Part 4
Part 4
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It has been two days since we spoke to Whippy’s parents. They have been... uneventful, to say the least.
After the quick progress Holmes and I made in the initial stages of our investigation (strange how I now think of it as ‘ours’), the sudden lack of activity was almost violent. The entirety of yesterday was spent lounging around the flat bickering like an old married couple.
Without constant nourishment, it’s like Holmes’ mind stagnates. He seizes anything that might have some form of intellectual entertainment with both hooves and wrings it out. At one point, he conducted a grand monologue on the effectiveness of various killing methods, rating our killer as one of the least efficient murderers he had ever encountered, though they apparently received extra points for “sheer ferocity”.
This morning was different, however. My partner stood by the biggest window overlooking the street, though his eyes were turned upwards. He watched a pitch-black cloud slowly approach from the distant coast.
I silently joined his humble observation. In the toiling, writhing mass, I could almost see the dark waves crashing against grey sand reflected in the sky. In the face of nature and all her glory, I found myself thinking: does the ocean mimic the sky, or does the sky capture the essence of the water and carry it over land? Are deserts simply nature’s impression of the deepest places under the sea, only represented not through elevation but rather liquid saturation? And what does it mean that pegasus ponies control the weather in some towns? Are they defying nature?
Strangely enough, I wondered whether Birdy could shed any philosophical light on my comparatively barbaric ponderings. My boredom was resolved in that moment. There was a diner that I needed to visit.
Just as I turned to leave, Holmes said something. “That storm will hit us tonight, Watson. We’ll barely be able to hear each other over the noise it will make.”
“I should consider it a blessing, then,” I quipped, rather callously in the face of his grave tone.
He didn’t turn back to look at me, nor did he smile or give any indication that he heard me. “Just…” he hesitated, “Don’t stay out late tonight.”
“How do you know I’m going out?”
He raised a hoof dismissively. “You turned towards the door. Don’t let Birdy keep you from getting back before the rain. She can talk for hours without stopping.”
“And how can you possibly know that I’m going to see her? I only just reached that conclusion myself.”
“Who else would you visit? Lestrade?” Finally, a bit of humour in his voice.
“I could be going shopping,” I ventured.
“You restocked our food supply earlier today,” he countered.
“Fine, you win, Holmes. I’ll be back later.” Taking my leather jacket and brand new black fedora (which I bought with this month’s leftover pension money – another perk to having a flatmate), I exited the flat before I could be dragged into another argument.
The air outside wasn’t cold, yet it was so still that it sent a shiver down my spine nonetheless. Oh yes, I remember thinking, it will rain tonight. The heavens will shake with thunder, of that I had no doubt. One way to describe the feel of the city was like the moments before a tidal wave. The tide was going out and all was calm, yet you knew something was coming. By the time it became evident, it would be far too late.
It was among these ominous thoughts that I caught a carriage to the plaza where I arrived on that initial foray into the city. This time I was not greeted by the talk and laughter of ponies at ease. Instead, the court was empty. For some reason, perhaps because my mind’s eye was still full of clouds, the bushes and buildings were grey, washed out, lifeless. Do not ask me to explain because I cannot. I am simply writing what I saw.
Every little spark of colour was coated in liquid smoke, like an artist who spilt their cleaning water over their work and could only watch as the poly became mono, chromatically speaking. It was more than a little eerie, so I was thankful when my destination drew close enough.
Remarkably, the diner had retained its colour. The red-rimmed roof almost seemed to glow in the overcast gloom. Like a moth tantalised by flames, or a colt running for shelter amidst a storm, I quickly trotted up to the door and entered. Within the boundaries of that wonderful diner, warmth returned to my cheeks and the feeling of impending danger eased significantly. Everything seemed so normal, so untouched by the strangeness outside, that it was easy to feel safe.
And so began my second encounter with Birdy the waitress. Barely moments after taking my seat in a booth, she slid into the opposite chair and smiled at me. I returned the expression, and my troubles melted away.
I read back through my notes, particularly the section where I described Birdy for the first time. “A friendly pink-maned mare” is what I wrote. That simply does not do her justice.
