The Adventures of Sherclop Pones

by B_25

2: The Wonderbolt Incident

2. The Wonderbolt Incident

It was not until late November that I began to chronicle Pones once more. My own wedding was set to be on the 17th of that month, though I successfully managed to talk Felicia into putting it to after Christmas before we told any of her relatives. This was much easier for me, as it gave me a spot of breathing room, and similarly gifted her some more time to organise it, as she insisted that everything be perfect. To be truthful, after the intensity that bore my proposal, I was more than happy to simply sit in my comfortable abode at 221B Baker Street and let her plan, and more importantly enjoy the glow of the fire with a drink. The weather outside had been growing colder since late September, and the very first dustings of powder-snow were visible outside of the lattice window, though the air was bitter cold, as if it were late December already.

Neither frosty weather nor impending marriage stopped me from working, though, and I found myself pre-occupied. My weekend away had set me a few days behind, and I found that as I returned to the private clinic where I worked, that there was a backlog of patients waiting to be seen, and complaints needing to be remedied. For about a week I left from my home early, at about six-thirty, and worked long hours, often returning to a late dinner. It was on one of these chilly mornings that my next adventure begins, though at the time I had no idea that I was set for another one of his thrilling escapades.

Mr Sherclop Pones, who was himself an early riser, was seated at the breakfast table downstairs, reading the paper. The paper was propped up on the table, and his glasses were laid upon the table next to him, the crystal lenses just barely visible in the early morning light. I sat and drew myself a plate of porridge from the iron pot that rested table, and he did not greet me, nor did I feel awake enough to start a conversation. In a way I was thankful, for he knew well that I loathed early mornings just as much as the next pony.

So it was to my complete and unabated surprise when he asked a question of me.
“Well, Trotson, what do you think?” I heard him say.
I looked up from my bowl in surprise. The way he had asked was in his usual (or rather, unusual) manner of carrying on a conversation that never existed, and I was clueless as to what he meant. I simply stared at him blankly. He had lowered the top of his paper and was looking over it at me expectantly, with both of his brown eyebrows raised into his mane.
“Pardon?” I asked.
He did not reply, but instead gestured to the left with an idle hoof. I looked over expectantly, anticipating someone or something to have been there that I had missed in my sleepiness, but it was not so. The dining room was empty, aside from the two of us. My gaze turned back to him, and I felt slightly irritated.
“I have told you about my dislike for thinking so early, Pones.”
“The glasses,” he said, obliging my reluctance to use my brain.
“What about them?” I said, looking down at them. They were armless, slender and gold-rimmed, and I recognised them to be Pince-nez. They looked quite expensive, and boasted fine crystal lenses as I mentioned before.
“I do not use glasses, so they belong to someone else,” he said, returning to his paper. “An easy mistake to make for one as tired as you.”
I ignored him, reaching across the table and gingerly picking the glasses up by the bridge of the nose.
“They are not Mrs. Emeralds?” I inquired, though I knew the answer.
“No. She does not wear them either, and nor do you.”
“So to whom do they belong?”
“That is what I am asking you, Trotson.”
I sighed.
“I think,” I replied wearily, “that we have had a visitor or guest.”
“Precisely,” said he, putting his paper down on the table and crossing his forehooves. “We both missed him yesterday, for you were at work and I was away."
“He appears to be old,” I said absent-mindedly. “These glasses are expensive, such as a pair that someone well to do might buy, so it is also obvious that this strange visitor is also quite wealthy.”
“Good!” said Pones. “Excellent!”
“I also think that he is some kind of refined upper-class gent.”
“Why so?”
“Because the glasses are used for reading,” I said, putting the spectacles on my nose and squinting through the lenses.
“Really, Trotson, you excel yourself, even in your more tired moments!” Said Pones, reaching into his pocket for his pipe. “I feel obliged to say that in your writings, you have underrated your own ability. It may be that you are not luminous, as it were, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius, have a remarkable power of stimulating it, and with that in mind, I confess that I am very much in your debt.”

