Case One, Chapter One: Welcome to Ponyville
She lay on the cot in her cell, staring out the barred window. The sun winked at her through the bars, half-hidden behind the growing clouds. For her first four months here, she had struggled to remember how the fresh air had tasted, far above the earth where the clouds hovered, but the memory had faded away over time. The cold, unforgiving stone that formed Frostback Prison had quickly filled her entire world.
But now, on the day she was to be released, the ghost of the sweet, familiar taste was dancing on her tongue. It almost made her smile.
A clattering caused her to look up. Two guards, adorned in black uniforms marked with silver badges on their breasts, were standing outside her cell door, their expressions grim beneath the sharp peaks of their caps.
She climbed up off the cot and watched as the guards opened the door with a squeak of hinges and stepped inside. The two of them leered at her. She coolly stared back at them.
“So, today’s the big day, huh, convict?” the tall, broad-shouldered blue unicorn sneered at her. He kept a tight grip on the handle of the black baton on his belt.
“I know you’ll miss me,” she replied with a very pleasant smile, sarcasm and acid dripping off of every syllable. “But don’t be too sad. You’ve got the rest of the prisoners to keep you company.”
“We’ll keep the cell warm for you,” the guard growled, then grasped her right foreleg and held it up. She tried to resist looking down, but couldn’t.
The mark branded into her hoof was still there, staring back at her. A twisted set of lines formed the crude shape of a ring of keys, forever burned into her skin.
“It’s not like you have anywhere else to go, thief,” the unicorn grunted, releasing her. She bit back a curse, glaring at him.
The two guards turned and led their prisoner out of the cell and through the common area of the cell block. The other mares in their gray coveralls let out a raucous burst of cheers, catcalls, and final taunts as she walked, head held high, through the door of the cell block. Just as the steel door closed behind her, she heard the unit officer barking out an order for quiet and grinned as she walked up the hallway, escorted by the two guards.
They walked up to a steel door that buzzed open to let them into the receiving area where new and released inmates were processed. Another guard waited behind a desk, carrying a small box. He was a thestral with a dusky purple coat, a snow white mane and blue eyes and the cutie mark of a wooden signpost. He was wearing the same black uniform as the other guards but had removed his cap to expose his face.
“Thanks, guys,” he said to the two guards guiding the mare. “I can take her from here.”
The guards hesitated for a moment, then stepped back and allowed the mare to step forward.
“Today’s the day,” Officer Gentle Guide smiled at her as she approached. He pulled out a clipboard and held it up for her. “Just sign for your stuff here and you can start your new life outside.”
“Don’t give her false hope, Guide,” the unicorn grunted.
Gentle Guide didn’t answer, choosing to hand over the box as the mare signed for her things. She opened up the box and checked its contents. She hadn’t been carrying much when she’d turned herself in: her keys, some bits, a notebook and collection of pens, a lighter, a silver bracelet chain with a single blue gem, and of course, her trademark dark green cargo shirt. She quickly scanned through the inventory and was satisfied to find that nothing had been tampered with.
“Where to after this?” Guide asked the mare, adding his own signature to the papers.
“I’m staying here,” she replied, counting out the bits in the sack to make sure that none had been “misplaced.” She nodded in satisfaction, then started to put the bits back in the bag, subtly checking the hidden pocket within. The tools within were still safely packed inside and she felt her smirk grow for a moment. “For better or for worse, this is my home.”
Gentle Guide coughed quietly and held something else out to her. The mare blinked and reached out to take the small white card that he was holding out. It was a business card, with a name and address typewritten on it.
“Look, I know it’s going to be hard out there,” Guide said in a quiet tone. “Especially for...for somepony like you.”
The mare's violet eyes narrowed, but she didn’t reply.
“But...listen, this is a friend of mine. He’s been thinking of taking in a partner, and I really think that he could help you put your skills to good use,” Guide continued. “So...just, think about it, all right?”