Her coat was the tone of cream, soft and light, sometimes sparkling like diamond dust if you caught the right angle. I loved catching it at the right angle.
Rather than simply “pink”, her mane was more akin to the dusk horizon before a sunny day, caught between yellow and magenta in such a way that if she proclaimed that her blood was royal I would not doubt it. When I saw her, that mane was pulled back into a serving-mare bun. I ached to see it loose.
On her right cheek there was a small black spot. Some would call it an imperfection, but I thought it only added to her beauty. It suited her so well; matching those dark, intelligent eyes in such a way that my breath hitched every time she glanced my way… which was quite often.
I ordered the daisy and daffodil sandwich, as I had the first time I visited the diner, but she made no move to go get it.
“You didn’t come here for a sandwich, Watson.”
Closing the menu, I placed it slowly on the table. “No, I suppose I didn’t.”
“So why are you here then?” she asked, leaning forward on her hooves.
“Why don’t you tell me?” My words surprised both of us. It seemed my subconscious had an agenda.
“What do you mean?” Her confusion made me feel absurdly guilty, so I elaborated.
“It seems that everypony understands my actions better than I do, lately.”
“Ah!” Her smile returned. “You took the flat then?”
“You didn’t already know?” It was my turn to be confused.
That laugh! Musical, I described it. My mind has yet to conjure any better words. “Oh, Watson, I'm not Fetlock Holmes. Although, I’m flattered that you think so much of my skills.”
“Yes, well,” I cleared my throat; “I suppose that between you and Holmes, I’ve learned to assume that everypony is smarter than I am.”
“That’s very wise of you, ironically. If you always think other ponies are ten steps ahead of you and plan accordingly, you’ll soon be twenty steps ahead of them.”
“Even Holmes?”
“Well, maybe not him.” We shared a laugh at our mutual admiration for my partner’s intellect. “You know,” she continued, “You haven’t answered my question yet. Why are you here?”
“I was thinking about the storm…” I began.
And there I went, launching into every stray idea that crossed my mind regarding nature and our place in the world. Rather than dismissing my ponderings, she polished them and created reformed thoughts of eloquent elegance. Together, we eventually reached an impasse; the philosophical form of closure. When I described it as such, she giggled in a very pretty way, covering her mouth with one hoof as if to prevent me from seeing her mirth.
It was just after we finished our discussion, mentally drained yet fulfilled, that I suggested we take a walk in the plaza. With a total disregard for her work, she trotted beside me past the many stalls and shops.
I would say we engaged in small talk, but when I speak with her nothing is unimportant or frivolous. In fact, when I said “Strange weather today,” we couldn’t help but laugh at how simple a statement it was after everything we had discussed in the diner.
I didn’t notice it at the time, being distracted by my lovely company, but colour had returned to the world around us. Noise, too, now flowed through the air, just simple sounds like talking or trotting, but noise nonetheless. The strange greyness had vanished and normalcy was restored.
Hours passed, yet it seemed as though I lost all concept of time. The sky was beset with sickly yellow haze as the sun began to fade. Not that we could actually see the sun; it was still tucked away behind the sinister mass that now encompassed the sky. Instead, we saw glimpses of orange in the thinner areas of the air.
When Celestia’s charge finally sank behind the buildings and left all but the skyscrapers amongst cold shadows, Birdy and I decided that our day together had reached its conclusion. I walked her back to the diner, where I was surprised to see not a single angry co-worker waiting for her. She might own the diner, actually. I’ll ask her that the next time I see her.
The diamond-coated mare pecked my cheek and asked that I would visit again soon, as if I wasn’t already planning our next outing. Once she disappeared behind the counter, I cheerfully trotted out into the evening.
The air was brisk but my heart was warm. Too long had I been without such good company. The hard roads did nothing to quell the spring in my hooves. I must have looked quite the sight: a full-grown stallion prancing down streets without a care in the world.
It wasn’t long, however, before my good mood was killed by rain. Not a single ray of light still reached my path. In almost complete darkness I walked cautiously. My jacket was soaked, as was my new hat.
