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// Chapter 1: Mr. Sherclop Pones 
// Story: Sherclop Pones and the Cloudsdale Crimes 
// by A Sherlockian Brony 
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“Really, Mr. Pones!” our landlady retorted as she brought in the morning tea. “You’ve been depriving yourself from precious sleep for the past six days—oh, you poor, poor creature—”

Without taking his eyes off the powerful lens in which he had been so engrossed over in examining a certain specimen, Sherclop Pones waved off Mrs. Hudcolt’s concerns with a long, thin hoof.

“I am perfectly fine, I assure you, Mrs. Hudcolt,” said he. “I have consumed my 30th cup of coffee; I’m perfectly well off for the rest of the day, thank you…”

“‘Perfectly well off?’ TUH!” our landlady repeated with incredulousness. “For one such as yourself so intellectually pleased over murders, you’ll be solving your own one of these days with the way you treat your health, young colt!”

With an air of feminine indignance, she left the room as Pones languidly spun around his stool to light his pipe.

“She’s right, you know,” said I, setting aside the treatise upon surgery in which I had been reading. “You really indeed ought to get some sleep, my dear fellow; you’ve been fruitlessly pursuing this laborious case for nearly an entire week! Look at yourself, how it has drained you…”

But my companion stubbornly refused to pay heed to my medical remonstrances. Shooting a mischievous glare at my direction, he resumed upon his minute study. 

“To reiterate the statement in which I have been reiterating time and time again, I shall not, my dear Watcolt, receive a wink’s rest until I solve the Dilemma of the Tobacco Ash…”

“‘The Dilemma of the Tobacc—’ My dear Pones, do not tell me you’re still at it! It’s been nearly a year; a lot has happened since then!”

From the immense clutter of our chambers, I produced the day’s noon paper. I here continued my lecture. 

“Twilight Sparkle has announced the first Gala since Her Highness’ coronation as the Princess of Friendship; it’s the first Equestria has ever had for a while in so short a time period then—while you are still entrapped over—” I chose my words carefully. “—this incident!”

Pones gave a hearty, yet very much cynical laugh. 

“Oh, my dear fellow,” said he, increasing the resolution of the glass. “how wrongly you have stated it! Rest assured, I have accepted the errs of my ways during the whole Pinkie’s Cupcakes fiasco and have moved on from it like an obscure memory. However, one of its many aspects promise something rather grim, I fear, for the near future…”

I raised a brow.

“A simple flask of tobacco ash?” said I with a tone of irony.

“Yes,” said Pones firmly.

“In what way, might I ask?”

Here I saw Pones, for an instant perceivably tense up; his aquiline jaw clenched, his stern, grey eyes seemed to stare fixatedly upon nothing, and his long, thin and claw-like hooves froze upon their actions. Gone was the cold, and often machine-like expression; what had replaced it was a more equine, and much more emotional one, as if the question had caught him off-guard.

“Pones?” said I concernedly.

Presently, he regained his collected and phlegmatic demeanor and politely turned to my direction.

“Do you recall Mrs. Hudcolt’s narrative on how she practically witnessed a crime being committed right before her?”

Forlorn memories were brought back to me with that interrogative question.

“Indeed, yes,” said I with a slight scowl. “that this mysterious individual had administered, unbeknownst to her and the couple, strychnine to the unsuspecting Cakes into their coffee as a means of progressing, in both a direct and indirect fashion, the Changeling Coup.”

Pones nodded. 

“It was genius, Watcolt, pure mathematical genius to conceive such a scheme,” he remarked, his eyes gleaming with a reminiscent and nostalgic glimmer. “To employ such a ploy and to toy with my own shortcomings—despicable, yes, but one couldn’t deny the whole ingenuity of it.” Here he took note of my worried expression and smiled. He then continued.

“Returning to Sugarcube Corner; do you also recall a key aspect of this assassin?”

“I remembered that he carried a sort of gun with him—as it could be deduced with the fact that he used this ‘stick’ in a threatening fashion which could only mean a weapon—he was moustached, and—”

“And that he smoked a very foul cigar, very good,”

He then directed my attention over at the table. Obliging, I had finally obtained a closer look over what he had been dedicating his energies. It was just as he said, a pile of smoked tobacco ash.