The mare was silent for several moments, turning the card over and over in her hoof, then nodded. “Thanks for the tip,” she said.
Gentle Guide smiled. “Well, we can’t have you going out into the free world dressed like that, now can we?” he asked, holding out a small key. She held up her foreleg, staring at the gray metallic bracelet that had been locked onto her on her first day. Guide unlocked the bracelet and it clattered onto the desk.
Removing the itchy dark gray jumpsuit was a great relief; she felt as though she was shedding a great weight that she had been bearing for a year, and once it was finally off, she was able to breathe again. Tossing the jumpsuit into a waiting laundry basket, she took the cargo shirt out of the box and pulled it on. The familiar, comfortable fabric embraced her like an old friend. She pocketed the rest of her stuff and turned towards the waiting doors.
“Don’t forget the card!” Guide called.
She paused, then plucked the card off the table and pocketed it.
“We’ll be keeping an eye on you, convict,” the unicorn growled at her as she turned towards the sally port.
“I knew you couldn’t resist this flank,” she shot back, giving the guard a disdainful flick of her tail as she entered the first set of doors. As soon as the door closed behind her, she closed her eyes and took in a slow, deep breath.
Never let them see when they get to you.
The exterior doors opened and she stepped out of the sally port into the front yard of Frostback Prison. A narrow concrete pathway lined with chain-link fences topped with barbed wire lead to a wide set of iron gates, set in a tall brick wall with spikes along the top. Two watchtowers stood at the corners; she knew that inside each of them was a pair of guards equipped with rifles. More guards stood around the yard, watching the inmates milling about the yard. Every eye turned to track her quick walk forward, some with jealousy, others with suspicion. A light rain fell from the sky, the drops caressing her skin.
Two guards stood before the iron gates: all that stood between her and freedom. She paused in front of them. They stared back at her.
“Well?” she asked impatiently, raising an eyebrow.
The guards stood silent for a moment more, then one of them turned and unlocked the door, pushing it open for her.
“Such a gentlepony,” she smiled at him as she stepped outside. The dirt road crunched beneath her hooves, and the trees that lined the road whispered in the wind as she started walking forward. The door closed behind her with a great slam. Nothing in the world had ever sounded so sweet as that.
The prisoner continued to walk eastwards down the road. Nopony was around except for her. Once she was about a mile out, she paused. A smile spread across her face and she closed her eyes. She opened her mouth slightly, allowing the wind to caress her tongue, clean, warm, and tasting of pine. She spread her wings out to the sides: now that the magic-inhibiting bracelet was removed, and she was beyond the boundaries of the anti-flight spells, she was finally aware of the soft tingles of flight magic spreading from her core all the way up to the tips of her feathers. The wind danced through her grayscale mane and blew through her feathers, trying to lift her up. The rain continued to fall, the water sliding off her feathers and onto the ground.
With a laugh, she flapped powerfully, lifting up off the ground and into the sky. Exhilaration flooded her being, and the reality of her situation suddenly sunk in: she was free! With another flap, she took off, chasing after the sunlight.
Before long, the only sign that she had ever been an inmate at Frostback Prison was a soon-to-be laundered jumpsuit and a signature on a piece of paper:
Daring Do.
Ponyville was once just a small village just south of Canterlot, a farming community on the edge of the Everfree Forest, bordered on the south by the Maresippi River. But that was long ago, before the industry boom.
Now, the city was a giant mismatch of wood, concrete, and brick surrounded by farmlands to the north, dense forests to the east, and icy water to the south; a sprawling complex where four hundred thousand ponies lived, worked, played, and died. And for Daring Do, it was home.
She sat in the back of the trolley, the vehicle shivering and clattering as it climbed up Rosebud Avenue. Familiar sights flowed past her: the Flower Sisters’ shop was still there, right next to Carrot Top’s farmer’s market. But so much had changed during her year inside: the gym she used to go to had been torn down, and her favorite pizza place had been replaced by some offices. Ponies, griffons, thestrals, and donkeys walked quickly along the sidewalk, many of them holding up umbrellas or other makeshift shields to protect them from the continuing rain.
