Sherlock Holmes (and unwanted Co.): The Ripper Dressed In Black

London

Jack breathed in the chilly air, he expelled the biting cold air from his lungs. It was winter, a dry winter, the Weather Pegasus team is delayed with the white lava they call snow. Jack hated snow worse than he hated her, it was just like her. Cold, unforgiving, beautiful, and numbing. Thank Luna for no snow, or Jack might loose it.

Jack was outside. Hunting.

Jack didn't know how to feel tonight.

If he could feel anything at all anymore.

It just seemed like everything he wore was hotter than the summer sun, it just felt heavier than normal. He was dressing locally, fashionably indistinguishable from the next Englishstud. A black suit with a black tie with a matching dress coat, helps hide his identity. To top it off, a short top hat.

Jack shuffled his coat closer to him as a sharp wind blows over, his hooves ominously clipping and clopping against the cobblestone.

clip clop... clip clop... clip clop... clip clop

Jack saw her finally, after weeks of searching.
There she was.

She was so beautiful...
A tannish pelt, brown mane in a curly ponytail, and her tail swaying back in forth.

She disgusted him.
She was what you call a prostitute.

She soils her own body for the pleasures of others, for a few coins.
She's impure.

Jack closed in.

Her emerald eyes widen at his presence, her ears twitched.
Jack removed his knife from it's scabbard.

She turned towards him, make up carefully done on her face.
Her eyes pulsed with fear.

Her mouth curled downwards, her jaws parted, she was going to scream.
Jack held his knife in his teeth, and he launched forward.

He knocked her down and pinned her down.
Jack flipped her on her belly.

Jack moved his knife to his hoof.
He pulled her hair upwards, she squealed in pain and cried in fear.

Jack grimaced in disgust.
He began to carve her neck.

Ponyville

Sherlock seemed to have lost focus, the world around him became fuzzy and blurry. The voices of those around him distorted, slurred, and ignored by the vigilante detective. This train ride was WAY too long for the detective's taste, and it was for some bullocks like meeting the princess for tea. Not everyone has tea with the Princesses, espically some vigilante detective like Sherlock Holmes.

Lost in thought, for the fifth time it seems.

This was unusual, as the detective is usually on alert and focusing on every detail there is imaginable. The detective wasn't sluggish, or tired, or drunk, or drugged. It was... something he couldn't explain, indescribable like a bad feeling or the perfect picture.

It was a horrible feeling to have, because it drives Sherlock's mind away from reality.

Sherlock slumped back into his seat, his eyes focusing again. His hooves were resting on the armrest of his seat and his hindlegs bucking the seat in front of him, much to the displeasure of the business mare ahead of him. No matter how many times she snapped at him, or threatened to get him kicked off the train, or worse, Sherlock was persistent in bucking her seat. Just to spite her.

A sharp hit to Sherlock's belly causes him to sit up straight and glare at the assailant, otherwise known as his partner.

"Seriously Sherlock, give her a rest," Watson, or John, growled. "She looks like a busy mare."

John was anything but your average pony,

"Well that's a problem!" Sherlock groaned, his midnight blue wings ached from being folded for hours. "I'm not! I'm bored! I wanted to fly there, but no, you wanted to show up on time."

"Sherlock, we would have been ahead of their schedule," John rolled his eyes, trying to keep it simple for Sherlock. "We could be punished for showing up too early!"

"That sounds better than being stuck on this bloody train ride." Sherlock crossed his forelegs across his chest, his cheeks puffed out. "I would rather solve theft cases than sitting around collecting dust!"

"It's not that bad, Sherlock," John sunk his face in his hooves in frustration, "It's just a couple of hours now."

"HOURS?!"

Sherlock's voice rang throughout the train cart, making various of passengers look behind them and stare at the dual.

"Sherlock, if you yell again on this train, I swear to Celestia..." John's hushed warning made even more eyes stare at the two, John's cheeks flushed red and sunk his head into his shoulders in an insecure attempt to hide away from the prying eyes. "Nevermind, just keep it down,"

"You literally have been summoned to appear in front of the princesses, how is that not exciting?!" John had stars in his eyes.

"When it cuts into the time where I can be solving crimes, you know?" Sherlock retorted, "Why didn't they just send a chariot?"

"Well, the chariots are usually for VIPs..." John began, pleased to have Sherlock asking a question that wasn't twisting his brain into spaghetti for once.

"And hella expensive," quipped Sherlock, "Also, that was a rhetorical question."

"Asshole."