For the first time that week, John got home from the surgery at a semi-decent hour, carrying his laptop and the seemingly ever necessary bag of groceries. Out of long habit, he peeked into the sitting room on the way to kitchen. Windows intact, check. Walls no more singed then they were this morning, check. Consulting detective/partner/boyfriend/all around git stretched out on the couch, check. Horse, check.
John quickly backtracked into the sitting room to confirm that yes, what appeared to be a full sized pinto horse was indeed standing in the middle of the room, quietly munching hay from a bucket on the coffee table. At least it was alive, and that thought was a testament to just how far John's standards had slipped in the years he'd been living with Sherlock.
"Sherlock?" John asked carefully. "Why is there a horse in our flat?"
"Witness Protection. This horse can identify our suspect." And in Sherlockian logic, that was apparently a perfectly valid explanation.
"A talking horse. Named Mr Ed, right?" John asked, making his skepticism clear.
"Of course not." Yep, right over Sherlock's head as usual. "Why would a mare be named that? Don't be silly, John. Her name is Misty and of course she's incapable of speech. She will however, shy away from the man who attacked her the other night in the process of relieving the Richardson household of most of their silver, thus identifying our suspect."
John, carefully so as not to startle the horse, dropped everything he was carrying on his chair and slowly moved over to where she was standing. He held out a hand and Misty turned and nuzzled it. She was actually better behaved than many of their clients.
"And I really don't want to know how you got her up the stairs," John told Sherlock.
"It was simply a matter of… " Sherlock started to explain before John interrupted him.
"No, I mean it, I really don't want to know. And I'm certain the less Mrs Hudson knows, the better. How long will our guest be here?"
"Until tomorrow morning. There's a soiree at the Richardson manor tonight with a guest list of hundreds and their security is appalling. I don't much fancy spending the night in their stable and given the day you've had, you don't either." As usual, Sherlock was right, even though had yet to open his eyes. Bastard, John though fondly.
"Our suspect will be coming here of his own accord tomorrow and we'll have our answer then."
"Right. Okay," John said, not that there was any other answer he could possibly give. This was life with Sherlock after all. "But she's not sleeping in our bed and you're cleaning up after her."