There is that moment of isolation when alone in the rain. It’s simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating not being able to see another pony in any direction, nor a flicker of light from any window. Just black skies, black buildings, black roads.
And the noise! Holmes was certainly correct about that! I couldn’t hear my own hoofsteps, let alone if anypony else around me.
That was the thought that gave me the first taste of true fear I had felt in Trottingham. Somepony in this city was a murderer. If they were cold-blooded enough to kill a little colt, I doubted they would hesitate before killing me.
My breathing quickened as irrational paranoia surged in my mind. What if the killer was a pegasus pony? They were rare here in Trottingham, yes, but wouldn’t that give them an advantage? Those living in an earth pony city wouldn’t anticipate an air attack.
Of course, while writing this I can see how silly it was. Holmes had confirmed that the killer walked away from the scene and that they had small hooves. While a full-grown pegasus might walk away from a crime scene to throw suspicion off, the problem of age remained. There were no flight schools in Trottingham, so there were no young pegasus children. Therefore, the killer had to be a unicorn or an earth pony like myself.
I hastened through the streets, regretting not catching another carriage. It seemed they were hesitant to do business in bad weather. Splashing through a final, street-encompassing puddle, I reached the flat. I looked behind myself as if watching for followers, then turned the melted door handle and stepped inside.
Warmth! It seemed Holmes was not so detached from the world that he had no need for a fire, and for that I was grateful. I climbed the entryway stairs and entered the living area, where the fireplace was indeed performing admirably. The crackle of burning wood was punctuated by little hisses every few moments as rain drops found their way into our chimney.
I was absolutely soaking, so I made a beeline for the bathroom. As I crossed the room, I noticed that Holmes had fallen asleep on the floor beside the window where I left him. He was curled up in that odd way he does, like a little colt in front of the fire. It brought a smile to my face; not out of mocking but rather because seeing my partner completely unguarded is truly a heart-warming sight.
After bathing and hanging my coat and hat up to dry, I quietly made some tea as the rain thundered outside. It was oddly peaceful, and I felt that I could truly relax. All thoughts of the case drifted away.
At least until Holmes woke up.
“Oh good, you’re back,” he muttered, pushing himself to his hooves and throwing me a bored glance. “How was Birdy?”
“She was good. It was all very… good.” I couldn’t help but smile at the memory.
“I trust she won’t affect your concentration?” What a typical response.
“My mind is as sharp as it was two days ago.”
“Indeed? Then perhaps I should buy you a whetstone.”
I laughed at that, and after a few seconds his demeanour softened and he chuckled along with me. It was becoming easier for him to do that, I think, perhaps due to the amount of time spent with me. Being forced to converse and live with another pony was doing wonders for his social skills.
Of course, I doubt that he will ever be an extrovert, but it’s still progress.
We contemplated going out for dinner, but the rain showed no signs of ceasing and I wasn’t very eager to get drenched again. In the end we settled for a hearty meal of hayfries and sunflower soup, prepared by yours truly. When I suggested that he could help me make it, our flat was filled with derisive laughter for a good seven minutes.
Over dinner, he regaled me with yet another tale of a previous case. A most peculiar one, I found.
There was an arsonist a few months ago, in the hot seasons. After three apartment buildings were set alight on the same night, Holmes took the case.
After two weeks and six more fires, he still had no leads. It was driving him crazy.
But one day, while sitting in a diner pouring over papers and maps, a waitress asked him to give her a tip and she would give him one in return. Intrigued, Holmes gave her a couple of bits.
“She looked at the papers on my table and smiled. ‘Try looking at things from my point of view, Mister Holmes,’ she said. At first I thought she was playing with me and I had wasted those bits. But one glance at the nametag pinned in her bun gave me the perspective I needed.”
I leaned forward intently, a single hayfry half-raised towards my mouth. “How?”
Holmes grinned. “Her name was Birdy. She was telling me to look at things from a birds-eye view. Sure enough, when I plotted the fires out on a map of the city, I found they were starting to spell a word.”
Choking on my food, I coughed out an exclamation, “What?!”
He nodded. “Indeed. I used the map to predict the next fire and we ambushed him.”
“We?”
