this strangely attractive man, inspects the black leather crops, running his fingers over them, for Christ’s sake, even smelling them. Sherlock knows what they smell like, for he has smelled them, too. Leather. He does love the smell of leather.
The man browses, and Sherlock pretends to be engrossed in chemistry. This guy is hot, and Sherlock can't help but let his thoughts wander as the man continues to handle the crops.
In his mind, Sherlock pictures a black leather crop wielded by this man, tracing gently up his thigh and over his hip before being raised and falling hard with a loud “whack” across his bare buttocks, sending delicious reverberations of pain through his flesh. Sherlock draws in a little gasp of air, and the man looks over at him, studies him for a moment, and then smirks. His dark blue eyes fix on Sherlock's lighter ones, and Sherlock feels his stomach flip.
“Which one would you recommend?”
“Well, I’m not really qualified…”
“Of course you are,” the man says, stepping closer to Sherlock, invading his personal space, eyes sweeping the store to ensure they are stll alone.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re balancing college-level equations. You're smart. You're overqualified for this place. And you're definitely qualified to tell me which one of these crops you would most like me to whip that skinny arse with until you beg me to stop,” says the man, with a smile on his face. As he says this, he places the tip of the crop he is holding between Sherlock’s legs and draws it slowly over Sherlock’s crotch and up his stomach and chest until it rests beneath his chin. "I believe you'd like it," he adds.
Sherlock feels his cock harden, and his knees threaten to buckle. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he is sure that this man can see it under the flimsy material of his T-shirt.
“That one’s good,” is all he can manage, breathless.
“I’ll take it then,” the man says, looking into his eyes intently, still holding the crop under Sherlock’s chin.
Sherlock wonders for a second if the man is going to kiss him. Suddenly, he wants very much to be kissed.
Instead, the man smiles and walks toward the front of the store to the cash register. After he collects his wits, Sherlock follows him.
The man pays for the crop.
“Name’s John Watson.”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Nice to meet you, Sherlock,” John says. He takes Sherlock’s hand and, turning it over, holds it for a moment, rubbing the smooth palm gently with his thumb before writing a phone number in pen on Sherlock’s wrist. “I think we are going to be great friends.”