The trolley bell rang to signal that they were approaching a stop at an intersection. A three-story red brick building stood on the corner of Rosebud and Oakfield, its greasy windows reflecting the sunlight. Sighing, Daring stood up and joined the other disembarking passengers, climbing off the trolley and onto the cobbled sidewalk. She instinctively did a mental scan of the area, reaching out with her senses to identify any potential threats.
She quickly spotted one. A metal pole stood on the corner of the sidewalk. Two white cylindrical metal tubes sat on top of the pole, shaped like short telescopes with crystalline blue lenses and a box on the end. Each of them was pointed so that they were looking up the two sidewalk paths. Daring scowled and instinctively kept her head lowered so as not to expose her face to the surveillance crystals as she walked up to the door and pushed it open.
The lobby was small and dingy as ever, and the flickering lightbulb still hadn’t been replaced. Daring climbed up the stairs to the third floor and started walking down the hallway. She paused in front of the door for apartment 12. “Home sweet home,” she muttered to herself, plucking her keys from her pocket, selecting the apartment key, and inserting it into the lock.
But the key wouldn’t fit. Daring grunted in confusion and tried again, but the key refused to fit into the lock.
“I knew you’d come back here,” a voice snarled from behind her. Daring let out a slow breath and turned around. A wizened old gray burro was stomping up the hallway towards her, her silvery-blue eyes flashing dangerously from behind her glasses.
“Abigail,” Daring said through her teeth. “I’d say that I missed you while I was in, but I’d be lying.”
“Well, I didn’t miss you,” her landlady huffed, pausing in front of her. “A thief like you isn’t welcome in my apartments. And you won’t be welcome in any other apartments around here. I’ve already seen to that.”
“Like you saw to changing the locks on my door,” Daring added, scowling. “At least let me in so I can get my stuff and leave.”
Abigail gave her a very nasty grin. “You don’t have any stuff. I sold it all when you went to prison.”
Daring’s anger flared at her words, and she took a step forward, her eyes narrowing. Abigail took a nervous step back, her bravado wavering. “You just got out,” she snarled, trying to hide the fact that she was trembling. “You can’t be that eager to go back in.”
Daring paused, hissing in a breath. Then she snapped the apartment key off her ring and flung it at the floor at Abigail’s hooves. “Go fuck yourself,” she snarled and stormed out of the apartment, climbing back down the stairs and shoving the door open. The cold rain embraced her and she shivered, pulling the collar of her shirt up.
“Fuck,” she snarled to herself. She turned around and kicked out at the brick wall. Her hoof cracked the stone, sending fragments flying. “Fuck!” she shouted throatily.
A passing couple stopped to stare, looking at her like she was a bad-tempered rattlesnake that had gotten out of its cage. She huffed and glared at them, and the ponies hurried away. Daring leaned against the wall, breathing heavily until her heart rate settled and she stopped imagining that she was strangling Abigail.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her of how long it had been since she’d eaten; plus, she really needed a smoke. Fortunately, the corner deli was still just across the street; she could find something worth eating there while she planned out her next move.
The owner of the deli was behind the counter when she entered. He was a unicorn with a coat the color of fresh bread and tomato red hair, his stomach rounded by years of too much zeppole. His blue eyes widened with recognition when he saw Daring enter.
Daring’s eyes went down to the stack of newspapers in front of the counter. Her own face stared back at her from the front page of the Free Foal Press, underneath the secondary headline: “Turncoat Thief to be Released Today.”
Daring was aware that the other patrons in the deli were all looking at her. A murmuring like the buzzing of angry bees was growing in her ears. She plastered a fake grin onto her face and pulled the paper up. “You see this, Subs? I’m a celebrity now. In fact, I’m surprised you’re not throwing me a ticker tape parade right now.”
