All right, ladies and gentlemen. This here is the first chapter of a brainchild of mine. I was flipping through fanfiction the other day, and I thought to myself, "You know, there isn't much legit mystery stuff on this site." And so I tried combining Pokémon and mysteries.

This is a spinoff of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It's set about forty years after N and Black fight their climactic fight in N's Castle. (From the games, so you know). In this fanfic, Black was actually defeated, N's ideals were "proven" correct, and he took over Unova and implemented his beliefs. Pokémon and humans are segregated for the most part, a little like pre-Civil Rights Movement America. Pokémon look down on humans, and the narrator is (at first) no exception. You'll see.

Anyway. I recommend you at least get an idea of who the characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, and Professor Moriarty are in the original Conan Doyle series. It'll help you understand all this. Oh. The chapter titles will all be little puns off the original names of the stories.

Enjoy!

The Great Detective

Chapter 1: A Study in FireRed

In light of recent events, I have decided to document the events of the last year or so. Was it a year already? It seems like that day was only last week… But my psychologist tells me this is normal. Time seems out of sorts after a disturbing incident like the one I had. I am writing this in the hopes of clearing my head and putting everything right. Mary has been wonderful, of course, but there is only so much she can do….I seem to be going round in circles, don't I? Ah, well. I shall cut to it.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr. John H. Watson, a Samurott captain in the recently disbanded 26th Brigade patrolling the moors of Icirrus. The Icirrus Insurrection was a long campaign that brought glory to many of my comrades, but held nothing but disaster for me. I got food poisoning frequently, had the misfortune of stepping into a Ferrothorn nest, and suffered many other hardships besides, but I did my best to push through them all. One day, my orderly, Murray, and I were scouting ahead in some northern corner of the Moors. All was quiet until quite suddenly we were ambushed by a group of Accelgor seeking to keep control of their native land. Utter poppycock, of course—their ideals were completely unfounded, as our King tells us—but I still took a Bullet Seed to the shoulder, fracturing the bone and damaging an important artery. Had it not been for the heroic efforts of my orderly, a Tympole named Murray, I would surely have fallen into the clutches of those murderous rebels. As it was, my shoulder was badly damaged, and I could not continue in combat. I was given a Silver Star, an ambiguous leave from the army, and a small military pension.

The lifestyle change did me good—I felt light as air, indeed—but my rather limited pension prevented me from living comfortably. Castelia City being as crowded as it is, PokéHotels cost quite a lot more than I was able to spend. I was forced to live in less than desirable conditions. I was in dire straits, if you want the truth, and was understandably quite delighted when my old friend Murray the Tympole showed up at my shack for a visit.

"Watson, old chap," he exclaimed, patting my wounded shoulder heartily. "How are you?"

I winced at his touch and pulled away a little. "Good, Murray, good, just… a little sore, eh?"

He beamed and pulled his tail off my wound. "Righto, sorry, sir. If you don't mind me saying, sir, this place is a dump." Murray looked around at my shack with a kind of fascination. It really was a dump, you know. The walls were pieces of scrap metal I salvaged from the Human Quarter, for Arceus's sake. Leaked like the devil, it did.

I grinned a little Mareepishly. "Yes, it is rather." I made an attempt to get Murray's attention off the mold in the corner. "But surely you haven't taken a leave of absence just to criticize my… ahem… temporary abode?"

Another happy look lit his face. "Indeed not, sir; on the contrary, I have come in an attempt to improve it." I looked up in surprise. Murray continued, "Yessir. While walking around Castelia, I noticed a little advertisement on a wall. Apparently, someone's looking for a person to share an apartment with."

He handed over a piece of good-quality paper. The words were neatly written in strong, bold characters. "Hmm…" I mused. "Quiet, studious in habits… Well-appointed apartment…" I took a glance at the mold in the corner. "By Jove, I think I'll do it."

Murray flopped his tadpole body in agreement. "If I may say so, sir, I think you're making a wise decision."

I didn't have anything much to pack, so we set off immediately for the address on the flyer. We arrived at 221B Baker Street, situated on the border of the Northern District and the Human Quarter; on the better side of town, thank goodness. It had a pleasant and neat appearance that took my fancy immediately. We rang the bell. A pleasant red-haired old lady opened the door. "Why, hello, dearies. Are you here about the flat?" She looked confusedly between Murray and I, clearly unsure of whom to address.

"Yes, I am," I responded firmly.

She locked her gaze on me and wreathed her wrinkled face in smiles. "Oh, wonderful, dearie. Mr. Holmes is just upstairs through the door on your left."