“This, as you may deduce, came from the crime scene itself.” Pones explained, bringing back the lens to his eyes. “I had obtained it through Myclop, who, during the Club’s whole clean-up of the mess caused by the Changeling who posed as Derpy Hooves and Pinkie Pie, after some pleading on my part, sent whatever peculiarities could be found remaining upon the scene. One of them being the ash, having arrived just six days ago, which I deduce to be of the same origin as our criminal smoker, as it is remembered him dozing some of its contents off during Mrs. Hudcolt’s narrative.”

“But what bearing could it have to induce to deprive yourself from sleep?!”

“The Professor,” said Sherclop Pones with a weight upon his voice. He continued. “This pony is directly tied in with the Professor’s enterprise (as it is deduced to him having), probably one of his goons for who would participate in such a risky endeavor when you have a minion to do the dirty work yourself? I have lamented, as you may remember my doing, over the fact that we have not single chance in tracing the ominous entity that is the Professor, but we are fully capable, logically, to do so upon his associates. In this instance, the goon who administered the poison. If we persist, once we identify one of them, it could very potentially lead us to the mastermind himself. Not so much of terrible of a plan, is it, Watcolt?”

“But what is the relation with that and this?” said I, pointing to the blackened contents before us.

Sherclop Pones promptly produced a spare lens for me to use. He then directed my attention to the ash.

“Observe, my dear fellow, what peculiarities does this particular specimen strike you? Anything familiar, perhaps?”

Frowning and failing to understand, I vainly attempted to do so.

“It looks like any other tobacco ash to me, Pones,” said I, conceding. 

“Ah, tut, tut! I have written several monographs upon the subject of identifying all the 160 types of tobacco found upon Equestria; with such ease I could identify this specific one. You, however, possess no such knowledge, but could assuredly remember its familiarity to you…”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow—”

“Examine it a bit closer—no, no, not with your eyes, try your other senses! Try your nose, for example…”

I then did so. I was confounded with my revelation.

“Pones,” said I. “this is the same type of cigar I use!”

Pones rubbed his hooves together.

“Very good,” said he. “now, what kind of tobacco does it use?”

“Lunarian Tobacco; yes, of course, I remember discussing it with Stamford during the Campaign.”

“With this discovery, what, then, do you deduce from its being found upon Sugarcube Corner on that faithful day?”

I stared at him.

“Pones, how audaciously treacherous of you!” said I with an accusing hoof. “You mean to seriously imply that I committed such a heinous crime?!”

Pones had been clearly caught off-guard with this.

“No, no, not at all! Such thoughts are blasphemy. I do apologize for this, my dear fellow; I would not imagine for worlds that you’d do it; not my Watcolt. Besides, you were writing the adventure of the ‘Prench Diamond’ here in Baker Street by the crime’s occurrence. Now, let me explain it in a more meticulous fashion--Lunarian Tobacco is often used by military belligerents of the Monarchy, specifically the Wonderbolts, which invariably means—"

“That the criminal had been a Wonderbolt too…”

“Excellent! However, that’d be too broad and vague a deduction if we wish track this shady individual down for there are hundreds of Wonderbolts in service. No, we need to be more precise. Reciting from my monograph—“ Using his magic, he materialized a piece of parchment. “— ‘there is a wide variety Lunarian Tobacco used amongst the Wonderbolts—to jock them down in simplified manner, they are thus: Type A, Type B, Type C and Type D.’ Now, gathering the information from our specimen, I was able to identify that it is of the Type C type, which is the rarest amongst the other three. With this, therefore, we’re able to say that this particular Wonderbolt in which we are pursuing belongs to a certain regiment who smokes this very rare type of Lunarian Tobacco. I shall now ask you this--what are the Wonderbolt regiments who could only smoke this type?”

“As I remember, only my own—the Northumberland Batch and the illustrious batch of the famed markspony, Colonel Cumulonimbus’ Cyclone Batch…”

“Good, we are narrowing the field down to these two groups—we are left, however, in another conundrum; which of these groups’ members did the crime? The task, fortunately, is made easier for us by the fact that only SURVIVING members could do the crime for there were a lot who lost their lives during the Nightmare Moon Campaign and are thus unable to work for the Professor. And is a male individual for Mrs. Hudcolt distinctly remembers a stallion. To begin with your own regiment, excluding yourself for you already have a valid alibi, kindly narrate them for me.”