He had never said so much before, and I could not help but feel a spark of happiness ignite in my stomach. His significant acumen was what gave the praise most of its weight, but my pleasure was also heightened by his historic indifference to my admiration, and similarly my attempts to publicise his methods. I was proud to think that I had so far garnered even a sliver of Pones’ deductive ability, though I was equally confused at the time, for I did not know what I had done to deserve such a compliment. Pones held out a grey hoof for the spectacles, and I passed them to him gingerly.
“You are not entirely right, though,” he said with a smile.
“But what you just said...”
“Was true, but you are still erroneous in some regard. When I mentioned that you stimulated me, I merely meant that you occasionally guide me towards the truth.”
My heart fell a considerable distance, and Pones must have taken pity on me, for the next thing he did was indulge me with what he knew so far.
“Her name is Meadowsweet.”
I started to my hooves, swiftly looking about in case I had missed her a second time. I was desperate to see her, after all.
“M-mother?” I stammered. Pones laughed at my alarm.
“You need not fear your lack of attention,” he continued, reading my reaction perfectly. “But really – how did you not recognise them as belonging to your own mother? The glasses belong to a Doctor,” he said, tapping the bridge of them with a hoof. “The inscription.”
He held them up to the light, and there upon the bridge was an extremely small engraving that I had missed. R.C.H, it read, though I did not need Pones to explain the meaning of the abbreviation to me.
“Though I know nothing of her, I know those initials to mean Royal Canterlot Hospital,” he said. “The lens themselves are far too frail for a stallion to wear, don’t you see? And here, see how the glasses have never been broken? The owner is meticulous. We may draw from these two points that said pony is a doctor or nurse, though what nurse could afford something so dear?”
I resumed my seat, my heart having settled somewhat. He continued to speak as I did so.
“No, the owner is most certainly a doctor. And a lady. From the vague description and the glasses that I received from Mrs. Emerald before I retired last night, I would guess her to have some relation to you. Our visitor had a refined northern accent, she said. Though I was not present to hear it, I assumed it matched yours, and I asked as much, to which she confirmed my thoughts. She has a very fair mane and the most astonishing pair of deep blue eyes.”

He suddenly tensed his hoof tightly, and there was a small snapping noise, further alarming me. I cried out and reflexively reached for the pair of golden spectacles, but when he opened his hoof once more, I could see that they had merely folded in half.
“A new hinge,” he added. “No doubt it has been recently replaced, the old one having worn out from overuse. These glasses look new, but they are in fact very old. The style of glasses would have put the owner at the height of fashion, say, thirty years ago now.” He shook his head. “But you were right. She is well-to-do.”
Even though he spoke as if his words were of some irrelevance to me, as my heart was alive and racing. I was now fully awake.
“What time was she here?”
“Around four in the afternoon.”
“And did she leave a message?”
“She did, in fact,” Pones replied, and at this he reached into his pocket and withdrew a note. I took it from him and noticed that the red wax seal upon it had not been broken.
“I appreciate that you do not continue to read my mail,” said I.
Pones had returned to his oats, apparently satisfied with his own conclusions, and as such did not seem to regard my statement with much thought.
“Well, ever since your dust-up with Riesling, I thought it better of me to stay on your good side.”
I rolled my eyes. Such a jibe from Pones was to be expected, after all, and it caused me very little effect. My mind and heart were more focused on the scroll, and I opened it quickly. I recognised my mother’s handwriting instantly and fondly, and it ran thusly:

I missed you! – still hard at work, your landlady tells me, and she also says you’ve gone and got up to some mischief since I saw you last. What kind of mischief she wouldn’t say, but she mentioned that you’ve teamed up with a detective, no less! I should very much like to hear from you – I was only in town for the day, you see. Your father was upset you couldn’t join us for the Summer Sun Celebrations up in Cloplin, but I cajoled him into enjoying himself anyway. He might hide it behind a stern face, but he misses you dearly – though as I mention it, not enough to hide it behind a few pints of Quills! It was the girls from the neighbourhood who were more broken hearted to hear you were getting married, I think!

