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Silver Blazer part 1	By : Spike119 Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > AU/AR Views: 1843 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 1-Silver Blazer part 1
- 1
Title: Silver Blazer (Part I)
Rating: More implied than actual, call it somewhere between R and PG
Pairing: Centaur!Holmes/Watson
Warnings: implied imminent bestiality (or semi-bestiality, or whatever you think a centaur and a human would rate).
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not no-how.
A/N: this is in my MarySue badfic AU. You don’t have to have read any of that for this make sense; you just have to know that these are fictional characters who know they’re fictional. BTW, for those who don’t know, a plot-bunny is a virulent creature that causes otherwise productive citizens to write strange and twisted fanfic. Inspired by Nightspore’s wonderful picture posted to Holmesslash a while back.

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“Watson, what in blazes do you think you’re doing?”

I hefted the saddle a little closer to my hip and turned to face my friend, trying desperately not to laugh as he trotted up to me. Since we had found ourselves in this universe, I had been lucky enough to retain my human shape, but Holmes had not been so fortunate; the upper half of his body protruded from the glossy chestnut flanks of a handsome stallion, turning him into a remarkable specimen of a centaur. Knowing as I did the shocking gaps in my friend’s knowledge of literature and mythology, I was not surprised to find that he had never heard of such a creature before, though I was mildly taken aback – and somewhat disappointed – to find that his human half still retained his clothes, the well-worn Inverness cape flowing over the horse’s shoulders where they joined to Holmes’ lithe waist, his cravat as neatly knotted and his collar as straight as if we were still in the London of our own universe, rather than wandering through this strange (albeit scenic) mythical landscape.

“What are you doing?” Holmes repeated, as he spun a quick cantering circle round me in his agitation; he was putting up a heroic front, but I who knew him so well could see that he was clearly out of his depths. Ever since we’d encountered the plot-bunny which had brought us here, my friend had been nervous and out-of-sorts; although his cases had taken him to cartoon universes before, he had never encountered a place so far removed from his sphere of experience.

I, on the other hand, had felt immediately at home here; the background was handsomely blurred and presented in muted, eye-soothing tones, while the foreground was detailed enough to be interesting, but not distracting from any characters we met from time to time. As for these, all we had come across was the occasional peasant or talking animal, with one or two mythical creatures: all rather tame, rendered in classic fairytale style.

As an author, I found the folklore quality of the world quaint, if not reassuring, and soon found myself reminiscing about all the stories of my childhood. While Holmes was still concentrating on walking on four legs, I was singing snatches of old songs and remembering the first time I had read the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor. However, the innocence of childhood had worn away as I kept stealing glances at my companion. He had been rendered in sleek, flowing lines, highly stylized and bordering upon the surreal, his lean, muscular form stunningly beautiful.

I could not help but become visibly aroused when looking at him, and yet he presented such an absurd sight that I could not help grinning as I addressed his question. “I am walking, Holmes,” said I evasively. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Holmes stamped a hoof impatiently, every line of his face clearly betraying his anxiety. “That is not what I mean. You are carrying a saddle and a horsewhip. Exactly what are your intentions?”

“I should have thought it obvious,” I replied, unable to keep a smile from my lips, “especially as I can keep no secrets from the master of deduction.”

Holmes was not amused. “As obvious as your answer might be,” he growled, “I still should like to hear you say it yourself.”

“You mean, you want to hear it from the horse’s mouth – I’m sorry, old fellow; I couldn’t resist.”

“*Why* did you take the saddle, rather than leaving it on the wall where we *found* it?” he asked, scowling.

“Because I *felt* like it, Holmes,” I returned, enunciating the asterisks with full force. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I picked up the whip?”

Holmes scowled. “Any weapon we have here might be of use,” he muttered. “But the saddle was in bad taste, Watson.”

“It was next to the whip.”

“Are you proposing to ride me – don’t snicker, Watson; that thought was below you.”

“Holmes, you’re taking this all too seriously.”

“You’re not the one with hooves.”

“Rather handsome hooves, I should think.”

“I hadn’t noticed. At least I have five fingers,” he said, running them through his hair. “But why do I always have to be drawn as balding?”

“Vanity, Holmes?”

“You were the one who introduced the topic of aesthetics. You said I had handsome hooves.”

“You do. And your tail is magnificent,” I answered, smiling.

