Tea And Bruises

The door to 221B slammed shut behind Sherlock as the two ponies entered the flats. Shuffling could be heard from a room just to one side of the stairs, which grew in an upward spiral a couple of metres opposite of the door. From inside came the sound of a teapot filling up with water and some cups being placed onto a tray with a clang.

"I'll bring up some tea." Shouted an old mare’s voice as she got everything ready. Her wooden door was open slightly, though she never appeared. Sherlock headed straight for the stairs, leaving his new companion completely unannounced.

Watson followed on though nearly bumped into Sherlock as he halted all of a sudden. “Don’t rush yourself!” He called into the room, leaning from the second step.

They both trotted upstairs onto the first floor. The whole building was very traditional on the inside, with wallpaper that was actually kind to the eye. Only one room resided on that floor, so without any further ado Sherlock unlocked the door and marched into his home, allowing Watson to soak it all in.

It was a room filled with boxes of books, papers, trinkets; pretty much the beginnings of a hoarder. Stacks of dusty collectables were stacked against each other, held up by the sheer weight of everything so squished together. Regardless of the mess Watson immediately fell in love with the place. It was just layers upon layers, much representing the shadowy personality of Sherlock.

He had a wander around the large flat, inspecting the ancient wooden walls and the traditional stone fireplace in the living room. A small mound of ash sat in the fireplace, though no signs of any recent use were apparent. There were no logs that Watson could see, while the fire poker looked so disfigured it could have been a veteran of some war. A chill ran down his spine as he swiftly realised how cold it was.

“We’ll have to get that fixed.” He muttered quietly, eyeing the bent fire poker. Sherlock noticed his remark, and the shudder that accompanied it.

“If you’re talking about the fireplace then leave it.” He remained near the doorway, watching Watson inspect the flat. “You’ll be surprised at how hot it can get in here when the right situation arises.” He said sternly, Watson taking that he was quite accustomed to the conditions of 221B Baker Street.

Hardly listening to what he was saying Watson stepped towards the kitchen; however as a yellow cloud rose from a glass tube of purple liquid he quickly jumped back and did a double take. “In the kitchen... really?” He said half in surprise and half annoyed, pointing at the unusual set up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, finally closing the door behind him. “The living room is for living, the bedroom for sleeping, and the kitchen for everything else.”

“The kitchen is for eating, not conducting experiments, Sherlock.” After receiving no response he tested out the comfort of a chair in the living room, facing the window right beside the fireplace. It sat opposite another chair, which, as Watson quickly found out, was actually in a safe, non hazardous state to sit in. As he planted his flank down a tornado of dust sprung like a jack in a box from the small, stained brown hoof-chair. With a few coughs he jumped back up, almost blaming Sherlock for his woe until he spotted Sherlock staring at something.

"What's wrong?" Watson asked when he noticed Sherlock had bent down to examine the dusty, overturned corner of the large red rug which spread across most of the room.

Sherlock didn't say a word back so Watson assumed he was once again blatantly ignoring him. Giving out the same treatment Watson exited the room and passed through the kitchen with speed, ducking under the abnormally coloured smoke. Apart from the laboratory in the middle of the kitchen lying on top of what should be the dining table, the kitchen looked pretty normal. Everything was there; the fridge, oven, plenty of no doubt empty cupboards serving no purpose other than aesthetics.

A chilly draft waved in from the master bedroom at the end of the short hallway. He wondered how Sherlock could survive in these conditions, and whether his cruel show to Pinkie Pie earlier had simply been due to his cold personality, rather than any spite. At that same time he noticed a second bedroom, though no signs of anypony residing there could be seen. There was a double bed, a wardrobe, and a pony behind the door.

Wait.

Before Watson could call out a figure pounced from the shadow of the door, catching him completely off guard. In a matter of seconds Watson was on the floor with the hooves of a pony dressed in black around his neck.

Slowly Sherlock lifted himself up from the ground, scanning the disturbance of the rug intently. “Watson, be careful.” He said far too quietly, thinking Watson was still in the room. “I think somepony's here." He warned before looking up and sighing as he saw Watson had left.

Watson’s eyes watered as he tried to shout back to Sherlock, but he couldn't break free of the assassins grasp. “Sshhh... gargh!”

Sherlock’s ears peeked as he listened carefully, almost gliding around the room to keep himself quiet. "John?"