I led the way up the stairs. "Holmes," I muttered to myself. "Holmes. If he's a Pokémon at all like his name, he'll be a Forretress or a Shuckle or something. Not too troublesome." I turned to Murray. "Bit unfortunate about the landlady being human, eh?" Murray shrugged. "Ah well. I suppose it can't be helped."

We came to the landing and knocked on the door. A voice responded; a voice strong, youthful, and slightly asthmatic—but an unmistakably human voice. I caught my breath.

Please, allow me to take a second out of my narrative to explain. I sincerely doubt you would understand this—you live in one world, and I another—but I shall endeavor to make it so that you may understand my feelings. At the time this narrative is taking place, I and the rest of the Pokémon world are heavily prejudiced against humankind. Pokémon and people have been separate for many years, thanks to the efforts of King N; human culture has fallen in the gutter, while Pokémon have earned rights and jobs. It's only fair, after all, since humans held us imprisoned for so many centuries… But I digress. The state of affairs in this world will be further elaborated later in the narrative. I do not want to be redundant, after all.

I steeled myself and opened the door. Human or not, I needed a place to stay. I had come this far, and I wasn't about to let a human put me off.

The apartment was very pleasant. In the middle of the wall opposite the door sat a wide fireplace. Two overstuffed armchairs were pulled up to it; one was clear of debris, while the other was used as a resting place for a violin. A short table, covered in news clippings, was drawn up to the clean chair. A deerstalker cap was hooked on the hatrack, though it seemed new and never-worn. The walls were a plain-patterned wallpaper, free of any pictures or posters. I could see three windows around the apartment, two on the fireplace side, and one on the other.

"I'm over here," the human voice called from an adjoining room over to the left. Murray and I peeked around the corner.

A man stood in what seemed to be a kitchen, hunched over a microscope on the center table. Test tubes surrounded him. The man had his back to us, but he suddenly spoke. "I can tell many things from the way you walk; your passage up the stairs made noise enough for me to hear your footsteps. I heard the even, precise gait characteristic of the armed forces; I can therefore deduce that one of my visitors spent time in the military. Since only Pokémon are permitted in the armed forces nowadays, at least one of my visitors is a Pokémon. This helps to explain the slapping sound I heard accompanying the military visitor; a military Pokémon likely has military Pokémon friends. The slapping sound was therefore probably a legless Pokémon going up the stairs. Is the friend a Magikarp or a Feebas, perhaps? No, the slap was too pronounced… A Tympole, then? A Tympole in the armed forces? Yes, it must be so. The visitor led the way up the stairs, so I will wager he (and I say he because no respectable female Pokémon would voluntarily walk into what is clearly a bachelor's apartment) is the higher-ranked of the two. Probably a captain, though it's hard to say for sure… The two were talking, though, in a friendly way, so they are probably comrades in the same division or squad." He said this all rather quickly and turned around. A small smile flashed across his narrow face and he stuck out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, doctor. I'm sorry about your wound; the Moors of Icirrus are a dangerous place."

Murray and I could only gape rudely. This man knew who we were just from the way we walked! Remarkable, truly. I swallowed and extended my own paw. "Dr. John Watson, ex-captain in His Majesty's Royal Marines. But how—"

"How did I know about your being a doctor? Simple. Your eye has that glint to it that shows you know pain and suffering, and are not afraid of them. Few occupations give such experience. I narrowed you down to a psychiatrist or a doctor. When you took my pulse just now, I knew you to be a doctor for certain. Your being in the Moors? I have identified you as being both a military man and a doctor; therefore, you are very likely an army doctor. The Empire's soldiers are only fighting in the Icirrus Moors at the moment. This is the only place where they would need an army doctor, and therefore the only place you could have received your wound."

Murray still seemed agog, but I stiffened my resolve and swallowed. Honestly, the nerve of that arrogant human! His little parlor-tricks were very impressive, to be sure, but he was so… blasé to just casually spout a man's story. I wasn't about to let a mere human dazzle me. "Very nice. But I believe you mentioned something about a room?" I allowed myself a quick surge of victory as the human's face dropped. Clearly he was waiting to see me astonished, and he must've been disappointed that his little game hadn't worked.

He responded nonetheless. "Yes, yes. Rates here are fairly low, and the housekeeper's a good person. I'm mostly studious, usually in the lab"-here he gestured around at the kitchen-"although I do play the violin from time to time. Would that bother you?"

I considered. "A badly-played one, yes; but a well-played violin is a treat for the gods."

Another quick smile appeared. "Good. We shall have no problems, then. Unless, of course, you object to rooming with a human?"