You will come home for Christmas, won’t you? We’d love to hear from you. Haven’t had a good letter from you in a while.

Love, mum

I put the letter down and meandered over what I would say in response. Pones had not looked up from his bowl, and was hungrily devouring his breakfast (and whatever else lay in front of him) with great vigour.
“Another all-nighter for you?” I inquired.
“Indeed,” he mumbled from behind a mouthful of the honey and oats.

Pones was not a great eater, though I knew that he was at his hungriest when he had been thinking. On some occasions, he did not retire to bed at all, instead choosing to sit at the darkened table through the night and well into the morning, his rear legs propped up on the table’s edge and his cap tipped down over his sharp eyes, folding his slender grey forehooves across his chest. I was sure this was merely another way for Pones to enter one of his meditative trances, for he smoked as he did so. More than once upon returning late from the clinic, I had been startled by the eerie red glow from his pipe as I passed by the entrance to the dining-room. From out of its red ashes I would often catch a glimpse of his sullen, half-hidden face – a rare glimpse at the darker side of my companion.

My reminiscences were interrupted by the gentle bumping of footfalls on the landing, followed by a rap at the door. My ears immediately pricked; for I thought the hoof steps might belong to my mother, and I rose swiftly to answer the door.

When I opened the door, however, my hopes were washed away. It was a large Pegasus who stood there, and so broad and muscular in stature was he that I immediately became aware that the heavy thuds could not have ever been my mother. It is hardly necessary that I describe him, so well-known was he, but I shall all the same. He was a tidily dressed Gentlepony, and he introduced himself as Lieutenant-Colonel Flash. My first impressions of him were very pleasant ones – he had a very honest personality, and a rugged yet handsome appearance, and he seemed familiar to me, though I could not think of where I had seen him. His mane was of a sandy blonde, and his coat and wings were of a pale shade of grey-blue, which gave him the rather uncanny resemblance to the skies in which he flew. His face was broad and clean shaven, and he had an extremely pleasant and mellow voice. He spoke with a Cloudsdale accent - that much I was instantly sure of - though as was the case for myself it had long since been drowned out by the upper class rigours of Canterlot. He bore an immaculately clean stovepipe hat and a dark frock-coat, and indeed, every detail of his dress spoke of the extreme attention to which he carried himself. From the tips of his silver shoes that I could barely see beneath his fetlocks to the golden timepiece chain that peeked from his breast pocket, there was not a single hair of him out of place.

We returned into the dining room to find it clean. I was dazzled at the speed of my companion in clearing away the table, but then again he had eaten with such voracity that I doubted that such swiftness was impossible for him. He smiled as the big aristocrat and I entered the room.
“Ah, here’s my good friend!” Cried Pones, springing from his chair with surprising alacrity and greeting the stranger warmly.
“Pones,” Flash said with a smile. Evidently the two knew each other, and I inquired after him.
“A fellow lodger from when I lived in Cloudsdale,” came the reply from my companion. I had known that Pones had lived in Cloudsdale for a while, though I do believe this the first instance where any sort of history of Pones’ at all has been written onto paper. The three of us sat at the clean table, and immediately came onto the topic of business. Flash did not seem like the kind of Pegasus to be kept waiting.
“I received your note yesterday,” He said hurriedly. “Is it alright if we speak in front of the good doctor here?”
Pones did not bat an eyelid. “I would sooner prefer it if all that were to be known on the matter was shared with my friend,” he said, folding his hooves and resuming his lounging position on the chair. The colonel gave me a sideways glance to see if I was listening (I was, most intently) and began to speak.
“Of course, I was prepared for your companion, too,” he said courteously. “His assistance may very well be necessary, for we are dealing with a murder.”
My heart skipped a beat as the last word escaped his tightly-pressed lips.
“Murder!” I repeated incredulously, and he nodded gravely.
“Aye, murder,” he repeated slowly. “And no doubt, a murderer most foul.”
I had never dealt with murder before, though I had seen death. It was part of my occupation – the part I liked the least, and I daresay such a sentiment was shared among my colleagues.
“You have need of a coroner?” I said.
The soldier scratched his chin reflexively.
“Yes, and no. The coroner has already filed his report. What I have need of Pones and you for is to conduct your own investigation.”
Pones had been listening intently, and I noticed that he had leaned forward onto the table, his hooftips perched together.
“You should start from the beginning,” he interjected. The Colonel caught himself and smiled falteringly.
“I really should, shouldn’t I?”
He turned to me and spoke.
“You know of the wonderbolts, do you not?”

