Fever Dreams

Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of man that was surprised very often. His deductive abilities were the stuff of legend, and there existed few people out there who could even have a chance of matching wits with the man. So it was that his ever faithful assistant was rather surprised when the detective walked out of the museum, and immediately pulled out his pipe.

“That bad?” Watson inquired.

The detective said nothing, merely digging out a packet of tobacco while watching the police officers scurry about. The cordon they had set up was working well, and though there remained a few curious gawkers, they kept their distance. At least now they had been dispersed enough to allow motor car traffic to resume as normal.

A long silence hung over them and only after Holmes had a chance to fill his lungs with smoke did he finally speak.

“I’m afraid it's rather straightforward actually. Yet this entire situation vexes me,” the detective admitted.

“So there is something strange about it then? You don't think-” Watson began, only to be interrupted.

“Definitely not. We need not worry about him this time around,” Sherlock remarked, taking another puff. “Though we certainly have someone unusual on our hands.”

“Another strange rogue, why at this rate you could open a whole gallery of them,” Watson remarked.

The detective shook his head. “I don't think this particular neerdowell will be picked up by the scotland yard. Rather I think the local pound may be involved.”

“The pound?” Watson asked, eyebrows raised.

“Come, let me show you,” Sherlock exclaimed, tapping out the remnants of the tobacco onto the street before proceeding inside.

The ever faithful Watson followed close behind the detective as they made their way back into the museum. Only to come to a stop just outside the reception area, which was now devoid of activity, and was mostly empty. Before Watson could begin to question what his partner was up to, the man in question bent down behind the large oak desk.

“Look here. Do you see that?” Sherlock pressed, pointing to a grate in the wall.

“It's a vent, looks rather loose as well,” Watson replied, leaning down next to the other man. “Much too small for anyone save for a child to get through though.”

“Or a small animal,” Sherlock added.

“I suppose,” Watson reluctantly agreed. “You don't think someone has trained a dog to steal jewels though, do you?”

“I’m not sure what to think anymore,” Sherlock remarked before standing once more. “Our next clue is in the roman exhibit.”

“Which is right next door to where the Creamcake ruby was going to be displayed,” Watson inferred.

“Indeed,” Sherlock exclaimed before walking away once more.

As they walked through the museum Watson studied his friend curiously, noting his furrowed brow, and tense jaw. It was rare to see the man so out of sorts over a case like this, especially since he had apparently already figured it out. Watson’s thoughts went back to some of their more hair raising adventures, noting that even when facing down certain death Sherlock remained relatively unfazed by the entire affair.

“Here,” stated the detective, who pointed to a confectionary stand that rested between the roman exhibit and the heavily protected wing containing the more expensive items.

Watson raised an eyebrow at the rather strange point to stop at, but chose to humour the man regardless. Walking around the small wheeled cart, Watson noted that everything seemed to be in order, at least on first glance. For out of the corner of his eye, the former army doctor saw what looked like pink hoof prints on the floor.

“Is that, cotton candy?” Watson inquired.

“It is, and it seems to have stuck to the hooves of our thief,” Sherlock remarked.

“Wait, you think a horse broke into the museum, and stole a priceless ruby out from under the noses of the guards?” Watson deadpanned.

“Remember what I always say. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains no matter how improbable must be the truth,” Sherlock stated confidently.

“Actually you don't really say that, and its actually a quote by the author-”

“Don't get meta Watson,” Sherlock retorted.

“Right, so a tiny horse then?” Watson continued.

“I believe it to be some manner of trained miniature show pony,” Sherlock continued, pressing a finger into the dried cotton candy on the ground. “One likely raised by an individual with quite the sweet tooth. Or at least that's what my first assumption was.”

“It would explain why it took a bit of a break,” Watson added.

“There is more,” Sherlock continued, the man wiping his finger on his coat before walking into the next wing of the museum.

Where a large sign proudly declared the showing of the world’s largest emerald, as well as the Creamcake ruby, though that advertisement was in much smaller print. Upon entering, Watson looked around, noting that none of the other glass cases had been damaged or removed. Unlike the one sitting off to the side, which had been placed beside its stand.

“Why steal only the Creamcake ruby?” Watson suddenly blurted. “It's by and large the least expensive item in the room.”

“I’m not wholly certain,” Sherlock admitted after a short pause. “What I do know for certain is that our mystery horse seems to possess an almost unnatural dexterity.”

“Which explains how it got through the lock, disabled the alarm, and left behind a rock that looks to be about the same weight as our missing ruby,” Watson explained.

“Exactly,” Sherlock stated firmly. “This pony apparently had the manual dexterity to manipulate a lock smith’s tools and the sense to know exactly how to evade detection.”

“That's impossible,” Watson deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest. “A trained pony, okay that's plausible at least but all the rest of that? No way. It had to have let someone in.”

“All the doors were locked, were untampered with, and had been untouched,” Sherlock pointed out.

The other man sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Okay fine. So we have a magical pony with a penchant for sugar as well as theft. How do we find them?”

“A magical, fully sentient pony with a penchant for sugary treats,” Sherlock corrected. “And I don't believe we will have to do any searching whatsoever.”

Watson sighed deeply, closing his eyes tightly. “I am going to need so much opium when this is all over.”

The clack of something metal hitting the ground prompted both men to look down to where a screw rolled across the floor. A second joined shortly thereafter before a familiar grate fell open, revealing a pink pony with a curly mane, bright blue eyes, and a trio of balloons on her flanks. She was also missing a tooth and had a slightly swollen jaw which she rubbed briefly before trotting over to the display case.

Watson stood there with his jaw hanging open while Sherlock merely observed the pony as she walked over to the case. Once there, she pulled the Creamcake ruby, from her mane, and hopped up, exchanging it for the rock. She then replaced the top of the display, before pulling out a pair of golden coins from her hair.

“Here, for the cotton candy,” she murmured sadly in perfect english.

Sherlock nodded, and reached down, taking the coins out of her hoof. “Thank you for returning the gem.”

“Sorry for taking it,” murmured the pony. “I couldn't help but want to free the poor slice of cake from its prison, but probably should have read the fine print.”

“Have you learned your lesson?” Sherlock pressed.

The pony nodded her head. “Yes sir.”

“Good, now you had best get back to wherever you came from before someone sees you,” Sherlock continued.

The pony smiled faintly. “Thank you mister. Say, when’s your birthday?”

“January sixth,” Sherlock replied, lifting an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I’ll see you then mister Holmes!” The pink pony declared before giving the man a salute and vanishing back into the grate.

Watson blinked, and looked from the grate, to the detective and back again. “What just happened?”

“I believe I just reprimanded a magical talking horse for taking something that wasn't hers,” Sherlock replied simply. “Either that or I’m still tripping on morphine and your likely nothing more than a coat rack that rather smells like Watson.”

The other man frowned, and after a long moment of silence, cleared his throat. “Would you like to join me at the local den?”

Sherlock sighed, and clasped the other man around the shoulder. “Doctor John Watson, I thought you would never ask.”

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