“Honestly, Watson, must you think like that all the time?”

“Like what? I didn’t mention your hindquarters. But now that you mention it, perhaps I should take you for a –”

“For God’s sake, Watson!” he cried. “I’m currently a different species!”

“If I recall correctly, there was that time when I was a skunk and you were a squirrel ….”

“At least we were both quadrupeds at the time,” Holmes answered quickly.

“And I seem to remember you seducing me when you were in the form of a squid.”

Holmes pawed at the ground with his left front foot, blushing slightly. “Yes, but we were at home,” said he, “behind locked doors, in our own bathroom, in our own universe. We might run into anyone here.”

“Well, there is that,” I conceded, and we walked along the path in silence a while.

“You know,” I said after a time, “you’re right. We could run into anyone. There was that charming unicorn we met a while back. Perhaps we should retrace our steps and see if we can find her.”

“And why would you wish to find her?” Holmes huffed.

“I *do* have this saddle,” I laughed, turning round and winking, “and she seemed a friendly enough sort. Perhaps she’d like to –”

“My dear Watson!” he ejaculated, looking absolutely mortified.

“Honestly, Holmes,” I chuckled. “Must you think like that all the time?” I turned around and began walking along the path again, whistling an old folk tune. Holmes stood a while, then trotted up to my side, his arms crossed and his chin thrust out.

“That was dirty pool, old fellow,” said he sternly. “And you can’t tell me you’d actually want to put a saddle on a unicorn.”

“Not one to whom I hadn’t been properly introduced,” I laughed.

“But you would have no problem putting a saddle on me.”

“Well, all predictable innuendo aside, I shouldn’t want to ride you bareback. Your back, though elegant, is a little on the lean side.”

“So you *are* considering riding me.”

“I mean no disrespect, old fellow, and you would hardly feel my weight,” I said slowly. For some reason that I could not put words to, the idea of riding upon Holmes’ back was strangely attractive. I could picture myself wrapping my arms round that sinewy chest, my chin upon his shoulder as we trotted together through this picturesque landscape …

As always, Holmes divined my thoughts. “You are a romantic at heart, Watson,” he tittered, finally allowing himself a flicker of a smile. “Very well. Here,” he continued, shrugging off the Inverness cape, “fold this up for a saddle-blanket –”

“You mean you’ll let me ride you?” I gasped.

“As you said, I shall hardly feel your weight. And we could definitely travel faster.”

“But where are we traveling?”

“Watson, must you be so obtuse? This road must lead to a town. In the town shall either be whatever plotline we have to complete in order to return to our own reality, or another plot-bunny we can follow out of this universe. Now are you going to ride me or are you going to walk?”

For answer, I placed the folded cape upon his back and gently placed the saddle atop it, feeling supremely ridiculous as I fastened the girth-strap around his supple ribs and adjusted the stirrups to their proper height. Holmes stood still and gritted his teeth as I swung myself into the saddle, grunting only a bit as I settled my weight astride him.

“Must you tug at my waistcoat so?” he muttered, as I searched for a handhold.

“There aren’t any reins, Holmes.”

“I should bloody well hope not. I shall direct myself, thank you very much. Kindly wrap your arms around my waist – leave my buttons alone, Watson.”

I sighed and gripped my lover’s body tighter to me, delivering a shy kiss to the back of his neck. This gesture seemed to mollify him somewhat, for he started to walk forward, slowly at first, in order to give me time to get used to the sensation of riding a centaur. Of course, I had practically grown up on horseback in Scotland and later in Australia, but I was glad for our slow pace as I adjusted to the novelty of riding my friend thus.

Soon Holmes broke into a trot, and then a brisk canter, and we both let our inhibitions fall to the wayside as we rode along the scenic path, his hooves clattering merrily upon the gravel below. I had found my balance and was now able to hold on by my knees, so freeing my hands to wander over Holmes’ back and shoulders, caressing him as I felt his muscles move between my legs.

“Watson, are you becoming sexually excited at this?” Holmes asked, turning his head slightly. I leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“I was aroused the moment I saw you thus,” I murmured at his ear. “But yes, I find this whole scenario quite provocative.”

Holmes chuckled at this, shaking his head. “Leave it to you to find a mythological figure sexually attractive,” said he.

“In fact, the centaur has long been viewed as a sexually potent creature. And the fact that you are the centaur in question –”

“That was your argument when I was a squid, if I recall.”