His pupils began to dilate as the lack of air took its toll. With a last ditch attempt Watson bucked the attacker with the force of ten ponies, luckily hitting the assassin's belly and sending him flying backwards against one of the kitchen counters, narrowly missing the experiments. A number of dirty pots crashed down onto the floor, purposely neglected by Holmes, one heavy pot even thumping the assassin on the head as he sat there in a daze.

"Sherlock!" Watson yelled with a raspy voice, still recovering from being choked. Without delay Sherlock sped into the kitchen and whipped the assassin with a hard buck on the chin. Blood splattered against the white kitchen tiles as he coughed violently at the mercy of Sherlock and Watson.

Sherlock took a moment to check all of his science materials and test tubes were in their respective places, with nothing out of line. Behind him the masked felon twitched around and bobbed his head in pain, unable to recover fast enough to plan any sort of escape.

"Not exactly the welcome party I was hoping for." Watson said with a sarcastic tone, rubbing his sore throat.

Holmes turned to the attacker and looked over his body. "Well when I happened to visit the fancy dress store they were all out of clowns.” The detective ripped off the stallions mask to reveal a grey pony, his mane darker than his coat. “Looks like this one got the last mask... Who are you?!" Sherlock spat, pinning the captive against the floor. "Come on!” He yelled after no response, “What's your name?"

The grey pony was still in the middle of a coughing fit as Sherlock shook him around, trying to force the answer out of him. Watson was ready to intervene and check the pony was medically fit, at least enough not to fall unconscious at any time. He did not need to though as the faint words "Pine Breeze" slipped from the pony’s lips, though Sherlock still wasn't happy.

"John, get me some tape.” Watson rushed into the living room and searched around for a few seconds before looking lost. “It's in the third drawer." Sherlock ordered with a breath of agitation.

As Watson fished out the tape from the draw something occurred to him. "How do you know my name is John?" Even he didn't believe it was possible to deduce a first name, especially since he made an effort to keep it a secret. Once he found the grey masking tape he trotted back to their new prisoner and handed it to Sherlock, who tied up the pony’s hooves and covered his mouth.

Sherlock spotted his empty wooden chair next to his desk, just waiting for a new prisoner to sit on it. They carried Pine Breeze over and tied his legs to the chair’s legs, just as extra insurance that he wouldn’t get away. As they did so Sherlock gave his answer, even if it was dismissive. "Lucky guess."

John wasn't satisfied with that. Where was Sherlock's amazing explanation? "Rubbish!" He said bluntly.

"What’s ‘rubbish’?” Sherlock turned to Watson with a confused look. Pine Breeze was as secure as they could get him, and now they were just arguing in front of him.

The velvet curtains slid together as John concealed their prisoner from anypony in a position to look inside. "Surely you had something to go on?" He ran across to the door and made sure it was shut properly.

"I did say I read your jumper tag. ‘J. Watson’.” Again, Watson wasn’t convinced one bit. They were a million names he could think of beginning with ‘J’, and he’d start with the normal names first. With a sigh Sherlock continued. “Well, you're reluctant to give out your first name! I would say it is an odd name in these parts, but it’s definitely not non-existent in Trottingham. A common one there actually, I was knew a pony called Jeff. Happy?" John returned to Sherlock's side and shook his head, to which Sherlock looked up to the sky, praying Watson would stop his whining. "Lucky. Guess."

The thick brown floorboards nearly cracked as John stomped in frustration. "Damn your lucky guess!” Pine Breeze leaned back in fear, though Sherlock just watched him, staring at him with zero motion or emotion. Watson took a few breaths and tried to calm himself down "Just, don't tell anypony else it, please?" Watson shot a glance at Pine and riled himself up again. “I mean its bad enough some stranger who tried to kill me a few moments ago knows it!”

There wasn't much wrong with the name in Sherlock's opinion. After all, it's just a name isn't it? It won't help you solve crimes or anything like that. “I won’t.”

Watson breathed out in relief, though his ears poked up as the sound of cups shaking on a tray grew closer and closer. There was a knock on the door and Watson looked to Sherlock for an answer, though he got none as Sherlock’s attention was focused on Pine.

Without waiting for an answer an old mare creaked open the wooden door and fluttered into the room, holding a long tray with one cup of tea and a teapot balancing on it. She blew her golden brown mane out of her eyes and paused when she noticed Sherlock had company. "Oh, Sherlock you've got friends round.” She said, very bewildered and surprised.

