Sherclop Pones and the Adventure of Pinkie's Cupcakes

by A Sherlockian Brony

Chapter 1: Mr. Sherclop Pones

It was, as I remember, the third week of April during the first year of my association with Pones. The bright rays of the sun had shown down upon the streets of Canterlot. From the Monday to the Saturday, there had been a perceivable idleness of criminal activity—much to my friend’s dismay. As a remedy to this boredom in which his ever-active mind deems an intellectual disease, he had to search for other forms of mental stimulus to act as an alternative to his usual private sleuthing.

The first day Pones had spent cross-indexing his huge book or reference. In the second he had spent it reading a volume entirely consisting of various biographies of the greatest criminal minds that had once plagued Equestrian society. On the third, he spent it on reading a treatise upon the subject of criminal psychology. On the fourth and fifth he had been patiently occupied upon a subject which had recently made his hobby—the music of the Pre-Equestrian period, and had played the compositions from that period on his violin, its sweet and melancholic sounds resonating across the flat for hours on end which even reach till the break of dawn (much to our landlady’s frustration). Though, in spite of these beautiful melodies, I can’t help but feel that my friend was in the brink of a nervous breakdown from this depravation of the profession in which he mainly takes his pleasure in. But when, for the sixth time (that is on the Saturday), after pushing back our chairs from lunch we saw the bright rays of the sun of the spring season shining through the window-panes and the continuous absence of consulting clients, my comrade’s impatient and active nature could endure through this drab and monotonous existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his hooves, tapping impatiently upon the furniture, and chafing against inaction. Then, with an exhalation of frustration, he turned to me.

“Anything of interest in the paper, Watcolt?”

I was aware that by anything of interest, Pones meant anything of criminal interest. I then picked up the latest edition of the day’s paper from the floor and proceeded to recite its contents. There was the news of an upcoming royal marriage in which had been scheduled take place in the next few days or so; but these did not come within the horizon of my companion. He had merely let out a dry laugh.

“My dear Doctor,” said he, shaking his head disapprovingly. “as you may have forgotten, events such as that do not come in my line of profession, not unless a very serious crime were to be committed in that wedding, to which then and only then shall I be interested. Otherwise, I shall not pay an ounce of heed. Perhaps you should discuss these trivialities to the likes of the Yard or the Club, for that is more in their line than mine.”

“What would interest you, then?” said I, vainly attempting my best to cheer him up. “You clearly need something to lift your spirits, my dear fellow! Perhaps an afternoon ramble, or a visit to the Museum?"

Pones shot a glare at my direction.

“A crime, Watcolt.” said he, waving a long, impatient hoof. “Either it be case of robbery, forgery, blackmail, or—” A mischievous twinkle shined in those thin grey eyes in which I knew so well. “a murder..."

He paused in a languid tranquility. He then continued.

"No, my dear fellow; I have grown tired of these recent days of inactivity. The days of the great cases are past. The criminal has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency of recovering lost lead pencils, or laying superficial interest in some royal wedding. I think that I have touched rock bottom at last, however—” he scoffed. “—this dead monotony is simply intolerable!”

But I could see nothing recorded in the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Pones groaned and resumed his restless meanderings. “The Equestrian criminal is certainly a dull fellow,” said he in the querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. He then teleported to the bow-window and, in the similar fashion of a hawk, proceeded to pry upon the beings below.

“Look out this window.” said he, miserably. “See how one walks about, ignorant of the dangers that lurk unbeknownst to them. The thief or the murderer could roam Canterlot on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim, whence shall he blend amongst the bushes once more.

“Look at this young stallion, Doctor—” he continued, motioning me towards him. “what do you make of him?”

Acquiescing, I thus endeavored to apply the methods in which he is so famous for upon the specimen below us. He was an Earth Pony, with a clean-shaven face, flaxen mane. Adorned upon his head was a shiny top hat; by which, below these, were a pair of gleaming green eyes like that of a cat, with a golden pince-nez in front of them. He wore a very fine grey tweed suit with a golden breastpin pinned to it, and had, mounted upon his back, a saddlebag which I had observed to contain a lady’s dress which sparkled by the noon sun. He walked with a refined stride so characteristic of the Equestrian gentlecolt; yet this delicateness had been, to a certain extent, marred by his perspired appearance, as his proud chest seemed to heave at every stride, and his forehead drench itself in profuse perspiration.

“I see nothing.” I confessed, conceding in the attempt.

“On the contrary,” said Pones. “you see everything, but you, however, fail to observe—you are too timid to draw inferences from the information presented before you.”

I scoffed my asperity.

“What do you see, then?”

Pones had assumed the air of the scholarly professor who addresses the intricacies of his study before his eager students. He heaved a forlorn sigh, while his stern eyes dreamily lingered upon the meandering pedestrian. He then chuckled.