“What do you want?” Ciabatta Submarine asked in a cold tone.
The fake grin instantly vanished. Daring slapped the paper down, along with a pack of Blue Camel cigarettes and a jug of milk. “This, plus an apple and a grilled vegetable sub.”
Ciabatta reached behind the counter and retrieved a submarine sandwich wrapped in a white napkin, tossing it onto the counter. Daring dropped some bits onto the table, took her lunch, and turned away, aware of the continuing angry buzzing in her wake.
Fortunately, the rain was easing up as she exited. She strolled over to a sidewalk bench and sat down upon it, setting her purchases down next to her. First things first: she took out the pack of cigarettes, plucked one out and placed it into her mouth. Flicking open the lighter, she lit the cigarette and took a deep suck. The familiar taste of mint and nicotine went a long way to settling her nerves; she exhaled slowly, blowing a small cloud of smoke into the air.
She puffed on the cigarette until there was nothing left to puff, then flicked it aside and turned to her sandwich and milk and started studying the newspaper. Her release wasn’t the top story for the day: that honor went to Mayor Margaret Mare’s preparing for her reelection run as mayor of Ponyville next year, replete with promises to rejuvenate the economy and combat the crime rates.
“Same shit, different day,” Daring muttered to herself, turning the page and scanning the rest of the paper. A brief article about some unusual suicides being investigated by the local police caught her eye, but she passed it over. She paused to study the weather patterns for the week: it would be raining on and off all day and tomorrow, but the rest of the week would be clear.
She finished the paper at the same time that she finished her sandwich. Wiping off her face with the napkin, she settled back onto the bench, lighting a fresh cigarette. Her thoughts turned to planning out her next move.
The acid in her stomach bubbled up as she remembered how everypony in that deli had glared at her when she entered. She glanced down at her hoof again. The brand was still there, mocking her. In their eyes—in the eyes of everypony in this city—she was a thief and a killer, and would never be anything more than a thief and a killer.
So if that’s what they wanted, then maybe she should just go back to being a thief…
The wind danced beneath her wings, and she shook herself out of that thinking. No. She hadn’t spent a year behind bars just to end up back there. Fuck them all: she’d prove them wrong.
But her spirits sank as fast as they rose. Who would employ her? For a moment, she tried to imagine herself working at some menial job: a cashier at a grocery store or a delivery pony. The mental image made her stomach twist in revulsion.
She suddenly remembered the card that Officer Guide had given her. She plucked it out of her pocket and studied it.
Phillip Finder, Private Detective
No Adultery, Divorce or Family Dispute Cases
221 Honeybee Bakery Street, Ponyville
She contemplated her options while sucking down on another cigarette. A PI might not have been her first choice, but it would certainly be better than bagging groceries for a living.
With a grunt, she lifted herself up off the bench, tucking the newspaper under her foreleg—she’d want to get to the crossword later—and picking up the apple. But before she could take off, she spotted a small foal sitting against the wall of the building next to her, hunched over and shivering against the cold. The small earth pony was painfully skinny, his mud-stained coat clinging to his bones. A small pan sat next to the colt, a few coins sitting in the bottom of it.
With a small sigh, Daring dropped her apple into the pan. The colt looked up at her and gave her a grateful smile. She nodded back and took off into the sky, heading towards Honeybee Bakery Street. She flew at a leisurely pace over the city, lighting up her third cigarette to keep her nerve steady as she glided over the city.
Honeybee Bakery Street was a wide paved road in the middle of the city, branching off from the central plaza where City Hall and the Ponyville Police Department stood. Daring located Number 221 fairly quickly. It was a two-story blue cottage, small and unassuming amidst the other houses; the few ponies on the streets passed it by without a second look. The only thing that made it stand out was the sign over the door: a magnifying glass surrounded by the words “Phillip Finder: Private Detective.”
