//------------------------------// // A Brief Intermission // Story: The Secret Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes // by Paper_mate_Pony //------------------------------// A Brief Intermission Paper_mate_Pony I must take brief digression here to describe to you the queer features of Miss Sparkle. I would later find that, yes, she was almost exactly as I had estimated from our fellow in the thicket; four feet tall, and just as long. Yet, unlike he—or perhaps through the gloom of Summerset I really could not be sure—she proudly wore a horn that poked through the deep purple bangs of her straight cut mane. And most sincerely confusing, upon her right flank was some queer form of tattoo. You already know that her coat was of a deep lavender, a feature alien in unto itself; but this tattoo—which I later learned was known as a ‘cutie’ mark, or some such—featured at its centre a great, purple star surrounded by what appeared to be a white burst of energy. Miss Dash, too, featured something similar; her own ‘cutie mark’: a white cloud punctuated with a stylised lightning bolt of fabulous colors, matching those of her mane and tail. She, of course, did not lay claim to a horn of some form for she, as I have mentioned, sported a brilliant pair of cyan wings. Both creatures started, taking on the image of a stunned cuckold. It appears that while they had been expecting one, the addition of Sherlock Holmes, who stumbled around the corner of that dark alley, caught them completely off guard. The face of Holmes had taken upon itself a glare he reserved only for the most vile of creatures. It was not accusatory nor, indeed, aggressive, but a clear and present warning to the recipient. From my lowly position, looking up at my would be captors facing off with my good friend remains, in my mind, as somewhat of a spectacle. The clear cut stance of Holmes was parried by the challenging glare of Miss Dash. Miss Sparkle, apparently reticent to this engagement, managed her features in a more inquisitorial manner. “Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes?” the deep baritone of the hardy Mr Harrington sounded off the walls, and funneled out from our arrival point somewhere behind the ancient apartments. This second voice made a marked effect upon Miss Sparkle, whose confused tilt turned briskly into a more sturdy position. Miss Dash, to her credit, remained locked in silent combat with Sherlock Holmes, but I suspect—although, to this very day, she denies it—she quickly realised her little scouting party had become quite overwhelmed. Hoarse puffing heralded the arrival of Charles Harrington, whose heavy boots created clear, crisp percussion across the cobblestoned alley. “My Heavens above, that was unpleasant. Mr Holmes, ‘sat you? And hullo, who‘sat with... oh Lord above.” Upon sighting the two ponies, Mr Harrington lost all pretence of exhaustion. His back straightened, his fists took a brisk turn behind his back, and his heavy puffing halted with a sharp sniff. “Twilight, what do we do?” Miss Dash paced back, with her withers down by her fetlocks, but never once breaking eye contact with Holmes. “Celestia above. Where in her name do they keep coming from?” Miss Sparkle’s eyes shone, “Rainbow, do you know what this means?” “That we’ve been outnumbered? ‘Cus, we kinda have been... y’know, if it hadn’t occurred to you at all,” Miss Dash sidled up against Miss Sparkle. “Ohh, but Rainbow, look! They’re hardly a threat, and do you honestly believe that—” Her monologue was cut off by a choking cough; her muzzle gagged by a cyan wing. “Yes, Twilight, I really kind of do! That other one, only she knows where it came from, and you see what happened! Has that already slipped your mind?!” her voice had taken upon itself a most falsetto vibrato as she rose, once again, into the air. Currently, I had begun to encounter a queer scent, wafting from where Sherlock Holmes stood. It was soft at first, a metallic tinge not too dissimilar to that of ozone, but it quite rapidly compounded until my head was filled with nothing else. Simultaneously, the glare on Holmes’ face blunted in degrees, as sweat formed upon his furrowed brow. His lips pursed, then relaxed as his eyes retreated into the back of his head. Almost instantly after that, the strong figure of Holmes toppled quite swiftly, buckling at the knees before falling to his side with a muffled swat. My eyes were instantly drawn, as were Mr Harrington’s, but our would be captors seemed oblivious. Miss Dash and Miss Twilight had once again become ensconced in argument, but I really cared not. I had become drunk upon the