I nodded. The Wonderbolts were a collection of Pegasus Royal guards and air force veterans alike, who, either having retired from their service duties or having been promoted, became the most elite squad of fliers known in Equestria. They were show ponies, and they performed such stunning aerial acrobatics and feats of bravery and daring that I scarce could not have heard of them, for they were photographed at every event they went to, whether they were the main attraction or not. I did not know of their numbers, but I had heard tell of the strictest discipline among them that paralleled Celestia’s personal guard.

I had had the pleasure of being a physician for a Pegasus known as Soarin earlier last year, and he was so battered and bruised by his own training regime that I was became concerned for his health. I ordered him to take a week off of flying. I was ignored, as I found out later that he had returned to his training in secret.
“Well I am their instructor, as it were,” said Flash.
I suddenly realised where I had recognised our stranger from. Lieutenant Colonel Flash, better known by his moniker as The Flash, was an ex-wonderbolt himself, and I recognised the rugged shape of his face by the posters that I had seen of him plastered on every colt’s wall when I was a young lad. He did not sport the same skin-tight blue suit that was familiar to his flying team, and so I did not recognise him at first. I let out a gasp of surprise.
“Dear Celestia!” I cried. “I did not recognise you with your goggles off!”
He smiled. Presumably my reaction was one that was most familiar to him, and his response confirmed it.
“That’s what everypony says,” he replied meekly. “I suppose that is more of a blessing than a burden. My teammate Spitfire gets more attention than she can handle.”
Spitfire was one of the other wonderbolts, just a touch older than I. To my knowledge, she was legendarily flirtatious and promiscuous. If the Colonel were to every young colt their first childhood hero, then Spitfire would be their first experience with the more hotblooded side of the fairer sex. I had seen before lurid posters—not that I had sought them out, of course—and various papers and columns featuring her tied up in several shameless scandals. Thus, I had obtained some earlier confirmation of the Colonel’s words.
My thoughts were interrupted by Pones.
“Please, continue with your story.”
The stout Pegasus nodded gravely before obliging.
“As you might know, there has been a vacant slot in the wonderbolts for a while now, ever since I retired. We, and by ‘we’ I mean the team as a whole, have been looking over a list of promising young fliers to fill the space.
At this he paused and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a small colour photograph, and set it down on the table.
“This little filly is probably the most earnest of the lot,” he commented. Pones and I peered over at the photo.

I recognised the Colonel in the photo immediately – there was no mistaking that square jaw and his beaming features, even from behind his flight goggles. He was in his wonderbolts uniform, and stood with a foreleg around the face of a young girl, no older than eighteen or nineteen. She had on her face a look of such happiness that I did not doubt that she was clearly a fan of the wonderbolts, and indeed, she was starstruck in a way that only a member of the wonderbolts could inflict. This much I could recognise in her features very clearly, for her prominent aquamarine coat had turned a very deep shade of pink around her cheeks, and her wings were clenched tightly to her sides, as Pegasi were inclined to do when nervous. Her wild mane drooped slightly over her forehead, and appeared on first glance to resemble a shocking lick of orange, though upon further inspection it was actually composed of all the colours of the rainbow - red, orange and yellow at its top, and as it ran down her neck, darker shades of blue, violet and green were visible. Between her coat and her mane, the visual assault was almost overwhelming, but she also sported a pair of incredible rose-coloured eyes. I couldn’t see her frame from the picture very well, but I estimated that she must have been about up to my chin in height, with a very lean physique.

