Work Text:
“Holmes, slow down!” I snorted, exasperated, “the race hasn’t yet begun.”
Holmes pinned his ears and tossed his head in agitation, but shortened his stride to a more reasonable trot so that I, with my shorter, sturdier legs, could keep apace with him. He said nothing, caught up as he was in hot blood and readiness, but I felt him shift closer until his hip brushed mine.
Damp already. I looked him over more closely. Holmes’s heart was racing, a deep booming thud in his chest, and a lather already starting to break on his neck. There was a manic energy to his rolling eye I did not like. I cursed. No wonder he was rushing. The groom had snuck him that shot again, the one that set him abuzz and compelled my normally neurotic and obstinate friend to go.
“I’m fine, Watson!” he snapped, as though sensing my concerns, “my blood is up, and I feel alive. If they want me to run then by god I’ll ru-Oh!”
I don’t believe he meant to, but he’d begun to speed up again, and his jockey tried to rein him in. Too harshly, apparently, or perhaps just at the wrong moment, when Holmes was not feeling cooperative, for he balked, jumped, popped a buck and sent poor Victor Trevor over his shoulder into the grass.
Before he could take the chance and bolt, Stamford had sent me forward and caught him by his flapping reins. Pulled up short, he danced at the end of the rein while Stamford hung on grimly until the grumbling but unharmed Trevor picked himself up out of the terf and took back his horse. Holmes would not stand still, and very nearly tipped Trevor off again before he was properly seated when another gelding cantered past.
“My word, Holmes, take a breath!” I exclaimed, “the race won’t start without you!’’
“I know, old boy, I know.” he huffed, swishing his tail. Trevor found his stirrups and turned Holmes towards the start, and we set off again. “It’s just…they want me to run, and I don’t want to, and so they get angry. Then they drug me up until all I can think about is running, and then tell me I’m not supposed to. It’s enough to drive a horse mad. Even now,” another horse passed us, for Trevor held Holmes firmly in a trot, “every horse that passes us feels like a fly buzzing around my nerves. I could outrun all of them, Watson. Every single one.”
It was true, of course. Holmes was fleet as a sighthound, when he wanted to be. But he rarely ever wanted to be, and rarer still when ordered. Motivation was the problem, until his trainers had turned to stimulants. Now he was practically raving. I’m quite sure that, had I not been there to accompany him, Trevor would have found himself unseated far sooner and more permanently.
“You’ll get your chance now” I told him.
We reached the barrier where the other horses milled and dropped to a walk. Well, I dropped to a walk. Holmes jigged along beside me. One of the stewards appeared beside us and took hold of his bridle to lead him to the pole. He whickered to me as he went.
“Good luck!” I replied.
“There’s no luck to it.” he said, “I’m the fastest so I’m going to win.”
The other horses side-eyed him, but were too polite to comment. Stamford and I would hang around until the barrier lifted, to ensure that our help was not needed in quieting Holmes. But there was no reason to worry. With the pole right in front of him, his ears pricked. He shifted and pawed at the ground as the other horses found their places along the pole, but his focus never wavered. He was locked in, trembling with anticipation. I watched him from my place among the stewards, feeling my own nerves vibrating with his tension.
Three…
Two…
One. BANG!
The start gun fired. I shied. The pole dropped. My tall, bay friend launched forward as though he was fired from the gun, and he left the others behind.
I met Holmes twenty minutes later, as he was led from the winner’s circle. There was a small garland of roses around his neck that he was trying to shake off. When he spotted me, he whinnied and dragged his beleaguered groom across the courtyard to my side.
“What ho, Watson. I won. Did you see?” he crowed.
“I did, Holmes, I saw it all,” I chuckled, touching my nose to his, “Thought that big grey certainly gave you a run for your money on the stretch, did he not?”
“Oh yes, Lemon Zest, he’s a fair goer,” Holmes said, his tone genial, but with a sneer on his face that revealed exactly what he thought of having his lead challenged, “but he clung to the rail like a fool while I moved out and found better ground.”
“I’m sure his jockey had more to do with that than he,” I said, “we’re not all so lucky to have riders who just leave us to it.”
“And so they lose.” said Holmes, and gave a full body shake as his saddle was removed. The groom yelped as Holmes’s black tail flicked him. Holmes snorted apologetically.
“Oh stop moving!” I told him, “let the poor man work!”
Holmes settled, as best he could. The drug would ruffle him for a few hours yet, and he continued to twitch, especially as cold water was sloshed over him and he was led around to keep his hot legs from stiffening. I'd already been unsaddled and left hitched to a post, and so I stood and watched him carefully. He was moving sound, for now. But later? When he sobered down and the consequences of running a mortal body like a god on four legs kicked in? I worried often for my tall, bay friend. He was already the oldest of most fields in which he ran, and one day the strain would wear him down too much. I watched him shove a too-slow stableboy out of his way with his nose and nearly send the poor lad into a trough. The groom checked him with the halter, sighed, and threw the chain over his proud nose. The little metal links pressing into the finely chiseled bones of his face was finally enough to get his attention, and Holmes dropped reluctantly to the groom’s side, energy rerouted into his wildly spiraling tail.
“Are you alright?” I asked, when they eventually declared him cool enough and returned him to my side so that we could be returned to our temporary boxes together.
“I’m fine, Watson,” he snapped, “I’m better than fine. I could run forever, I think, if they’d let me. There’s lightning in my chest, and it will find its way out however it can.”
Holmes punctuated his point with another shake. I blew against his neck sympathetically.
“You know Holmes, it’s customary for horses to be tired after such a race as that.” I said.
“Hah! I shan’t ever be tired again!” He huffed, “They’ve seen to that. Oh no, here comes this dreadful thing.”
A light rug was thrown over him and the groom and stable boy did their best to keep his teeth away from it as they buckled it on. The rug was an older one, ragged wherever his teeth could reach. Once it was secure, they led him into his box and me into its neighbour. The wall between them was dismally solid, but we could see each other if we put our heads over the doors, which we promptly did.
You might think from this recounting that my friend Sherlock of the Holmes estate is a very badly behaved horse, and certainly he has his moments. But truth be told, there’s not a wicked bone in his body, and when in his right mind and given proper accommodation and consideration by his handlers, he can be a perfect gentleman. Unfortunately, the high-stress atmosphere of the race-course, surrounded on all sides by harried and exhausted humans and with a frankly staggering quantity of stimulants coursing through him, was not conducive to steadiness or good behaviour for a horse with quite so brilliant and active a mind, and the moment we were settled in, Holmes immediately set about fiddling the door latch with his teeth.