//------------------------------// // Chapter 10: The Peculiar Expedition of Dr. Watcolt // Story: Sherclop Pones and the Adventure of Pinkie's Cupcakes // by A Sherlockian Brony //------------------------------// “Now, Watcolt,” said my companion, taking my hoof. “as the young official gets it signed, we may proceed to the next phase of my plan.” “What phase?” said I. “By booking an inn for, as you may remember, I have agreed to an appointment with Pinkie Pie in the following morning, in which is scheduled to occur at eight. Therefore, we must find a temporary place of residence if we wish to see the resolution of this entire business.” “But that is an entire day!” My friend nodded his head gravely. “Indeed, unfortunately.” “But why?” “Pinkie Pie—" said Sherclop Pones. "—ah, that local over there seems well acquainted with this town. Let us ask her if she knows where the nearest inn is in, shall we?” A bit resented to Pones’ actions, I nevertheless followed as he did, asking the mare with a purple coat with a Cutie Mark consisting of berries (who appeared to be in some drunken state as she drank from the flask in which carried). She then directed us to an inn. We spent no time in booking a room and paying a night's rent. The room was, specifically ordered by my friend to be so, to be located at the ground floor and with a view. We have had barely settled in when-- “By Jove, Watcolt!” cried Sherclop Pones; “I’ve got it!” “Got what?” said I. “I have found a way to extract the true meaning of this affair.” “How, might I ask?” Pones considered for a moment. Then his eyes sparkled. “Are you athletic?” he asked, turning to me. “I used to be a good flyer.” said I, glancing at my left-wing. “Yes, yes—but are you good runner?” said Pones. “Well, I suppose—” Pones rubbed his hooves. “Then, you have no objection if were to tell you to run across town at the top your speed?” “My dear Pones, what possible purpose could that serve?” “To bring justice, my dear Watcolt—to bring justice.” said Pones in a very serious voice. “Now, will you do so?” Despite its queerness, I notwithstanding, for I knew this would have a worthy reason, acquitted as he requested. “I thought I knew my Watcolt!” said my friend. “What am I to do?” “You will, as I have already said for you to do so, run to certain locations in Ponyville at the top of your speed—at the top your speed, mind you, and as you do so, you shall, with the help your watch, measure how fast you reach those said locations. Is it understood?” I nodded to show that I did. “Yes, yes, but what are these locations in which you speak of?” said I. “The Ponyville branch of the Yard, and to Sugarcube Corner.” said Pones; “You will first, starting from this inn, run at the top of your speed to the branch; once arriving there, you shall pause to see how much time has passed since the inn. Very good. Now, once having done so, you will once more, run at the top of your speed to Sugarcube Corner. Once having arrived, you shall, once again, note how much time has passed by glancing at your watch—how much time has passed from your departure from the station to the confectionary. You will then, return to the inn and show me your results. Is it clear?” I nodded to show my understanding. “There is one point, though, however, that is not—” said I; “Why do you not do it yourself?” Pones laughed. “Excellent, Watcolt—well, it is because, my dear fellow, the solution to this grotesque problem depends upon your compliance.” “My compliance?” “Yes, your compliance. Now, off you go—time is of the essence!” I then, upon my friend’s request to do so, glanced at my watch, and proceeded to run—run as fast as my hooves could carry me to my given destination. I must have turned some heads at the speed I was at. So fast I was that the local’s houses were all but just mere blurs to me, while I in turn must had just been a blur to them. It is indeed fortunate that I had remembered the Yard’s branch location, for if I hadn’t my findings would have been inaccurate. Once I had at last arrived, Inspector Trotkins was found snacking upon the porch. When he laid his sight upon me, he gave a gasp. “Star Swirl’s beard!” said he, with an air of concern. “have you been participating in some kind of marathon, Doctor, just to get here? Is there some kind of trouble?” I then gave an excuse, to which the detective believed. Honoring the promise in which I had made to my friend, I glanced at my watch and had noted my findings upon a piece of paper. I then planned to head off to me next destination but I had found myself too exhausted to do so. Therefore, with the official’s permission, I sat upon the porch, so that I may regain my strength before resuming on my strange errand. With the official’s generosity of offering a glass of milk and some biscuits, I was quite ready to fulfill my duty. But then, just as soon as I was about to depart— “Oh, before you go, Doctor,” began Trotkins. “when you come back to Mr. Pones, do inform that I have had successfully got the warrant he wanted signed.” He waved in his wing a piece of paper. “Though, I do find it quite odd,” said he, reading it. “to think that there is some kind of homicidal lunatic running about in such a populace such as this and for the local force to remain ignorant of it. Well, I trust Mr. Pones, but I still find it quite odd for such a thing to occur. You will tell him this, Dr. Watcolt, will you not?” I had simply nodded, for I already begun finding myself once more at the top of my speed, with the next destination being the ominous place that is Sugarcube Corner. But the effect of Trotkins' words had lingered on me. I had nearly fainted of absolute exhaustion if I were not determined to fulfill my promise to Pones. An image had briefly flashed upon my mind of returning to the inn, reporting the failure of a very simple, yet exhausting of one’s energies, of a task, with Pones, in a state of absolute disappointment. I shuddered at the thought of it. Something odd had occurred once I had arrived. Upon noting my findings, my curiosity had gotten the best of me. Trotkins’ words. What could he mean by “homicidal lunatic?” Was he possibly referring to—well, her actions did seem queer. I took upon this opportunity to perhaps clear some matters up by taking a brief glance at the interior of the ominous shop. It did not take to possesses the mental faculties of Sherclop Pones to know that there something a bit—off of Pinkie Pie. She was clearly hiding something, and I was