“…Miss Rainbow Dash,” he said, after allowing me a moment to study the picture. “The photo was taken about a year ago now, and she carries it around with her everywhere. She gave it to me to give to you.”
“Rainbow Dash,” I repeated meditatively. I shot a look over at Pones, who had ignored the photo, and begun to smoke once more. He spoke to my glance, though I had not asked any question of him.
“You would remember her better as Rarity’s friend. She’s also the element of loyalty.” He withdrew the pipe from his mouth and exhaled, causing a small stream of smoke to spiral away towards the ceiling. “You would call her a bit of a wild one, Trotson, but then again you are used to fillies of good breeding, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
The Colonel nodded.
“She is quite the handful at the best of times, but that is beside the point.” He tapped the photo, and resumed his story earnestly. “She’s been in our training squad for about a month now, very keen to get in. She’s young, earnest, and fits in well with the team, both in attitude and ability.” At this, he seemed to hesitate, as though reluctant to speak.
“Last Monday, she was arrested by the police in conjunction with a murder,” he said with a grimace, withdrawing another photo. This one was of a single, cream-coloured Pegasus stallion, with a mane of fiery red. He was not so tall as he was muscular and squat – in much the same way that the Colonel was. He had struck a heroic pose for the photo, though I could see that behind all his fake seriousness a smile that belied a great deal of hidden mirth and happiness. “This lad, right here. Peregrine Feathers was his name. Together, they were our top two rookies.”
He sighed a little, and dropped the photo wearily onto the table before putting his head into his hooves. It was odd, for up until then he had seemed extremely energetic – but I knew all too well that expression, for I had seen it many times before. It was a sapped look, a mixture of weary bereavement and silent dismay that comes only as a result of witnessing the unthinkable.
“A policepony was on the beat late last week, and he saw lights on in a house at around two to three in the morning. This would not have been unusual, but he peered in past the fence and saw the front door was ajar. It was Peregrine’s home, and he was found in the sitting-room, sprawled on the floor, face-down, and dead.” There was a moment while he recuperated, and I could tell that the issue caused him some pain to speak about.
“A good kid,” he said at length. The simplicity of his statement belied the depth of his emotional injury, and he closed his eyes and mumbled what was no doubt a blessing.
“There was nothing in the room other than him, there was no robbery, he had his wallet with all his money inside. I went to see it to confirm the body. He had a knife in his back, and there was blood everywhere…”
Our guest closed his eyes and took a deep breath, running a hoof through his mane.
“Rainbow dash and he were not heavily involved with each other outside of training, or at least not that I knew of, but they competed most viciously in the training squad. They fought often, and argued even more often. The team decided, after a long time, that we’d put him in instead of her. He was the more skilled of the two, we thought – there was just an element of quickness that she lacked. And then this happened. The police believe she came to his house in a fit of anger, and killed him.” He fell silent after this, and stared at the photo of the ecstatic filly on the table.
“Call me in denial, but I don’t believe a word of it. She’s far too nice to have done such a thing.”
Pones, who had been lazily thinking about something else during the story, snapped to attention at this last comment.
“And this is why you need our help.”
The stallion nodded. I noticed by Pones’ words, and his earlier, that I was assumed as some sort of accomplice. I was happy for springing to Pones’ mind as an essential component of his work, but confused nonetheless, for I could see no way in which a simple doctor could help.
“I don’t mean to be so forthright, but what do you need me for?” I inquired. “If the coroner has made his report, then I doubt that I will be necessary.”
Pones seemed rather indignant at my concerns.
“You would not help a damsel falsely accused?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Some gentlepony you are!”
I baulked at the proposal.
“Though I am ever the subject of much of your good humour, I fail to see how I could help.”
“I doubt she could have done it, Trotson,” my companion replied. He gestured at the two pictures on the table. “For starters, she is just a perfectly ordinary young mare, if her tomboyish nature is not counted. Secondly, their difference in size suggests a great degree of improbability in such a brutal method of attack, and thirdly, the nature of the crime itself is far and beyond such a pony.”
How he had reached such points lay well beyond me, though I was used to such long strings of logic arising from little more than a single glance. That is not to say that I was unsurprised – Pones’ conclusions could never cease to amaze me – but it was our guest who was more unaccustomed to Pones’ intricacies, and he saved me the trouble of expressing my astonishment.
“How in Equestria did you know that?” he asked, looking again at the picture. “You have not met either of these ponies before, correct?”
“I have known Miss Dash only by name and no more; and no, I have not heard before of this other fellow,” he replied indifferently as ever.
“Then what makes you say that? I do not disagree, of course,” he added swiftly afterwards. “I know her all too well to know that such an act was far beyond her. Rival or not, she would never kill. But you have nothing to judge their height or personality by.”
Pones cracked his neck and yawned.
“A simple look at her photo tells me much,” he began, stretching out the last of his morning stiffness. “The cut of her hair and her coat, and her interest in you as a fan, most of all, tells me that she is a girl more interested in her sport than her appearance. She does not fawn over you as she might my dear friend here,” he said, waving a hoof in my general direction, much to my embarrassment. “She is happier that she has met her idol than any other girlish fantasy. You can see it, because she has that curious grin about her face, and she is not looking at you. Furthermore, she looks quietly pretty, but she does not preen herself as is typical for girls her age.” He raised his eyes to the Colonel. “Twenty years old?”
“The photo… it would be about fifteen months ago, when I first met her.”
“So, she was about nineteen at the time,” he said thoughtfully. “Very unlike the rest of her friends from ponyville. Young, and boisterous. The polar opposite, in fact, of many of her friends. Rarity springs to mind.”
I thought to ask of their relationship, but Pones continued to speak without pause.
“At any length, I can tell you that she did not kill him. You are correct – I have nothing to judge their height by, but that is not what I said. I said they were different in size, and this much is true - a simple glance at the young fellow’s bulk makes him unlikely to be overpowered by her. A flier though she is, she is not muscular.”
“And what of the crime itself?”
“Stabbed in the back by the element of loyalty?” Pones replied. “I should think not. It is far beyond her calling to do such a thing.”
The ex-Royal Guard clapped his hooves together once in delight.
“Ah, I did not think of it that way. I can see I have come to the right ponies, then!” he said, and his appearance brightened visibly. I was more wary against making promises that I could not keep, but Pones appeared to have very little doubt in his mind, for he backed up his statement with a promise.
“Rest assured, my companion and I will not return until the job is done,” he said decided. I opened my mouth to object, for I had quite enough on my plate already, but at this he turned to me.
“Isn’t that right, Trotson?”