reality before me; the conversing ponies; the city that had simply materialised around me; and it all came to null once Sherlock Holmes collided with the hard cobbles before me. An ecstasy of fumbling followed, as I attempted to rise henceforth with a stone in my heart. I dove atop his chest, and set at tearing the now blood stained trenchcoat—still damp from the snows of Summerset—away from his breast. I pressured the wound, a deep crimson maw just below his left shoulder. Harrington stood above us, confusion chasing fear across his features. “Oh Celestia!” cried Miss Sparkle, cutting some retort of her fellow’s short and galloping over to the little pile of men that was myself and Sherlock Holmes. “Hey! I’m talking to you... ponyfeathers!” sighed Miss Dash, who upon being snubbed by Miss Sparkle, also awoke to this present reality. I was conscious of their presence above my shoulders; too pressing was the matter of quelling the bleeding, however, for them to be acknowledged. “Doctor, Dr Watson,” Mr Harrington was at my side. “What do you need me to do?” He, too, was ignored. Quite ignominious was my behaviour, but I feel I may repent given the circumstances. While rummaging around Holmes’ person, patting down pockets and such in a hopeless, frantic manner, I came across a small, solid bulge. I slowly removed it to reveal a small wooden box, roughly the size of a cigarette case. It was of pine construction, with dainty iron hinges across it left edge. It’s face was bare, but I knew immediately that which was contained within. Holmes, as I have mentioned at least twice, was a fanatic for cocain. He has sworn to me on numerous occasions that he resigned the habit, but I had always suspected there was always a modicum of un-truth. However, this presented me with an opportunity: within the case I found one vial, full of that most popular, powdered vice and one brass syringe; all nested within a tasteful red-velvet form. Here was Holmes’ salvation. “You,” I spun my head in desperation to find the gaze of Miss Sparkle, “have you a-a flame, or tinderbox. Anything?” A quaint smile spread across her lips. “I have better.” “Well, out with it then!” Mr Harrington cried on my behalf. I lifted the vial from its home and held it above me, oscillating the contents. “Could you please hold your flame just below this bottle, here is fine,” said I, tapping the base with my forefinger. Quite instantaneously, a bright flash of lavender effervescence consumed my hand and the bottle within. As momentarily, it vanished, leaving in its wake my hand, the vial, and a clear liquid within. I started. I started a second time, but it did little to reveal the magic that had occurred within my very grasp. “You may continue,” Miss Sparkle qouthed into my ear with a smirk. I had little pretty time to split hairs. With one last searching glance at this queer purple unicorn, I turned back to my work. I betook a measure of his cocaine into the syringe, and tapped it methodically. “Twi, what’s it doing?” from behind. “Bringing him back to life, I think.” I furled his left sleeve, and betook his arm into mine as the conversation continued behind me. “You mean, like, what Nurse Red-Heart was doing back when—” “Yes. Just like that, I’m sure.” Harrington wordlessly clasped his hands around Holmes’ bicep. “Hey, Twi?” from Miss Dash. “Mhh?” “We’ll find her, ‘kay.” “Thanks, Rainbow.” I took the point of the syringe and sheathed it into a prominent vein just above the joint. The plunger descended, and the clear liquid shrunk. The effect was almost instantaneous. A great tremor shook his supine form, followed by a hollow gasp. Miss Sparkle and company ceased their chatter as the figure of Holmes exploded to his feet with tremulous hands. “Good... Heavens!” Holmes spun left then right in a ballet of confusion, swatting Miss Sparkle and Miss Dash apart; stumbling over the latter’s polychromatic tail with a painful tear, and landing across the former’s withers. Still to-a-knee, his sudden acceptance into the living realm was treated with dilatory actions on my behalf, but it had not gone unnoticed by either of our ‘captors’. “Eiieee! My tail!” cried Miss Dash, stamping her rump to the floor as a solitary tear escaped from her eyes. Miss Sparkle struggled under Holmes’ weight before crowing to the floor with a yelp. Harrington entered the fray, leaping over my still hunched form and wrapping the very pale Sherlock Holmes in his arms. “Up with you, Mr Holmes. On your feet, sir!” “Oh... Heavens. Why, bless you, Mr Harrington. And you too, my dear; Miss Sparkle, was it? Oh, and my most sincere apologies, my blue friend: