//------------------------------// // Chapter 5: Protocols // Story: Sherclop Pones and the Adventure of Pinkie's Cupcakes // by A Sherlockian Brony //------------------------------// There was a one o’clock train to Ponyville that day, and we had ought to catch it, for, upon glancing over the timetable, there won’t be another till three. Once Pones had locked the door to our rooms, he called for the page. “Yes, Mr. Pones?” said Billy, rushing up the stairs. “I’d like for you, young lad,” said Pones, turning to him. “to keep any letters that may be addressed to me until I and the good Doctor have returned. Is it understood?” The boy nodded and Pones patted him upon the back. We then left the flat. As our small party took the route to the station, I had observed a dramatic increase of security. Royal Guards could be found in every single corner, street, and avenue of Canterlot, each of them seeming to interrogate every single individual that crossed their path. We too, were interrogated, when we had barely paced a hundred yards. A staunch, masculine guard had approached us and spent no time in imposing the most impossible of questions. “What was the deduction you had made upon Dr. Watcolt when you first met him?” interposed the Guard to Pones gruffly as he recited from the clipboard which he had carried. My friend frowned upon hearing the question. “That he was a retired Wonderbolt Medic whom had served in the campaign against Nightmare Moon during her return.” said he as he eyed the guard. “By how?” “He had the air of a Wonderbolt, and the admirable intellect of a doctor. You add that together, you receive the sum of a Wonderbolt Medic.” “And the campaign?” “He had recently received an injury, and I happened to know that the Wonderbolts had no recent campaigns other than the one against Nightmare Moon.” The guard had then muttered the words on the clipboard, ticking off boxes with a pen as he shot occasional glances at the sleuth. “Very good, sir,” said he, concludingly. "You check out just fine." He then turned to me. “And as for you, Dr. Watcolt,” said the guard in an intimidating fashion. “if that is whom you claim to be,”--he had stared into my soul before he continuing.—“what’s the name of your Batch?” “I beg pardon?” “Your Batch, Doctor—what was its name?” His authoritative voice had awakened the military instincts that had remained dormant for quite some time. “John Hamish Watcolt of the Northumberland Batch, sir.” said I in same youthful attentiveness as if I were still a cadet at the Academy. “Your call sign, I understand, is ‘Med-Head?’” the guard asked, adding emphasis on the latter. I had remembered my days as a rookie and the years in which I had spent resenting that name. “Indeed,” said I, slightly bothered on how could he have possibly known that information. “How did you receive that exact call sign?” “For Captain Spitfire criticized the overuse of my medical knowledge upon every occasion I find myself in, thus ultimately leading to gain such a name.” “Why were you deployed in Ponyville during that night?” “For Colonel Cumulonimbus of the Cyclone Batch had been defeated, and my batch were the backup.” The guard stared in amazement for a minute or two. He then recomposed himself. “How did you come into acquaintance with Mr. Sherclop Pones?” said he, firmly. “I was, after I was relieved of my duties, searching for a cheaper estate to take my residence in for I found myself in financial ruin. Clopford, a crony of mine, introduced me to a certain Mr. Sherclop Pones, who shares the common need. Soon, we found ourselves sharing rooms and rent in our small yet humble abode.” “And where is that?” “221B Baker Street.” “What was the first case you had partaken action in with Mr. Sherclop Pones?” “‘A Study of Magic’” “Who gave it under that headline?” “I did so.” “Do give the recapitalization of the events that occurred in that particular case... " I then did so. As I remember, the case was concerned about the accusation of the Great and Powerful Trixie of committing a fraud, to which, with my friend’s swift deduction of the message written upon both the victims, proved to be utterly false. Thus, leading to the clearing of the illusionist’s name, and the arrest of the so-called ‘victims’ who had attempted to destroy their rival’s reputation by framing her for a crime she didn’t commit. “Why did you decide to document the cases of Mr. Sherclop Pones?” I glanced at Pones. “I feel as I’m doing him a great justice to dock those extraordinary cases, for he refuses to take the credit he well deserves in bringing justice upon the ponies involved in