Watson simply looked between them in his own confusion as she didn’t seem at all phased by the bloody pony strapped to a chair in front of them. She saw the third member of Sherlock's company, although she wouldn't be getting any tea for this one. Mrs Hudson wasn't a stupid pony, she knew what had happened down to the the blood running down Pine Breeze's chest.

“Excellent observation, Mrs Hudson, now please leave.” He said sharply, not giving her the time of day.

“I’ll leave the tea and bring another cup for your friend.” She said softly, placing the tray onto a small coffee table between the two hoof-chairs beside the fireplace.

Watson felt like he had better introduce himself, though really he hoped to learn more about Mrs Hudson. “I’m Dr. Watson.” He said with a big smile. The old Pegasus was the colour of tea itself, and her presence screamed motherly, something Watson felt immediately attracted too.

She almost squealed in joy. “Oh! Hello dear, I’m Mrs Hudson. I rent the rooms out. I’ll just go get another cup.” Well that explained it; she must have to put up with this sort of stuff all the time, if that is what happened all the time. He certainly didn’t hope so.

A loud sigh came from behind Watson. He saw Sherlock exhibiting an unneeded look of agitation. "That won’t be necessary Mrs Hudson, now would you please stop holding up my colleague?"

She jumped off and scuttled out of the room with a giggle. “One’s got two sugars, the other will have none. I can’t remember which-” She called as she halted outside the door, the floorboards creaking below her. John gave a thankful nod of his head.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock snapped, now wishing to get on with things.

She fluttered off down the stairs with a “Hum!”

"Now to Pine Breeze.” John said confidently, though still frowning at Sherlock for his treatment of the Landlady.

“Mmm... Not quite.” He sighed as Sherlock picked up the single cup of tea and handed it to Watson. “Do you take sugar?”

“No.” Watson took a sip and stuck out his tongue in disgust. “This one’s yours.”

The swapped cups and returned their attention to Pine Breeze. Watson let Sherlock take the reins, which instantly led to results. “You're a gardener hired to kill me." Both John and Pine Breeze gazed at Sherlock, wondering how he found that out so quickly. Sherlock looked at them both and grinned, like a child about to get some reward for answering a question. "What does he smell like, John?"

Reluctantly John took a whiff of the air around Pine Breeze and immediately he realised what Sherlock was getting at. "Cut grass." He said with confidence. With this Sherlock held up his hoof to reveal a couple strands of thin grass.

"These were in his mane.” Watson took a closer look, scooping up the grass himself. “What is the date today?”

Watson looked at Holmes as if he was stupid. “You can tell this pony’s a gardener but you don’t know the date?”

Holmes looked at Watson as if he was stupid. “Oh, sorry! I forgot the martial law in place for not knowing the date!”

John marched over to the fireplace in a huff, working out the current day. In truth he had lost track of the date over the last week or so. Beginning a new life could be time consuming, even if that time was spent on things other than a job. "Thirteenth of December." He read.

Sherlock started pacing, reaching each end of the living room though not stopping at the sofa. Instead he took a final step onto the black leather before turning and repeating his patrol. "Why would anypony be cutting grass at this time of year?" His tone seemed very sure the answer would be,’ why indeed?’

"There could be odd jobs here and there." John replied as he tried to recollect any place in Ponyville with long enough grass.

In any case Sherlock was without concern. "No, no there's not enough money in it for a pony to make a living on, especially in winter and especially since most ponies take it into their own hooves when it comes to gardening. Now we have a motive...” Sherlock moved himself right up close to Pine Breeze, to the point that their noses almost touched. “You needed money."

Pine Breeze’s reaction was all Sherlock needed to secure his point. The gardener lowered his eyes with a sullen glare to the floor. He was found out. John was shocked on the other hand. If this pony's motive was needing money then surely this pony was being paid to kill Sherlock. "So this murderer has been paid to kill three ponies, and to finish it off kill you so they’re never found?” He asked to clear up his suspicions.

Sherlock laughed at this question, thinking it ridiculous. "Of course not John. Why would a murderer who's used a knife to kill three ponies be here with nothing but his hooves?"

Maybe John had missed a detail but hadn't there been only one murder? Just as he was about to ask three knocks came from the door all of a sudden, with no sound from the stairs or floorboards. “Maybe the pony paying Pine Breeze wanted to make sure?” Watson said quietly to Sherlock.