“Birdy insisted on accompanying me, and I did owe her for the assistance.”
“So who was the arsonist? What was the word he almost spelled?”
“A young stallion by the name of Loop. He was trying to spell out the name of his marefriend.”
“Oh wow…” My surprise was genuine. I had heard of young ponies doing stupid things for love, but this?
“Afterwards, Birdy attempted to pursue some sort of romantic relationship with me.” Oh dear. “Don’t fear, though. After seeing what a stallion could be driven to do in the name of romance, I was even more disillusioned than I had been before meeting her.”
So Holmes had only just reached this apex of antisocial behaviour a few months ago? I had imagined him as being like this from birth. Clearly there was more to him that I could ever assume.
He continued talking, “I resolved to eat at the diner every now and then and speak with her. With romance out of the question, I was able to focus on teaching her a few things, such as how to begin seeing the city properly.”
“I see. And did she ever attempt to initiate anything again?” It was awkward, but I had to ask.
“No. As I said, my attention was no longer focused on mares, and she was astute enough to notice that.” Well, that was a very different way of wording it.
“Oh… so you’re…?”
“What?”
“I mean, the way you say it, it sounds like you are…”
“Like I’m what? Honestly, Watson, finish your sentences.”
“Are – you know what? I don’t need to know. It’s your business.”
Holmes frowned and silently ate a hayfry. I, too, focused on my meal. And that was that.
After dinner, he returned to the window and I retired to my room, where I began writing this. My journal is quickly becoming a lot more interesting than I thought it would, considering I'm no longer in the army.
It seems I learn more about my partner every day. Our friendship is getting stronger with each conversation. He’s sharing things with me that I don’t think he has shared with anypony before. The trust between us seems unbalanced, though.
Holmes has a life full of secrets and mysteries, and I’m just me. How can I give him something important enough that he knows I trust him when I’m just not important?
There might be one thing. Something my fellow soldiers knew back at the base. The story they whispered to the fresh-faced privates to scare them into concentrating. My worst memory.
It’s decided. Someday soon, I’m going to tell Holmes what happened to the last ponies I was friends with. Whether our friendship will survive that, I don’t know.
Doctor Jog Watson
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"I’ve learned to assume that everypony is smarter than I am." Well don't that sound familiar. I know I'm not the only one whose said it about themselves.
At the rate you're going it looks like shipping is an extremely, and unfortunately, real possibility. Hitting it off with Birdy and Holmes' sexuality in question(the way it was worded makes me wonder)...It could go either way.
Regardless, I am too interested in the story to back out if either one happens.
391684
I'm sorry to see that the possibility of shipping detracts from your enjoyment, but if it helps I can assure you that this is not a romance fic. Any shipping elements that may or may not exist are only a small part of the story, and I have no intention of changing that.
Another peculiarly good chapter.
While no real progress seems to have been made on the case, you never fail to hold my interest even in the mundanities of life; and we know there's gonna be another body quite soon, so in this case, the calm before the storm (*hurm hurm*) is perfectly alright.
Well done, Dawn.
- Midnight
392400
I'm glad to see it still held your interest. I was more than a bit worried about writing a character-focused chapter rather than a main plot-focused one, as the others have been.
Naturally, your persistence will be rewarded in the next chapter, which is quite an exciting one.
392521
I can't wait
- Midnight
391839
I've never been a fan of shipping, no matter the form. But I said I'm too interested to stop and I meant it. Keep doin what you're doin and I'll keep reading it.
Allright, can't wait to see what's next, felt a little slow IMO, but that's just me. Keep doin' what you're doin' and it'll be awesome
whatever it is you're doing lol, no spoilers 
409109
You are quite correct. Not to mention, if it rained again all the data would be lost.
368883 On another note, has the BBC version of Sherlock influenced you in any way? I'm asking because I started watching that, too, a few days ago and became a fan in very literally ten seconds flat. Your version seems to be closer to the original, though, but I seem to recognize a few things from the BBC show. I'm just curious about it
435737
Yes, it has definitely influenced me. You might notice certain conversations are very similar to parts of the show. That's just my way of paying homage to a great series :)