The Adventures of Sherclop Pones

by B_25

One Last Problem

Our prisoner’s furious resistance carried with it all of his hate. He had come forward before I could judge what was taking place, and took me by surprise, but I raised my forehooves and struck him solidly, and eventually laid him out. I do not remember a great deal from the instance – the snapshot was not exceptionally vivid in my mind, though I recall well the adrenaline that surged through me when I realised that I was the only one between Twilight and the cornered Riesling, and the dull thud of blood in my head as he lay curled on the ground afterward, spitting curses at us.

Despite my general haziness about what followed, I hark back to that instant in the particularly dank and musty study quite clearly. The two constables from behind surged forward, immediately falling on the unfortunate Riesling, though I could not say that my mind was filled with sympathy for him. The Pegasus slammed through the door, searching for the source of the disturbance.

Pones darted in front of me and kneeled, swiftly cuffing the stunned Riesling. The rough jingle of metal on metal and a snapping sound told me that he was under lock and key, and so I relaxed a little. The two constables either side of him attempted to pull him to his feet, but he seemed dazed by his ordeal and could not do it on his own, so he leant on one of them for support. That a villain so foul could have the luxury of such a thing made my stomach turn.

I took a few steps back for the sake of gaining distance, and was seized by two things – one was the clap of a hoof on each of my shoulders, yanking me back fiercely, and the other was a very familiar flash of pain through my left foreleg. It ran in a jagged stripe from the top of my shoulder to just above my hoof, and I could not help but wince in pain.

“Easy now, Doctor!” Cried Lestrade’s voice from just behind my left ear. I felt slightly irritated by this, for I had not followed up by attempting to hit Riesling any further. Later I would come to understand the swiftness with which events took place, and thus know the reasons for his urgency in restraining me. In his eyes, I might have very well simply started beating the villain as he lay on the ground.

I turned my head around. Lestrade’s worried face filled my vision to my immediate left. He was giving me an exceptionally strange and surprised look from behind his beady eyes. Seeing that I was not struggling, he released me rather quickly and took a rather tentative and nervous step back. Ultimately, I chose to ignore his behaviour, for upon reflection it was not untoward and more out of concern for the wellbeing of Riesling. I would learn of his injuries later, though a simple examination of his bloodied face as I glanced back could tell me that I had at least broken his nose.

In my mind, growing up to be stallion of the house had meant two things. One was that I was always, always, always meant at all times to be my father’s son, and the second was that I should always strive to achieve. Though the ideas were more creations of the stringent social society that my parents lived and dwelled in, I chose to follow them all the same - for my father’s pride and my mother’s delight. As a young colt I was doted on by friends of my mothers, who would always try without success to pair me off with their daughters, all of whom (save a few) were rich, snobbish and arrogant. The same company that I never chose to keep handed me a need to refine my Cloplin accent. For an established stallion like my father, the accent was worn more as a badge of pride, but my mother sincerely believed that it was ‘for the best’ that I be drilled in the ways of formality and the upper-class behaviour that I would come to loathe as I grew older.

The people I knew and the way I spoke got me into trouble, you see. Between my quiet nature, Cloplin charms, and adulation by many of the young fillies that I met, I became target for the school bullies. To say it was jealousy, though, would be ignorant of me – who knows why children act as they do?

Regardless, I was once on the receiving end of a hoof to the face. Obviously it was not a pleasant experience, but it was an event that would change my life for the better. My mother frittered incessantly over the wound, which was little more than a bloody nose, but my father seemed to show some nonchalance to it. He seemed convinced that I should learn how to fight, for as he said at the time, ‘it would come in handy every now and again’. My mother was disapproving, but conceded when she saw that my father could not be stopped. Ironic, when you consider the effect she had over him – there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the love of his life, and he doted on her bossy nature, though he often complained of it.