I fumbled momentarily for an excuse, but failed to find one. In retrospect I had far enough to do already, the least of which involved tagging along with Pones to be useless once again, but the sincere expression on the Colonel’s face stole my nerve from me, and I agreed by way of a silent nod.

The kind gentleman then took his leave after exchanging some addresses with us. He very firmly shook my hoof, and I was upset that we had promised him of such a victory, but nevertheless I did not show it. Instead, I led him to the door, and only when it had closed did I let my irate mood seize me.
“Now you have done it,” I said as I re-entered the dining room, slightly irked.
“Done what?” Pones inquired. He had been looking back at his paper, apparently having given the matter lesser precedence than more breakfast – the pot was now back on the table.
“I have quite enough to do already without… this!” I replied.
“Like what?”
I could have choked on my words in irritation.
“My marriage, perhaps?” I replied. “Or my job at the clinic?”
“You need a holiday,” he said with a frown. “From both the fairer sex and your job.”
“I most certainly do not.”
“Yes you do. Your stress is showing.”
I snorted. “What stress?”
“Dilated pupils from lack of sleep, red rings around your eyes, loss of appetite…”
“Pones, I am a doctor, I think I would recognise stress when I see it –”
“ – heightened blood pressure, slightly emotional–”
“Pones,” I said warningly.
“– you seem restless as well – when was the last time you and your wife—”
“PONES!”