Daring landed in front of the cottage. She walked up and rang the doorbell, taking a final drag on her cigarette before flicking it away. She took in a deep breath and tried to calm herself.
A few seconds later, the door opened and she found herself face to face with a reddish-brown earth pony stallion. He looked to be in his later thirties, about the same age as her. His midnight black mane was long and untidy, the bangs hanging down over his stormcloud gray eyes; accents of silver ran through the black hair. He wore a pale gray short-sleeved shirt. His magnifying glass cutie mark matched the sign on the door.
“G’day,” he greeted her in a low, slow voice tinged with an Aushaylian accent. His eyes quickly scanned her over before settling on her eyes. “You’re Daring Do,” he observed.
She forced herself not to scowl. World’s greatest detective right here.
“I guess you saw my picture in the paper,” she said.
“Yes,” the stallion replied and held out his hoof. “I’m Phillip Finder. Officer Guide called ahead, said you might be coming in.”
Daring paused, blinking in surprise. There was no suspicion in his voice, no rudeness or anger. The tone of genuine respect was almost alien to her.
She reached out and shook his hoof. His grip was firm, but not hard: confident, with no sign of a need to assert dominance.
“C’mon in,” he said, stepping aside and allowing her to enter. She followed him inside, closing the door behind her. A coat rack stood next to the door: hanging upon it was a dark green fishing vest covered in pockets and a dark gray trilby with a black band. They walked down the short hallway to the sitting room.
The room was fairly spacious, with a pair of old couches sitting in front of a set of wide windows that currently displayed a wide view of the rainy street in the back of the cottage. A coffee table stood between the couches and a long, pale green sofa: a chess table, a book of chess openings, and a lime green bowler hat sat on the table. A great bookshelf leaned against the wall to the left, packed almost to bursting with books. Daring studied the titles. There was a smattering of fiction, mostly classics—The Count of Mare Cristo had a bookmark in it—but most of the books appeared to be science textbooks, covering virtually every subject under the sun. An entire shelf was devoted to criminology and forensics; another carried several notebooks. An old but highly polished saxophone sat next to the sofa.
On the far wall was a table covered in beakers, test tubes, bottles, and other chemistry equipment: a flask filled with a pale yellow liquid, an open notebook littered with tiny hoofwriting and a bunsen burner sat in the center of the table. On the floor next to the table was a record player, with a stack of records next to it—mostly jazz and blues, Daring noted. A hallway led to a combination kitchen and dining room.
“So how do you know Guide?” Daring asked, taking in the room.
“I solved a case for him a while back,” Phillip replied, picking up the bowler hat and turning it over in his hooves. “His father was charged with murder.”
“And you got him off?” Daring asked.
“No,” Phillip replied. “I proved that he was a serial killer and got him sent to Clovenworth.” He tossed the hat over to Daring, who snatched it out of the air without flinching. “Nice reflexes,” he nodded. “Tell me about that hat.”
Daring raised an eyebrow and studied the hat. The lime green coloring clashed horribly with the light brown band. “It’s an ugly hat, that’s for sure,” she commented.
The corner of Phillip’s mouth twitched upwards. “It was left by a client who came in while I was out a few minutes ago. What can you tell me about him?”
Still unsure what she was supposed to be looking for, Daring started studying the hat more closely. A label on the inside read “Orange Slice.” Pale red-orange hairs clung to the interior of the hat. There was a small tear on the top of the hat, and marks on the back of the brim. The hat was stained wet from the rain.
“Um…” Daring muttered. “Well, it’s owned by some guy named Orange Slice. He has reddish-orange hair, looks like he’s balding from the amount of hair in here. It’s an old hat; there’s a tear in the hat here, so he doesn’t really care about repairing the hat—or about keeping it, so he’s not sentimental.” She tossed the hat back to Phillip. “Is this a test or something?”
