Sherlock And The Jewelled Bud

The door to 221B slammed shut behind Sherlock as the two ponies entered the flats. Shuffling could be heard from a room opposite the stairs which grew in an upward spiral a couple of metres away from the door. The sound of cups shaking on a tray grew closer as an old mare fluttered into the room. She blew her golden brown mane out of her eyes and paused when she noticed Sherlock had company.

"Oh, Sherlock you've got a friend." Watson saw that she was holding her dinner on a tray, though he couldn't work out whether or not she was struggling with it.

Sherlock didn't hear her and began heading up the stairs, leaving Watson unacquainted.

"Hello, I'm Dr Watson." He said kindly.

A loud sigh came from above Watson. He saw Sherlock exhibiting an unneeded look of agitation. "Mrs Hudson would you please stop holding up my colleague."

Watson wasn't sure if he should expected the sudden rudeness, but it seemed Mrs Hudson let it go for now.

"I'll bring up some tea." She meant well, though from the looks of her she could also stand her ground.

They both trotted upstairs into 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 squished together. Regardless of the mess Watson immediately fell in love with the place.

He had a wander around the large flat, inspecting the ancient wooden walls and the traditional stone fireplace in the living room while avoiding the kitchen after seeing a chemical cloud rising from a pot of purple liquid. He tested out the comfort of every chair and sofa, though concluded they were all fine after an enormous cloud of dust soared from a small, stained brown hoof-chair. Just before he continued he spotted Sherlock staring at something.

"What's wrong?" Watson asked when he noticed Sherlock had bent down to examine a 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 it was nothing. He passed through the kitchen with speed, ducking under the abnormally coloured smoke, to check out the rooms back there. A chilly draft waved in from the master bedroom,  however before he could take another step a masked figure pounced from the shadow of the door, catching him off guard. In a matter of seconds Watson was on the floor with the hooves of a pony dressed in black around his neck.

"Watson be careful. I think somepony's here." Sherlock warned, shouting from the other room unaware of Watson's current situation.

His eyes watered as he tried to shout back to Sherlock, but he couldn't break free of the assassins grasp.

"John?"

With a hard push off his back he kicked up with his back legs and luckily hit the assassin's belly, sending him flying backwards against one of the counters in the kitchen. A number of pots to crashed down onto the floor, one thumping the assassin on the head as he sat there in a doze.

"Sherlock!" He 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.

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

"Well they were all out of clowns. Who are you?" Sherlock spat, pinning him against the floor. The detective ripped off the stallions mask to reveal a grey pony, his mane darker than his coat. "Come on, what's your name?"

The grey pony was still in the middle of a coughing fit and Sherlock wan't making it any easier for him to recover. "Pine Breeze" was the name they managed to retrieve, though Sherlock still wasn't happy.

"John, get me some tape. It's in the third drawer." Sherlock ordered, looking over at a wooden chair.

As Watson searched for the tape something occurred to him. "How do you know my name's John?" Even John didn't believe it was possible to deduce a first name. Once he found the grey masking tape he bent down next to Sherlock and helped him move their newly made prisoner.

First they tied each leg to the chair, then his neck to keep his head back. As they did this Sherlock gave his answer. "Lucky guess."

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

"What?" They had finished strapping Pine Breeze to the chair and now they were 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 shut it gently.

"J. Watson is what I read on your jumper tag. You're reluctant to give out your first name after all it's a bit odd around these parts but not non existent as its a fairly common name in Trottingham. Happy?" John returned to Sherlock's side and shook his head. "Lucky. Guess."

The thick brown floorboards nearly cracked as John stomped in frustration. "Damn your lucky guess." He took a few breaths and tried to calm himself down "Just, don't tell anypony else it, please?"

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." John gave a thankful nod of his head. "Now to Pine Breeze. You're a gardener hired to kill me." Both John and Pine Breeze wondered how he found that out, so without another thought Sherlock explained. "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. What is the date?

John went over to a calender above the fireplace and read "Thirteenth of December."

Once again Sherlock was pacing, though now he reached each end of the room. "Why would anypony be cutting grass at this time of year?"

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

In any case Sherlock wasn't without concern. "No, no there's not enough money in it for a pony to make a living on, especially since most ponies take it into their own hooves when it comes to gardening. Now we have a motive, you needed money."

John was shocked. If this pony's motive was needing money surely then this pony couldn't be the murderer. "So this pony isn't the murder?" 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. 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 her tray upright to the advantage of Sherlock as she was ready to thrust boiling liquid all over him. 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 fluttered in and placed the tray onto the only empty table in the room. Her cutie mark was of two bluebirds facing one another. The first sang while the other held a key in it's 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?"

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, so she rushed out to do as asked. Sherlock took a sip of his tea and continued the interrogation.

"You've been hired to kill me, but by whom?" The killer had said 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 he head, and to further add to the reasoning Sherlock added "Even if he could it wouldn't matter, we wouldn't get what we want. He hasn't been sent here to kill us. He's a warning."

"From who?" John sounded quite worried now. "The murderer?"

Sherlock yawned and stepped over to the window. "Could be. Ah, the guards are here. Celestia there useless. How long did it take them to arrive at the crime scene earlier when somepony had died, yet when there's an attempt they rush over at the speed of sound?"

Watson had stopped listening at 'guards'. He was thinking over who else but the killer would want Sherlock dead. Then it struck him. What criminal didn't want him dead?