His eyebrows rose at my sudden outburst, and I knew that to mean a great deal of things, but I did not care. I had had more than enough. For too long I had been the subject of his intense study, and I was angry. He simply kept his auburn gaze upon me, unflinching from his meditative look.
“I do not object to your strangeness,” I said after a while. “I do not object to the intense scrutiny you put me under, and I do not object to the way you conduct yourself. But I don’t think in all my explorations of your complexities have I found something as irritating as your total negligence of anyone but yourself.”
“What do you mean?” he inquired. “I consider a great list many things before I work.”
“And at what point do I enter into that list?” I snapped back. For the first time since I had known him, he was speechless, though as I reflect upon it, I am sure that was more out of choice than because of the weight of my words. “I would be happy to assist you at the best of times, but this is not the time or the place."
“No, now is the time and place for a holiday,” said a voice from behind me, and I turned. It was Mrs. Emerald. She bustled into the kitchen carrying a silver tea-tray in her mouth, and set it down on the table before turning back to me.
“Sorry to be interfering with your own business, John, but you'll not listen to him, so perhaps you'll listen to me.” She chided me in the manner of an elderly schoolteacher, her thin eyebrows furrowed to a point.
“When’s the last time you had a rest?” She asked politely, sitting on one of the chairs next to me. I was on my hooves, having risen in frustration at Pones, but I sat back down reflexively.
“Why, just last weekend I was on holiday.”
“Dear, that was in mid-August.”
“And?”
“Today is the 29th of November. 'Tis nearly winter,” she said pointedly, pouring from the silver pot into an ornate teacup.
“That cannot be right,” I said, shaking my head.
“Time escapes the busy,” she replied sympathetically. “You’ve been working twelve-hour days, six or seven days a week, for the last two months.”
It was at that moment that I reeled, and put a hoof to my head. Two months? Had my work really been that time-consuming? The elderly landlady pursed her lips and put her teacup and saucer down again. It did not even clink when it touched the table, I noticed in some still-observant corner of my mind. Years of practice and experience, no doubt.
“Close family and friends you appear to have forgotten,” she said idly. “Your mother called upon us yesterday. Did you know you haven’t spoken to her since April?”
I shook my head and admitted that I had not.
“And when was the last time you actually spoke to your wife-to-be?” She said. I had forgotten the date, though I could remember the event as fondly as if it had been a few minutes ago. I could not forget a single touch from Felicia, even if I tried, for it made so many sparks coarse through my veins like some sort of blood-based lightning.
“Last time I had a break,” I murmured. Felicia had come up to Canterlot for the day to retrieve medical supplies, and had stopped by. We had not yet sussed out what we were going to do in terms of living, and seeing as how I did not have a house, I seriously considered moving to Ponyville.
“Six days,” she replied. And, though he is away often, I can guarantee you that I see my husband more than once a fortnight!”
“You have taken every spare inch of your time with writing, too,” she said. “I have often stood behind you as you write. It’s as if you’re lost in your own little world. At one point, I even stood in the doorway watching you for a while.” She tilted her head slightly and fixed me with one of her trademark stern looks. “Sometimes, you’d struggle to think of something – a word or a phrase Mr. Pones said, no doubt, and your head would just drop down. You’d stare at the desk, or the typewriter, or whatever was in front of you for a little while, and then your eyes would close, but before you fall asleep you would jerk yourself awake with some kind of super-pony effort, just to type another line.”
She reached over and put a forehoof on my leg.
“You need a rest, dear. You’ll burn out at this rate, and I think you’ve fizzled out after so much effort. Your passion for your work keeps you caring for all but yourself.”

I sat in silence, half-tempted to rebel against her kind words. I had genuinely not felt any of what she said up until that point, after all, and I felt quite indignant that I could be classified as ever needing a rest. Do not ask me why – my own thoughts were as scrambled and hard to put to pen, but they did circulate around the things that I had neglected the most those past few weeks. But as I said, my mind was on other things. The patients of mine that needed prescriptions were foremost, followed by my list of ponies that I needed to give check-ups or examinations to, and even one or two instances of surgery.