determined to assist Pones in whatever I can to clear it up. But it had dawned on me that this is not what Pones would have wanted. If he had needed to pry upon this shop, I would have done so. Therefore, I had retreated back to the inn, eager to report on my findings. “Pones!” I cried, upon returning to the inn. “What had you exactly ordered to be written in the warrant?” Pones, whom had carried a glass of water, was rather taken aback by this question. “I suppose it has been written?” said he. I told my encounter with Trotkins. “Well,” began Pones. “I had ordered for it be signed in order to bring justice upon a certain kind of crime.” “That being?” said I. “Murder.” It had been my turn to be taken aback. “Murder?” Pones nodded. “Sweet Celestia! What could—” “I understand that you wish to bring justice, Watcolt, is it not so?” “Well, of course I do! Pones, who has been murdered?” Pones smiled. “You look quite exhausted, my dear fellow,” said he. “feel obliged to refresh yourself.” He then used telekinesis to hand me over the glass of water. It was quite a long walk back to inn, either that, or I was too exhausted. Whichever way it shall be, I had felt that as if every ounce energy had been drained from undertaking upon the task bestowed upon me, for I had not gotten to flex my muscles for quite some time. I, then, therefore, was grateful for this act of kindness. Upon consuming that glass, I distinctly remembered feeling a little lightheaded and had felt that I was in desperate need of some sleep. I had no explanation for this sudden drowsiness other than that I had exhausted upon myself too much from my little expeditions. Therefore, to rid myself from it, I had sat upon the inn’s couch and had immediately fallen asleep. I had distinctly remembered that as I did so, I could undeniably perceive Pones was somewhat pleased of my sudden drowsiness, as if he had been counting upon it. I had awoken from a joyous cry of triumph from Pones. As my eyelids slowly opened, I saw him writing in a frantic fashion at the inn’s provided desk. “Pones,” said I as sat up, still feeling a little lightheaded. “what is—” “I thank thee, my dear Watcolt!” he cried, without taking his eyes of the book. “You have no idea how invaluable your services have been in clearing this absurd matter up.” “Meaning that you have solved the mystery? Or mysteries?” said I, well-awake now. “Correction—mystery—singular, Watson; it is only a mystery and always has been.” I got up. “What? What about that of the disappearance of Rainbow Dash and of our client?” said I as approached him. I had taken a quick glance at what he was writing and found that he was taking notes from my discoveries, to his own notebook and finding the sum of each discovery. From the inn to the station is eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds, and from the station to the shop is nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds. The sum in which is eighteen minutes and thirty-four seconds. He seemed to know its difference from the number of thirty minutes (with the word “Sleepy Drops” mysteriously written above it), to which he received the result of eleven minutes and twenty-seconds. “What is that, Pones?” “The solution to this mystery in which has bothered us for too long,” said he, closing the notebook. He then handed me my watch. I glanced at my hoof and found the indentation upon my hoof's coat in which it used to occupy. I then strapped it back in. Upon taking a glance, I had discovered it was a quarter to four. “Pones,” said I. “how long have I been asleep?” “About half an hour.” “I don’t what had come over me.” “It is perfectly understandable, my dear fellow—you had been exhausted from your errands, and in consequence, resulted to you refresh your energies by taking a little nap.” I comprehended. “But the solution you speak of—” “The solution, my dear Doctor, we shall we see the following morning.” said Pones sternly, facing me. “But for now, let us find means to pass the time until it comes.” Having said this, Pones, taking his saddlebag, had proceeded to disappear into the room’s lavatory, remained there for a few minutes and presently came out a drunken-looking stallion, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod, he bid his goodbye as he left the inn, declaring that he is on a little expedition as means of passing time, while I had opted to do so instead by reading a novel. But all the inn had to offer were the latest editions of A.K Yearling’s “Daring Do,” and the Shadow Spade mysteries. The latter, no matter how intriguing the protagonist’s adventure may be in clearing a mystery, it still had managed to bore me, for why would one such as myself need to be invested in a fictious story of a fictious detective solving a fictious crime when I am already working upon actual crime--clearing up an actual mystery in which has already garnered much of my investment. I then threw the book across the room, and had decided to help in the matter by thinking the matter over, but had failed to come up with a coherent explanation for the ominous warrant, the nameless murderer and his victim whomever they may be, and how may justice be brought upon them. I thought of the object of my errands, and the mystery of my sudden drowsiness. I thought of the mysterious ominousness surrounding Pinkie Pie. This I had done till I had quite given up on the matter, and had decided to read through Shadow Spade and the Mystery of the Rainbow. I found it rather amusing on how the detective solved the mystery which such simplicity of her deductions, if only the reader had appreciated certain facts and found the link that binds them. Like a jigsaw puzzle. When I had finished the story, Pones had returned. I had observed that he was not so much in a communicative mood, for he had immediately sat on the basket-chair and smoked a pipe. When night had come, I greeted Pones good night and laid down on the inn’s bed. Once more, I found myself in dreamland. There, I had a vision of myself approaching Sugarcube Corner, intending to clear up matters once for all by extracting the truth straight from Pinkie Pie’s mouth. Once I had entered the shop, I had immediately approached the mare and demanded the truth. But before I could ever do so, a voice called out my name. It was masculine. It had called out my name on repeat with each attempt growing louder and louder, which made me quite unable to hear what was Pinkie Pie saying. DR. WATCOLT, SIR! WAKE UP, DR. WATCOLT, SIR!!