“I too know nothing,” said he. “besides from the obvious facts that he is an individual of a considerable amount of fortune; engaged in a relationship with a lady of rather expensive taste; works for my brother; and an asthmatic.”

I laughed incredulously.

“Of course,” said I; “there is surely an absurdly simple explanation on how you came to these conclusions; though, until now I confess, I fail to see how you did so.”

“Regard his eyewear—his pince-nez, what is it made of? It’s gold! I have read articles that elaborated on the certain shimmer which gold yields when subjected to the rays of the sun such as what we are bearing witness to. You can have my word that this fine fellow wears something of such delicate and wealthy refinement. With this, therefore, it is safe to presume that he is a pony of fortune for one that is not cannot possibly afford to purchase a golden pince-nez. His suit too, further corroborates this notion, as I perceive it to be a Saddleworth.”

“How about the relationship?”

“Equally childish; he has in his bag, as you may observe, a lady’s dress—a dress which is not commonly found among the working class. It is quite expensive, as you may perceive, for it is lined with gems. It may, however, be for some other individual to whom he is affectionate. It could be for his sister, cousin, mother, aunt, or some other feminine relative or associate. But the fellow is young and handsome; it is very much within the realms of reality for he to attract the members of the fair sex...under the light of the pretense of romance, shall we say. Thus, this certain string of logic stands out more than the rest. Only an inquiry upon this fellow's character, however, shall settle our doubts to rest: an endeavor in which, at the present moment, we cannot dispense. ”

“How about the acquaintance with your brother?”

“Ha! His breastpin—it is only worn by the most elite members of dear Myclop's organization—the trademark symbol of the Caballus Club: the outline of an umbrella. Curious folk, I tell you; very curious indeed. They meddle with the most curious of affairs." He gave a pause; "Though, I wonder why is he here..." He then waved off whatever incredulity he had in his mind with a growl. "Pish-posh..."

“And the asthmatic trait—how you did you deduce that?”

“In glancing over the state of his clothing, I observed that crystalline silica could be found upon his clothing. Where does one receive such stuff? From a construction site, for it is found in materials such as concrete, masonry, and rock. I have had the advantage of knowing Canterlot like the back of my hoof to deduce that trait. I am, as you may now know, always updated on the ongoing constructions on each and every street of this great city of ours. Now, I know a diner that is being constructed not far from here—in Prancington Street, which is where, I believe, you had set up your medical practice, Doctor. The state of his clothes suggests he hasn’t departed from his place of residence that long, for they are still neatly pressed and ironed: no doubt conducted by his sweetheart; yet he is panting as if he had participated to run in a marathon, thus showing signs of irregular breathing in which could only be found on the asthmatic: signs in which we are bearing witness to.”

“How absurdly simple!” said I, vaguely kicking the wall.

Pones glared at me with a rather annoyed look.

“The world is full of obvious things which nopony by any chance ever observes, my good Doctor.” said he blandly, as he continued watching the dozens of figures below us. “Either it be the dirt found on the stallion's hooves, or the scent emitting from the fashionista's mane, or even the tiny speckle of dust found upon one’s clothing; these tiny details—these seemingly insignificant trivialities—their being observed could decide the fate of a people. Remember that, Doctor, remember that; it is mathematical law!—Halloa, halloa! What do we have here?”

A mare of common bearing (a countrymare, no doubt, judging from her clean, unassuming features which is so unlike to those of the metropolitan vagabond): with blonde mane done in a sort of haphazard ponytail, and a cloud-grey coat had just crossed the street in an almost daze-like state, whence she had been examining the brass name plates posted upon the wall below our flat.

“Who is she, Pones?”

A sharp ring was heard behind us, which preliminarily heralded the entrance of the mare. Sherclop Pones then rubbed his long, thin, nervous hooves furiously together; a massive grin unfurling upon his staunch, aquiline features.

“Do you not see, my dear Watcolt? Examining the brass plates--perspiration upon her hair and face--the ringing of the doorbell--surely it is obvious! The fair mare before us is undoubtedly the remedy to the harrowing ailment in which my poor, wretched soul is, as of the present moment, bearing subject to, known as mental stagnation; for she, my dear fellow, is a client!”

Comments

[StormFox]

You dear sir have earned an applause. I always enjoyed Sir A.C.D's works as a child and to see it not only well written, but also kept in the spirit of Sherlock, you've have my respect. I will surely be keeping an eye on this one and future stories you may come up with.

[A Sherlockian Brony]

11324047
Why, thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it! I too am a big Sherlockian

[BirdsBooksBrownies]

11324487
I grew up with books on the world's greatest detective, so I hope you can make this a good balance between Sir A. Doyle and pony, which from my own meager attempts at such crossovers can be a challenge.

[A Sherlockian Brony]

118212
Glad to know a fellow Sherlockian ! As this was my first shot at a Holmes x FiM crossover, do expect the natural blemishes here and there; but I made sure to regard an intricate equilibrium of the two medias in which we are both fond of. Hope you enjoy it