But he was adamant that I become capable of hitting back, and thus it was that I began to learn how to box. My instructor was a mean old Pegasus called Lightning Strike, though to me he was simply ‘sir’. His accolades were impressive, and I realised as I grew older that he was not the bawdy talker that I had thought when I first met him. He was an old soldier, and champion boxer - a friend of my father’s through the ring. My father had fought him briefly and only for sport in his youth, but Lightning Strike persisted with boxing past his teens. Even though he had enlisted in the army at the age of nineteen, he continued to train in "the gentleman's sport" (as he so called it) well through his service, and so avid was his passion for it that at twenty-five, he quit the army, recruited my father as his personal doctor, and turned professional.

He won a cruiserweight title and an open weight division title, and defended them both up until his retirement aged thirty-nine, which was quite old for any sportsman, let alone a boxer. His face was grizzled and rough – repeated blows throughout his career had slurred his speech slightly, though he still carried himself like a true champion. He had, I remember, the very deepest and hottest fire in his eyes when he danced around the ring in the manner of a ballet dancer, hooves fizzing through the air like rockets.
“Ay!” he would bark at me as we drilled. “My grand-filly hits harder than that, ‘n she’s about your age as well!”

Such jibes would beggar me into fighting harder, and I would retire each evening exhausted. To my continued disappointment, there were never any congratulations or pats on the back for my efforts. I soon concluded that this was then a task that I was not supposed to take joy from, and in a way I was right.
“Fighting’s control, m’lad!” Lighting Strike would yell at me. “You have to be strong enough not to start the fights, just to end them with precisely the right amount of force!” He would often accompany his advice with insults, drawing close to me and roaring mere inches from my face.
“Not like you’d be one to need control, eh! You can’t hit to save yourself!”

I loathed the old stallion, though he undoubtedly taught me very well.

I was returning home from school one evening when I noticed the bullies (who shall remain nameless) harassing one of my weekend ‘friends’. Usually, I avoided getting involved in these instances, as their cruel games were only teasing and nothing more, and thus I kept my head down. But, on this occasion, as I strolled by the mouth of the alleyway where they could usually be found, I heard a scream. This was different. It carried with it traces of some new and familiar emotion that I had not seen before, and I would recognize it to be fear.

My head snapped over, and I saw that a filly was running towards me, crying. For the sake of embarrassment on the bullies’ part, I would rather she remain nameless, though undoubtedly her identity will become clear in time for those of you that can read between the lines. She is the daughter of a Canterlot industrialist, whose wealth and affluence could probably have the boys thrown away in a prison cell for as long as he felt inclined. She appeared out of breath, and collided with my startled form as she blindly fled from four figures. I do not know what startled me more at the time – the concept that I had had the misfortune to be her saviour, or the fact that no sooner had she recognised me then she clung to me desperately.

“Help!” She said weakly. I could feel her shaking knees and thudding heart against my coat.
Call it the beginning of my dislike for upset mares. Call it the reason why I had affection for her as I possessed for no other in our later years. If Pones were analysing this, no doubt he would draw my actions in the library as a flashback of that day. Call it a clear-cut instance of the flashbulb effect, for that it certainly what it was – that one instant where she clung to me was a teetering moment of absolute terror on my part; one where I was forced into making a choice that I did not want to, and I remember fragments of the moment as intensely as if it had been yesterday.

There were four of them. I remember the foremost bully cracking a grin as he strolled towards me. He made an utterance about my appearance, and it caused a ripple of laughter from his cronies. Ever-closer they came.

They never said it out aloud, but it became apparent to me that they were after something a little more than money or jewels. There was an awful fervour about the way they moved – a certain hunger in their eyes and in the grins on their faces for something much more significant. For a very long time that gaze haunted me. Such animalistic instinct. It was burned into my mind, and for months afterwards, every time I slept I could not help but shiver as the memory washed over me. All I remember is being petrified, and despite the quivering form of the white filly next to me, quite alone.

The next few moments I have never successfully recalled. I imagine that my mind must have shut it out. Three things I do remember, though. The first was the sight of them beginning to quicken their pace, and the leader lunging forward. Instinctively, I stepped between him and her. The second thing I recall was the slice of his knife as it tore down my left foreleg, though it was little more than a sting to me, such was the adrenaline that coursed through me. The third was the ear-splitting scream from behind me that gave me nightmares for years to come.

