London.

A cold, cold town at night.

It was a foggy night, she could hardly see the houses without squinting her dull green eyes. She usually works at this time of night, her profession was hardly one to be proud of, but it brings in the bits and keeps the food on the table. A lot of stallions have been looking for an escort lately, ever since uniting with the Celestial Empire; the prohibition on alcohol has been appealed and everyone could drink to their heart's content.

Her ear twitched.

She was sure she heard something sharp scrape against a woody texture, the hair on her neck stood on edge.

Her heart pounded.

She turned her head behind her, and there was a silhouette of a finely dressed stallion.

The moon shadowed his image, but something chilling reflected off of a shiny object in his mouth.

It was a butcher knife.

Sherlock hates working on petty theft, it's too easy to deduce the culprit. They leave all the arrows pointing at them, and all the evidence to disregard what they say.

However, Sherlock Holmes can never turn down a good homicide! Especially this series of slayings, they seem personal, yet, cold. These ladies are "workers", how harshly could they have treated this killer?
And these letters... they change in writing format but keeps the handwriting...
Maybe there's more than one ripper?

Sherlock Holmes usually has one rule: only John may assist him with a case. That understanding with the universe seems to collapse when the Princess assigns him a Formal Order of The Civilian Duties to assist a unicorn named Twilight Sparkle and her company.

Get some coffee, it's going to be a long night.