the damage is most perfunctory, I pray.” It appeared that the confrontation had dissolved, in light of the present circumstances. Miss Dash gave a glancing inspection of his figure, from head to toe, before retorting with snide shrug. “Yeah, sure.” Harrington brought him to his feet, as Holmes’ wandering hands came upon the syringe, still deep within the veins of his arm. “Ah, my box of... Watson, I feel an apology is most warranted—although, I suppose I err on the side of repentance myself!” His features, although sallow, warmed the rest of his dour complexion as he pulled the syringe from his arm,“Why, Watson, you need not look at me so! I am simply humoring the situation. You performed most professionally, as I trust. Further, as we are all together, might I ask why the Durham Sundial rests on yonder boulevard?” “See, I told you I did nothing wrong!” cried Miss Dash to her other, “Now, oh Celestia, he's torn out half my reds!” She shot Holmes an evil glance before sidling past Miss Sparkle. The latter’s eyes graced Miss Dash’s countenance with a disapproving air, before turning back to mine. “I’m sorry about her,”—she was biting her lip, as a parent does when apologizing for her offspring— “She’s a little edgy. We all are, I suppose. I’m glad he’s okay, for you I mean.” Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but was sharply cut off as Mr Harrington’s bear paw collided with his back. “Ah hah! Good to have you back in the land of the living, sir!” “I quite agree, Mr Harrington,” Holmes cringed as his fingers danced lightly across his breast, “but may I supplant this issue of my present injury—which is hardly more than a glancing wound—with the pressing matter of—” “Oh, yes, but we have plenty of time to get that scar of yours sorted out! And such quick thinking on the good doctor’s behalf, as-well!” cried Harrington, his face beaming and jovial. “Thank you, Harrington, but we are not through with this ordeal,” I turned to Miss Sparkle, whose head was tilted in Holmes’ direction, and whose features err’d on the side of intrigue, “Miss Sparkle?” She turned my way, and pursued me with a blank expression. I made to speak, but halted. Given the nature of the previous excitement, the sheer irrationality of my present reality had quite passed me by. This, before me, was a functioning, well mannered, lavender, unicorn. Not only was she fully in control of all her faculties, they were, indeed, faculties that could have brought empires to her hooves, yet she paraded them as if they were a mindless trick. And her fellow, of lesser airs but far from dull, Pegasus of Herculean fame! “You were saying something?” “I-I’m rather sure that I was. My apologies, but it seems, well, it seems I’ve rather... I've rather forgotten. This is queer, is it not?” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, there are a few ponies doing that these days. Was there anything important? Such as finding some dressings for your friend, there?”she nodded toward Sherlock Holmes, who tapped his foot. This was, of course, exactly what I had meant to ask of her, but embarrassment stayed my hand too much to admit it. “Eventually, yes. The wound is only skin deep, as he claims, Miss...” “Twilight Sparkle” “Might I now interrupt,”—the stern tenor of Sherlock Holmes rang with impatiens—“and say that there is a far more pressing matter, at present, than my state of health. It, being, the rather curious placement of the Durham Universit—” His monologue was again interrupted, presently by Miss Dash. “Well, I’m sure that's all well and good, but what about my tail, huh!” She was standing upon a sizable and hastily collected pile of iridescent hairs, lest they should be lost to the wind. “It’s not just for show, you know.” Miss Sparkle groaned. “Rainbow, for your own sake, behave! I’m sure you’ve done far worse,” she reprimanded with a raised eyebrow. “That’s a hefty pile of hair,” Mr Harrington inserted into the conversation from above Holmes' shoulder. “Ha, y’see!” cried Miss Dash, gesticulating wildly in Mr Harrington’s direction, “I’m totally injured! Even the hairless monkey agrees!” A biblical shot silenced us all. My ears rang, and my heart shot through my breast. His arm raised to the air, smoking pistol within his grasp, Sherlock Holmes stood amidst us all and wore a most resolute grimace. “Thank you,” said he, as he examined us all critically—as if to ensure we should not interrupt him further. “Now, could one of you please explain to me this most curious fact: What grotesque happenstance, hitherto unknown, has precipitated the missing Durham University Sundial upon yonder boulevard?”