My instructor beat me about the ears when I returned to training, a month later.
“Haven’t you learned nothin’ boy?” he shouted at me. “Heroes die fast!”
I tried to explain to him that I had simply been in the wrong time and the wrong place, though such an explanation was insufficient to truly express what had happened. I said that I was not, as my instructor and mother had imagined, showing off or trying to be heroic, and that I had merely stepped into the blow as he swung, not having time to think. My explanation must have been sincere enough, for he refrained from further attacks on me, instead resuming his pacing about the ring.

I had, though I remembered little of it at the time, been slashed viciously with a knife. The unicorn who wielded it was not an overly large character, and was quite a coward, for he did not expect such an intense flash of fear from the girl. He fell back, dismayed by his actions, and paused for a moment. That was better for me, because I hit him hard. Regardless of my injures, I was overcome with that other awful primal desire – to survive, and nothing else.

I knocked the ringleader to the ground with a well-placed buck, and in my frenzy I fell upon him, raining blows down on him with both forehooves. Partial recollections of the incident are the best I can do, for it all passed before me so quickly. I remember his companions standing far back, looks of terror on their faces as they stared at me, blood pouring from my foreleg.

After the incident, I did not pursue boxing for anything outside exercise. I was too afraid. Before the incident, the girl had been a quiet soul, much like me. Now, though, she became outspoken and a little arrogant, overly cheerful and extremely bossy. I don’t doubt at all that her newfound attitude was some strange way of her mind repressing whatever had occurred before I had arrived, and what took place after. She didn’t speak to me at all until I met her once again at medical school, five years later.

The sudden and vivid upset of my usually slow-paced life hardened my resolve to become a doctor, and I never hit a soul again - right up until the moment Riesling charged across the room. Twilight had screamed, and I had simply stepped in without thinking.

It was in fact Twilight who I sought after now. My eyes fell upon her, and immediately my heart was wrenched in two. She was cowered into a corner behind a pile of books that she had upset in her haste to get away from Riesling. A purple scattering of legs and bruises curled into as tight as ball as she could manage. I walked over to where she lay and knelt, laying a hoof upon her velvety soft mane. I felt her twitch to the touch, and she whimpered slightly; to which I hushed her and spoke gently.

“Hush now, it’s all over,” I repeated a few times, tracing the back of her neck.
After a while, she shifted to a more upright position, allowing me to scoop her into my arms and hold her there.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I said quietly. “Just let it all out.”
She did. Initially they were nothing more than silent tears, and she made no indication of crying. I would not have known that she was at all, were it not for the warmth that seeped into my jacket as she buried her head into me, her eyes closed tightly. But eventually there came stuttering breaths, and after about a minute or two, fully fledged sobs of pain and anguish.

A shadow came over me, and I looked up. It was Macintosh. He had been unmanacled in the few minutes that I had to console her by Lestrade. He was clearly distraught, and I knew that he would want to be with her. Quickly then, I murmured a few final, soothing words in Twilight’s ear, before gently raising her to all fours and coaxing her over to Macintosh.
“Don’t make her talk if she doesn’t want to,” I said, looking up at the farmer. “Just let her be for a while.”
He looked at me sadly, and I was hit with a pang of guilt. My inhumanity had carried over from the fight, and I realised all too well that though he was no doctor, he knew how to treat her. I mumbled an apology, and made my way back over to the door. I could see Riesling being ushered into the police cart from where I stood, and Pones and Lestrade out on the footpath.

Pones turned to me, and I noticed that one of his eyebrows was raised.
“An interesting revelation, Trotson!” said he. He had not even for a moment lost his veneer of cold decisiveness that I had come to know him for, but he appeared intrigued about something that I had done, and I smiled at him in puzzled confusion.
“Pardon?” I inquired.
“I had not seen you in such a nature before,” he remarked dryly. “You are quite the boxer.”