But the more she spoke more of my quiet serenity, and the blissful way that I sat at my desk writing, my weariness struck me like a freight train. Her voice was so oddly soothing and motherly for a woman who I had not known half as well as I should have liked. The way she spoke – it was not overly sweet, just very… familiar would be the best word to describe it. As she mentioned the need to rest, though, some part of my mind raised a small cry of alarm, and I realised that I my eyes had lost their focus on her, and that my head had started to droop.
“Well that settles it,” She said decisively, looking me once over as if to check for spots or a visible sign of tiredness. “You need a good rest. I’m going to go and send an eagle to your wife, and you are going to go to Cloudsdale. That way, the two of you can go and spend some quality time together.”
I felt annoyed that my own body had betrayed my mind so readily. Though Pones was more than enough exercise for my mind, sometimes leaving me mentally drained, I found myself unable to think of a sufficient reason why I should be incapable of working further. Maybe, a very small part of me conceded, that that in itself was the tiredness speaking. In the end, I just shrugged.
“Whatever,” I said.
“That’s the spirit!” said Mrs. Emerald with a smile. “Go for a moment’s break. That will do you a world of good.”

I actually smiled at the prospect of getting to see Felicia more, but immediately I was recalled by the urgency of the current task in an extremely irritating way. There are very few feelings more unpleasant than remembering that you have to do something, and that it will lie between you and any rest.
“Ah, but I cannot rest,” I groaned, rubbing a hoof over my eyes. “I agreed to help this friend of Pones, and I am bound to it.”
“Then why not make it a rest without Felicia?” Pones stated simply. I had to admit that the idea of spending time away from my work without my future wife had not occurred to me. Not entirely different from nearly all of his conjectures, now that I recall it.
“Come to Cloudsdale with me.”
I sighed.
“Your adventures do not seem like holidays,” I said reproachfully. Pones somehow took this as a compliment, and smiled.
“You have numbed your body to your own senses. I garauntee that once you have rested today,” he said, “You will be more aware of your need to take a break.”

I did not doubt that he was true, and so it was that I decided to take the day off. I was effectively my own manager at work – the perks of working such long hours gave me relative freedom to pick and choose when it came to taking a day or two off. I doubted that today would be very busy, though I don’t recall giving this thought any rationale. Logically, the clinic would have been busier closer to this side of Christmas then ever before, and increasingly so, but perhaps, to my tired mind, the prospect of a good sleep was far more attractive.
“Fine,” I said after a while. “I’m sure I have some spare time owed to me.”
“Absolutely, you do,” replied the magenta landlady flatly.

So it was at the behest of the two that I took a while off work. Felicia was due into town the next day, and she thoroughly agreed that a break was precisely what I needed, though she herself seemed rather harried. I urged her to relax a little bit, but she would have none of my advice. She claimed playfully that she was far too well-rested as it was, and that she needed something to fuss about while I was away. How odd it was to my tired mind that another pony could have had my best interests at heart, and I was thankful for it.

It was for these reasons that the following day I found myself in the basket of a hot-air-balloon in the green fields just outside of Canterlot.

Comments

[Gullywasher]

Well. I was beginning to think the story was over, but I am incredibly glad to see that isn't the case. Fantastic chapter, as usual, and it's great to see a Rainbow Dash arc. Rainbow pony is best pony, after all.

Just a minor nitpick - I don't know if you intend to make the seasons different in Equestria, but normally, November 29th is not winter. Winter starts (ohey, today), on December the 21st.

Still.
Keep it up!

[writer]

79595
whoops
had wikipedia page open for autumn and derped a little

[writer]

Also; if you have read the original Sherlock holmes books, you'll see they're a collection of 12 or 13 short stories per book, so expect as much

[CoastalSarv]

Nice to see you continue. I like that Pones continues to get to show off his deduction, and that you describe this in a believable fashion.