those cases.” My dignified friend had scoffed at my remark. “My dear Watcolt,” said he, irritably. Though I could detect a faint indication of flattery. The guard had then once again, in whispers, read the clipboard as he shot occasional glances. He then nodded. “I’m very sorry for these seemingly unnecessary questions; but I assure, they are not.” said he, taking my friend’s hoof and shaking it. “It is indeed an honor to meet you. Surely, with your extraordinary powers, you can deduce that the actions I have taken are part of protocol? I have direct orders to specifically question you.” Pones squinted his eyes. “Protocols ordered by—” said he, writing a name upon his sleeve. The guard stared at it and gaped at my friend with an expression of mystification and reverence. “Sweet Celestia, Mr. Pones!” said the guard. “How could you have—” “I trust,” said Sherclop Pones, glancing at my watch; “that we may proceed to our destination?” “Yes, you may do so, but first,” said the guard, turning to our client. “who is the mare accompanied with you?” Ms. Hooves—who has been violently shaking, grinding her teeth, and gnawing her hooves during the protocol (likely caused by the anxiety of the current case at hand and its staking weight), flinched at the guard’s question. “Me?” “Ms. Hooves is our client,” said Pones; “who appears to be mixed in some trifling matter in which I desire to clear up. Now, if you please, dear sir,” He gestured the guard to step aside. “You’re not going to the wedding?” remarked the guard once we had paced a couple yards away. “It would not only be an honor, but also further increase the security of the entire event.” Pones shook his head with a laugh. “That would be quite unnecessary, sir, for, as I observe, you have already quite made the precautions that would, if I were to ever agree to attend it, render my services of providing ‘security’ rather useless.” He then pointed at the sky. Curious as to what he meant, I glanced up at the sky and was quite astonished on what I saw— The city seemed to be entirely enveloped by what it appears to be some kind of giant pinkish bubble. So large was it that it had not only covered the entirety of the city, but the entire sky as well, it is like the city had been swallowed by some kind of pink balloon of sparkling translucent material. “No, my good sir,” continued Pones. “I shan't attend. Not unless the bride or groom were to be” he paused briefly as he shot a quick glance at Ms. Hooves. “murdered by an unknown someone amongst the attendees—there! It is then and only then I shall attend it.” Ms. Hooves laughed hysterically. "Let’s hope not.” We then left the scene, leaving the guard in awe. Once we had finally arrived at the station, it was filled with a comically large number of crowds, which, upon inquiry, was learned that they have come to attend the royal event that is yet to occur. Once the crowd had cleared, we sat at the benches, waiting for the arrival of the Express, and pondered on what just recently occurred. “Pones, what is that?" said I, looking up. “My dear Watcolt,” said Sherclop Pones. “do you not find it ironic for you, one who is more knowledgeable towards royal marriages, possesses considerably less knowledge than I do upon it? That pink bubble”—he pointed at the sky—“is only employed when a royal wedding—such as the one in which had made it to the headlines—is scheduled to occur. It is to assure the protection of the wedding—as well the entire Monarchy from exterior threats.” I nodded my understanding. “Furthermore,” I added. “What do you fancy could be the possible object of those questions? They seemed so bizarre to ask! How could he possibly know such private information?” “They are part of Government protocol, Watcolt due to this event that had been ordered by a certain—” Pones paused. “—someone…” “Yes, evidently,” said I, remembering how the guard had reacted when Pones had written something in his sleeve. “But that still doesn’t explain the object! By the way, whose name did you write upon your sleeve which had such an effect upon that guard?” Pones, who had been listening intently for the whistle of the train, glanced at me with a twinkle in his eyes. “The name of my brother,” said he. “Your brother?” said I with some astonishment. “Why, yes! My dear Watcolt, have you actually forgotten what Myclop is?” I was about to answer, when an unexpected event occurred— “Mr. Pones!” cried a familiar boyish voice, followed by the sound of galloping hooves; “Mr. Pones, sir!” It was a young colt with a piece of paper in his possession, running towards our direction in feverish speed..