We were joined by the two constables on the footpath, which saved me from responding. I turned a hoof absent-mindedly on the pavement, making some half-hearted remark about my own ability as a brawler rather than any skilful fighter, and they exchanged glances as if they had both thought otherwise.
“Well done all the same, Doctor,” said one respectfully. I just nodded. Often it was much simpler to reply without speaking.

Lestrade spoke up next. He sounded rather irritated, and I could not blame him. Between myself and Pones, we had stolen all of his work, but he smiled painfully and praised Pones all the same.
“Why don’t you ever join the force, Pones?” He said modestly. “If there was a vacant position for the Chief of Police, I reckon you would be the perfect soul for it.”

I could have sworn that I saw Pones smile at the prospect, though perhaps it was merely a twitch of his mouth. I didn’t quite see his expression fully, for he had lifted the pipe to his lips again and was busily relighting it.
“No, Inspector, I would rather retain my freedom,” he said jovially, lowering his hooves as the flame of the lighter caught. “As far employment goes, I am quite happy with my lot, and provided I have good company, I doubt I shall need any more.”
“And yet you still continue to elude me with every further mystery,” the inspector replied. “I thought for sure that I had come to the very bottom of it.”
“You are not to be blamed, my dear fellow. We all make mistakes and errors of judgement.” I saw his gaze flicker over to my own for a moment. “Myself included. Had it not been for Trotson’s observation of Miss Sparkle's rather carelessly hidden bruise, Riesling may very well still be at large.”

The inspector smiled meekly at the amiable words.
“Indeed. It was the perfect crime, and I could not have known. All the evidence pointed to one conclusion.”
“Not quite perfect, but you are right – the mystery itself hinged on seemingly irrelevant knowledge, which you overlooked. That is where you tend to fall short, Inspector.” He lowered the pipe from his lips. “Observation and deduction, my friend.”
Lestrade bowed his head humbly and drew his jacket a little tighter around his thin form, as though it gave him some discomfort.
“I thank you, Pones. Before you arrived I was without much of an idea.”
“Do not count yourself out!” my companion cried, seizing the inspector around the shoulders with a hoof. “You did your job well, and had the good foresight to seek help when it was needed. Acknowledging that you needed help was by far the wisest of your decisions this weekend.”
Though double-edged the comment seemed to me, the Inspector cheered up somewhat, his eyes straying over to a gathering crowd of Ponies behind shepherded away from the police cart.
“Thank you for your kind words, Pones. But if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a statement."

I knew that he wanted to release some kind of story to the public. We bade him goodbye, and Pones watched him as he left the gate, brushing past the two constables and clearing his throat audibly.
“Poor fellow,” I said, airing my grievance about his plight.
“A good soul nonetheless,” Pones replied. “He tends to stumble across parts of the truth - and then, he gets right back up and keeps on going again.”

It took a moment for his words to sink into me, but when I understood him I was buzzed by the pleasant comfort of his once-again blasé attitude. I was relieved to have seen the ordeal done and dusted, for the mental exertion of thinking about the mystery in nearly every spare moment had worn me out. My weariness was not assisted by my recent lack of sleep, and I yawned contently. Together, we slipped out of the yard quite unnoticed, and while there were a few glances towards our rather well-dressed attire, we managed to pass by the growing hubbub without being hailed by anyone.

“Well that is all good and done, then!” I said happily, as soon as we were out of earshot of the crowd.
To this, Pones shot me a quizzical glance, but he did not lecture me over my very general statement as I had anticipated. Instead, he said something that took me by surprise.
“Indeed, my own business is very much concluded, but yours is not, my friend.”
“How do you mean?”
“You have an apology to make,” he replied curtly. I walked for a while longer, attempting to reach the same conclusion he had, and it was not until I tried to turn left – to which Pones pushed into my side, steering me in an easterly direction – that I realised what he meant.

Comments

[Banksyt]

In my opinions i believe that this is one of the best fictions here.
5/5

[PrinceLexmarkThePrinted]

Incredibly good. Please keep it up and delight us with further adventures of the pair.

You truly know how to write in a compelling, interesting manner. Awesome!