“Learning opportunity,” Phillip replied, walking over and holding the hat up. “Mr. Slice isn’t balding, he recently had a haircut. Notice the smooth lines on the hairs here. He’s out of shape, too: the interior of the hat is covered in sweat, even though it's almost fall and it's been cool for a week. These marks on the back of the brim are teeth marks; he’s picking the hat up with his mouth, which means he’s not a unicorn. And he's got crooked incisors, too.
"This loose gap in this band means that he held something in it: probably matches, which means he’s a smoker. And see these patches?” He pointed to a set of three patches on the hat. “He’s had this repaired thrice within...hmm, a couple years, yet neglects this obvious tear. Those repairs probably cost more than the hat did, so this meant something to him once, but now he doesn’t care about it.” He set the hat down. “Mr. Slice was rich at one point—this hat would’ve been fairly expensive when it was in fashion fifteen years ago—but he’s lost most of his money.”
Daring blinked at Phillip several times. “You can tell all of that from a hat?” she asked.
“Fair dinkum,” Phillip replied. “All it takes is a close eye for detail and plenty of practice.” He glanced at his cutie marks. “Suppose I’ve got a bit of an advantage, though.”
Daring stared at him for a while longer, then nodded. “Impressive.”
Phillip cocked his head. “You really think so?”
“Yeah,” Daring said. “You did miss something, though.”
“What?” Phillip asked.
Daring smirked. “He’s obviously not very social,” she said. “You think anypony wearing a hat like that would go out in public often?”
Phillip blinked once, then a small grin flickered across his mouth.
At that moment, the doorbell rang. “That’s probably our bloke now,” Phillip said, returning to seriousness. “Take a seat, Daring. It’s time to get to work.”
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Nice. I can tell I'll be enjoying this.
8173539 I hope you do!
8173615 Definitely not for kids.
Lets see how it goes. I understand the guards I do not understand the Landlord.
Obviously Daring Do arranged to keep her rent paid or something to assume she'd still have a home when she was released. Blackballing her OK a bit mean but understandable and sadly what alot of people would do, regardless of the fact Daring served her time. Selling Daring's property which wasn't abandoned is could be considered theft.
The Newspaper headline which is probably sensationalism in part implies Daring wasn't just a thief but a traitor in some manner
So the world goes out of it's way to make Daring feel like crap. And people in a city like that are concerned for a thief and a killer? Jeez. Talk about a soft crowd.
As for the depiction of tobacco. Let me tell ya something, it's not a relaxant it's a stimulant. Tobacco despite the horrible health risks helps keep the mind and the senses sharp.
It's good to focus, but not very good to relax or calm nerves. It helps calm the nerves of those already addicted to the nicotine, but that is only because of the anxiety that comes with withdrawal.
My grandfather was a heavy smoker, and father told me that he was a Light Machine Gunner during WWII, according to dad Grandpa had once told he often smoked before, and while he was in a FOX HOLE, he ate cold coffee paste that he made because it was a bad Idea to start a fire to make actual coffee, and smoked to stay awake during the long hours waiting for the Japs to try an take his head.
Sorry... Point is that tobacco makes you more nervous.
Also, I see that you watch Sherlock.
Oh, and one more thing. There is a difference between a Hard-boiled Detective Tale, and a Great Detective Tale. And while both can intersect in some maters, there is a crucial difference. You want to know what it is? It's the loneliness, and the death. Hard-Boiled fiction dives into the gutters of society, giving view to the lives of those not living in the higher middle class or wealthy classes. It's often accented by a sort of melancholy, one of an environment where misery is the grim reality rather than the main driving force behind the detective actions.
Daring wasn't going to become a thief again, right out of leaving her cell. She had a clean opportunity right out of prison, a sliver of some hope. The thought wouldn't have crossed her until she was at point where she was starting to feel hungry, or she felt like vengeance was an option in a mind wallowing in despair.
In the end, let's see where this goes.