“Holmes, we have been lovers for longer than I care to remember. Cephalopod or centaur, I shall love you no matter what.”

“Must we descend to such maudlin sentimentality?” Holmes groaned, picking up his pace slightly.

“I was merely stating the facts, Holmes. And you do make a very handsome centaur.”

“You have already stated as much. Shall have a gallop?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I smiled, hanging on all the more tightly as Holmes broke into a faster gait, moving smoothly into a gallop. Soon we were flying along the road, laughing and chatting as Holmes sped through the pastoral scenery, his hooves seeming to float above the path. We rode along until we came to a high rock wall beside a stream, and Holmes hesitated, slowing to a trot once more.

“You can jump it,” I said encouragingly.

“I know I can jump it,” he replied petulantly, stamping a hoof. “But can you hold your seat?”

I laughed, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “I can keep my seat over anything you can jump, Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes gave a high laugh, almost a neigh. “Hang on, then, my boy!” he shouted with sudden glee, and I felt his muscles gather beneath me.

The next moment, we were flying toward the wall and then over it, both of us laughing for the sheer joy of it. Holmes landed so lightly that I did not know we were on the ground until we had covered half a furlong, galloping up the ridge where a large apple tree sat atop the hill.

As we reached the crest, we looked down into the valley below, and saw the fairy-tale city at the mouth of the river.

“See, there it is!” cried Holmes. “We’ll be sure to find the way back home there.” His last words came out haltingly, as if the words suddenly struck him as sad. He drew up to a halt just at the foot of the apple tree and we looked down to where the gleaming white towers and fanciful buildings shone in the misty morning light. Above our heads, the scent of apples filled the air.

I patted his flank, my other hand stroking the hint of mane that protruded teasingly from the back of his blazer. “You know,” I began tentatively, “we haven’t had a decent holiday in a while.”

Holmes pawed the ground thoughtfully, reaching back a hand to stroke my calf. “We’re still on a case,” he said doubtfully, his tail twitching at a fly.

“We’ve been investigating this reality shift for six months, Holmes. We haven’t come any closer to discovering where all these plot-bunnies are headed.” I covered his hand with mine. “Mrs. Hudson and Wiggins are keeping an eye on the slashers, while they work their end of the investigation,” I told him. “Certainly the universe can spare us for a few hours.”

Holmes’ tail flicked back and forth a few times, and I used the time to caress his long, graceful fingers as seductively as possible. I allowed my other hand to creep back from the saddle to stroke his hindquarters.

Suddenly Holmes spun around, almost bucking me from my seat, cantering back down the ridge from whence we had come.

“Where are we going?” I gasped, throwing my arms around his waist.

“Let’s jump that wall again! Hup!”

This time the wind whistled in my ears as we sailed through the air. My companion did not stop, but wheeled around, gathered his feet together, and leapt over a third time, landing only a trifle roughly. He recovered instantly, and galloped back up the hill to the apple tree, where he stopped, panting and laughing, his flanks heaving.

“’Pon my word, Watson, I don’t think I’ve had such fun since … I’m not sure I’ve ever had such fun, and more’s the pity,” cried he, as soon as he had regained his breath. “You’d better get off, now, though – at least for now; I’d like to rest a bit, and you’re getting heavy.”

I immediately slipped off, and Holmes took me up in his arms, pushing me against the trunk of the tree and claiming my mouth in a fervent kiss, releasing me only when I was gasping for air.

When he pulled back, I was delighted to see that his eyes were twinkling with mischief. He cupped my cheek in his hand. “You’re right,” he murmured. “We’ve been investigating the movement of these damned creatures for too long. We deserve a holiday.”

We kissed again, the novelty of his slightly taller stature adding to the sensation. The fact that a horse’s front legs were rubbing against my own was somewhat disconcerting, but the firm breastbone rubbing against my urgent arousal only fuelled my ardour, and I crushed against him heatedly, my tongue invading his mouth with growing insistence.

Holmes pulled away with every sign of reluctance, laying a long white hand upon my chest. “John,” said he softly, “nothing would give me greater pleasure than for us to find some secluded spot and continue these explorations. But do me one favour first.”

I stood on tiptoe to kiss his nose. “Name it, my love.”

“Get this saddle off of me.”
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Silver Blazer part 1