To make it easier for the reader to follow, I herewith reproduce the list:

My own batch (excluding myself and the deceased):

- Sgt. Thunder Wing
- Bouncer (Brigadier General)
- Stallion Stamford 
- Silver Spirit  

The Cyclone Batch:

- Colonel Cumulonimbus 
- General Steam Worth
- Major Sea Striker 

“Splendid,” said Sherclop Pones. “Now, to have an exact pin-point accusation of the culprit, we must first judge the character of the poisoner, then, if any of his points check out the same with any of these alluded in the list, we have our potential lead. Now, what do we remember of the stallion?”

“An ardent smoker, that is clear.” said I, recalling the ill-fated narrative.  “He was a heavily-built, middle-aged Pegasus of forty or thereabouts; had hazelnut mane and was cruelly moustached. And most prominently, wielded a rifle that bore resemblance to a stick as a means of concealing its true form…”

“Indeed, it is so,” said Pones with an approving nod. “Now, is it common for the average Bolt to wield such an ingenious device?”

“No! Only the highest of ranking members could do so, such as a Colonel or a Major.”

“With this, and combining it with the characteristics of our criminal, who amongst those in your list fits this devious character?”

Thoroughly intellectually enjoying myself in partaking upon my friend’s investigations, I conducted a minute examination upon my old comrades.

Bouncer, I had my suspicions, for he held a high rank and was of 45 years of age and wielded himself such a weapon, (but not in the form of a stick) but was not a smoker. In fact, he abhorrently resented the very existence of cigars. He was therefore eliminated from the equation. The rest, as I remember, were smokers, but were all quite young and had either blonde or white manes.

“The Northumberland Batch, is henceforth eliminated. Very good.” said Pones upon analyzing my results. “We then move on to the Cyclone Batch.”

This proved to a rather more difficult task for all that remained from the Campaign were all high-ranking. But I still had the previous discoveries to fall back upon. Recalling the medical reports from the paper, General Steam Worth lost his right lung during the battle and thus eliminated for, being a pony so meticulous upon his health, I doubt that he’d risk his one and only remaining lung to tobacco. 

It was only Colonel Cumulonimbus and Major Sea Striker who remain. I had the honor to meet the latter in person when my batch was sent to relieve them (or what was left of their batch), and had once again when I had been hospitalized upon losing my wing. We shared the same room and often chatted, despite an opaque curtain dividing our beds, to while away time as we recover. But upon the Major’s discharge from the hospital and the curtain had been finally drawn, I was horrified to see what has become of this heroic pony. His eyes had been gauged out from their sockets and what only had remained were two black holes. 

I was shocked by my following revelation.

“He’s blind, then,” said Pones, conclusively. “Which, logically, ultimately leads us to the last factor—”

“It can’t be!” said I, reeling from the pile of tobacco ash. I stared into Pones’ eyes, to which the latter merely nodded gravely. 

“Indeed, it is,” said he. “The most notoriously prestigious, heroic and chivalrous member of the Wonderbolts—an intellectual graduate of Oxford, the Tiger of the Bolts, the author of ‘Heavy Game in the Artic North’ possesses a direct affiliation with our dear mysterious and ominous Professor…”

“Colonel Cumulon—Sweet Celestia!”

It was at this moment that a hurried knock came upon our door, making me jump from my seat and breaking our focus from our dastardly revelations. Presently, Mrs. Hudcolt came in with a card upon a salver.

“There’s a certain visitor who wishes to see you, Mr. Pones,” said our landlady, still eyeing my companion with a precarious glare.

Thankfully dismissing her, Sherclop Pones examined the card. A look of the utmost bewilderment came across his face.

“Well, this is rather unexpected…” said he as cleared the settee and our armchairs from the immense clutter of various papers. Leaving the tobacco ash in which he we inconceivably ascertained so much from, I approached him.

“Who is coming, Pones?”

He looked at me with a cognitive expression, as if attempting to digest on what had just occurred with the card.

“Myclop,”

Without even a second’s passing from uttering that illustrious name, the stallion himself entered our humble threshold.