8173716 Okay, that's good to know.
Despite the shortcomings of this story, I'm glad that you've given this a chance. I hope that you enjoy it!
i love how it feels like you are supporting yourself in the author's notes in the end.
So is this Daring Do different from the canon version? She's not even an author who's gone on several crazy adventures?
8173824 Everything and everyone is vastly different from canon. That's why this is an alternate universe.
8173829 Okay. Just so you'll know, I've added this story to one of the FlashLight groups.
8173903 Very premature for that, friend.
I'm totaliy seeing all of this story in Black & White, like old time movie kind of deal. An intresting start. I'm defenetly curious as to how Daring earned the title "Turncoat Thief". Did she rat somepony out or somthing of the like? I guess I'll have to wait and see.
Also that landlord is a great big pile of wyvern dung.
8174026 Indeed she is.
8173721 I peruse all kinds of mystery fiction. It helps give me ideas.
And how did Rainbow Dash feel about this?
8180074 They haven't met yet. This is a very different alternate universe.
Okay, now I'm very curious about this version of Daring. What the Hell happened to her and what did she do to make her land in prison? Also, love the gag about Phil's hat, considering it was one of his original items first go around.
Is it original? You said it yourself. But "there is nothing new under the sun." No shame in that.
Is this interesting nonetheless? ...I think so. I enjoyed this chapter. You are obviously working hard at this story. You have my attention.
I have a minor criticism in how presenting investigative detail was handled. This particular juxtaposition seems redundant:
To my eye, it would have been better to simply had Daring relate the details directly in dialogue, given the close third-person perspective you seem to be aiming for in this story. Still, this is minor, and I look forward to reading more when the opportunity presents itself.
-Foxmane
8326658
I appreciate the thought! I'll take that criticism into advisement. I hope you enjoy!
8180254
But if they did meet. It would be like this.
Along with previous paragraphs....
Is this a Sherlock reference?
8236574
You and me both....
Alright, you got my upvote on a Sherlock scene.
8905619
Yay, the 70th like! Thank you! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story!
Good shit, will be a fun read I imagine.
8996581
I certainly hope that you enjoy it!
Okay. First off, holy shit dude. The amount you wrote on this is respectable. Seriously. One hundred thousand words took me a month, without proofreading. Second, this is actually pretty good. I do enjoy reading. This is... well, you said it ain't original. Who gives a damn? If you take your own spin on it and it comes out as a good piece, then, yeah, maybe not the most original, but as long as it's a good read, then I read it. Respect.
poor daring do......
This is throwing me off becuase I've read the actual Sherlock Story.
Wasn't it with the diamond with the geese?
9471845
I believe so, yes. So glad to meet a fellow Sherlock lover!
Hm, Sherlock Holmes...ugh. As much as I love Conan Doyle's work...still, it's a bit unoriginal. But hey, I am enjoying it so far...that counts for something, eh?
I am reading this with the theme on loop
Is it weird that I read this with L.A Noire music
Either way, I'll admit, you've got me hooked. Now *adjusts hat* lets do some reading.
9727011
Glad that you like it and the theme! I hope you enjoy!
9956950
Not at all! I hope you like it!
9321344
This is... well, you said it ain't original. Who gives a damn? If you take your own spin on it and it comes out as a good piece, then, yeah, maybe not the most original, but as long as it's a good read, then I read it. Respect.
My thoughts exactly, Shakespeare based his works on older stories, the Romans borrowed from earlier works, and so on. So if we want to judge by the logic of "originality," there is nothing new under the sun, or at least only a very small amount.
10474524
Thanks for the comment!
Finally getting around to reading this. Detective/noir isn't exactly my genre, but hey, I'm willing to give it a shot.
10777802
I hope you like it!
Well, time to call the cops, or a lawyer.
But she never does, does she...? Boy I wish protagonists would administer as much lawfare and administrative violence as they do literal violence.
Nero Wolfe (Rex Stout) had the same rules.
The address is, of course, a homage to Sherlock Holmes.