Both ponies readied themselves to ambush whoever it was, hiding at each side of the door. It creaked open slowly and Sherlock let out a war cry. John hadn't bothered to attack as he saw who it was; Mrs Hudson. She let out a scream but managed to keep a grip on the cup she was carrying, much to the advantage of Sherlock as she was ready to smash it over his head. Luckily she was used to his antics.

She tutted at him for giving her such a fright. "Sherlock what on earth are you doing?!” She hovered in and placed the cup onto the tray, then continued to prepare a second cup of tea. Watson hadn’t noticed at first but her cutie mark was of two bluebirds facing one another. The first sang while the other held a key in its mouth. Her tan coat was fairly wrinkled but complimented with the colour of the mark.

"Sorry Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said back like a drained child to a teacher. "Thanks for the tea. Get the guards would you please?"

“Just a minute.” She said, practically ignoring his request. Instead she poured a small amount of milk and mixed it in. “Do you take sugar?” She asked Watson after noticing Sherlock had taken the tea for himself.

“No thanks.”

Once she finished she handed over the tea. “The guards.” Sherlock said, more or less commanding her. Watson blew on the brew and watched her wobble out of the flat in a hurry. Sherlock took a sip of his tea and continued the interrogation.

He tore the tape from Breeze’s mouth, leaving a raw red rash around his lips. "You've been hired to kill me, but by whom?” The criminal had tried to say very little since Sherlock hit him in the jaw and everytime he moved his mouth he would either wince or cry in pain. Watson had picked up on this.

"Can you speak?" Watson said with some concern. He received a shake of his head. Watson sighed. He was happy that the pony who recently tried to murder him wasn’t feeling any better, but they needed answers. Or at least, he himself did until Sherlock would no doubt spell it all out for him. “You’ve probably broken his jaw.” He noted after a small inspection. Though it sounded like Watson was disappointed at Sherlock for not controlling his strength there was a hint of smugness when he spoke.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock gazed out of the window, peeking through the blinds to watch Mrs Hudson flee to the station. “Even if he could speak, we wouldn’t be told anything new. He hasn't been sent here to kill us. He's a warning."

Watson peered at Sherlock, narrowing his eyes in frustration. “Did you say ‘he hasn’t been sent here to kill us’?”

Sherlock continued to scan the streets. “Yes.”

“Not five minutes ago that pony was choking me to death! How is that a warning?”

“He might have caught you off guard, but I had already deduced his presence by the time you were wrestling on the floor.” His breath steamed on the cold window glass, the temperature dropping so low that Watson noticed his own too.

Watson took a seat on the hoof chair he pretty much claimed as soon as he entered the room. He took a moment to stop himself from lashing out at Sherlock’s vainness, silencing himself through drinking his tea.

The ancient dust from the curtains spread out in the air around Holmes. He took a long yawn and poked his nose back into the room, seeing that Watson had sat down. “For an ex-military pony I would have expected your reflexes to be... I don’t know, sharper?”

“All right Sherlock.” He warned, wishing Holmes would stop with his cheek. “Who does he work for then?”

Sherlock yawned second time and sunk back into the curtains. "Could be the murderer, though I don’t see why. This pony is proof he is inept.”

“At what, the ‘murderer-hiring’ business?” Watson joked before he gulped down half of his tea.

Watson saw Holmes’ head move slightly towards him from behind the curtain. “Exactly that, actually.” He said before turning his view back outside. “It takes a murderer to know one, and a murderer can only spot experience either equal to his own or lesser.”

This was foolish advice. “How’d you figure that then?”

“Watson, I may not have lived in Ponyville for a great extent of time but my life has been dedicated to this line of work. Trust me; I know what I am doing.”

The room became silent for a few moments. Both ponies sipped their tea while Pine Breeze whirled in and out of consciousness. Or maybe he was just bored. Either way both he and Watson jumped when Sherlock suddenly flung the curtains out of his way with a shout.

“Ah! The guards are here.” He walked over to the door while lowering the volume of his voice. “Celestia there useless.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember how long it took them to arrive at the crime scene earlier?”

“An age.”

“Exactly. Yet when there's an attempt they rush over at the speed of sound!”

Watson took the oddity into account, but what really struck him was who had sent Pine Breeze. If it wasn’t their murderer, then who else would want Sherlock dead? Then it struck him.

What criminal didn't want him dead?