I got the feeling that he was jesting, but I could not say at what. Pokemon and people were technically equals, after all, but there were "Human Water Fountains" and "Pokémon Water Fountains"; the better parts of restaurants were reserved for Pokémon; humans had to play in alternate sports leagues than Pokémon… I'm sure any Pokémon would've have objections to sharing a flat with a human.

But that didn't seem to be what the arrogant human was asking. He asked not based off how society felt, but how I personally felt. Now, to tell you the truth, I've always considered humans as equals—or tried to, at least. I've hated the stereotypes against them, but I sometimes find myself biased anyway. Anti-human jokes are hilarious, in my defense.

I wasn't sure how I felt about this human, either. This Holmes character seemed like a rather rude fellow, though I could sense a will to do good in him… Ah well. I needed a place to live, and if he ever irritated me too much, I could always give him a Razor Shell to the face and leave.

I smiled and stretched out a paw. "It's a deal."

Two weeks passed. I spent my time reading and acclimating my wounded shoulder. In my spare hours, I took a shot at understanding my enigmatic flatmate. Holmes was an odd duck, to say the least. He would sit in his lab and work on Arceus-knows-what for days, then suddenly start pacing the kitchen. Some days his eyes would shine with an almost terrifying gleam, and an inhuman strength and drive would possess him. On these days he would pace, he would shadowbox, he would play massively complicated music on his violin. Other days, Holmes would be lethargic and depressed, playing slow and confused music and idly stabbing the wall with a knife. Once, on one of his lethargic days, I caught him sipping Dream Mist out of a hookah. Revolting, certainly, but Holmes's defense was that it stimulated his mind. I destroyed the hookah and his supply of Mist, of course.

I made a little chart in an effort to figure him out. Here's a copy, if you're interested:

Sherlock Holmes

1. Knowledge of literature: none

Reasoning behind statement: I quoted Charles Ekans' The Prince and the Pupitar, confusing Holmes and killing conversation immediately

2. Knowledge of astronomy: none

Reasoning: I attempted debate with Holmes on Galileo Galvantula's early beliefs on the heliocentric universe. Holmes surprised to hear Earth went around Sun.

3. Knowledge of philosophy: none

Reasoning: I brought up human ideas on self-existencialism. Holmes appeared bored and began playing violin in the middle of my arguments

4. Knowledge of politics: feeble

Reasoning: Holmes unable to name King's cabinet, but knew of all city mayors attached to scandals

5. Knowledge of botany: erratic

Reasoning: Holmes frequently forgets the names of daisies outside window, yet recites names and properties of various poisonous plants and their extracts

6. Knowledge of geology: practical

Reasoning: Holmes points at my pant legs and can tell where I'd been walking from mud stains on my legs

7. Knowledge of chemistry: profound

Reasoning: Holmes talks on and on about reactions and blood for hours if allowed

8. Knowledge of anatomy: accurate

Reasoning: Holmes recognizes vital organs in Pokémon and people, able to make intelligent conversation about body mechanisms

9. Knowledge of Pokémon: immense

Reasoning: Holmes able to recite any Pokémon's feeding habits, general personality traits, movepools, typing, natures and their effects, footprints… Truly encyclopedic.

10. Plays violin well, though erratically

Reasoning: Seems to play music based off erratic moods, but plays W. A. Floatzel concerti upon request

11. Expert boxer, swordsman

Reasoning: He and I spar lightly from time to time, and Holmes able to hold his own fairly well. Of course, I have an injury, so that evens the odds.

12. Many friends

Reasoning: Holmes receives visitors of all walks of life in the sitting-room at any hour. I am frequently shunted out of the room—though apologies are given—to give Holmes and visitors alone time.

I looked over my list and chuckled. My flatmate could be truly anyone.

Holmes walked in from his room one day as I was finishing my list. He seemed sleepy and dreary-eyed, though it was almost noon. "Morning," I grunted.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What's for breakfast?"

I shrugged. "It's almost lunchtime, actually, but I think there's some sardines—"

"Boring." Holmes interrupted me, changed directions, and grabbed his violin from off his chair. When I tried to keep talking, he played a series of jarring chords. I shut my mouth and took up my pen.

13. Incredibly rude and arrogant.

Holmes arched a lazy eyebrow at my paper over his violin. The phone rang, and seeing Holmes to be disinclined to pick up, I got up and answered.

The voice on the telephone was curt and official. "This is Scotland Yard. Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes there?"

I blinked. Scotland Yard? The inappropriately-named elite of the police force? I turned to look at Holmes. He didn't seem much of the criminal type. He was just sitting there… in my chair… reading my analysis of his personality…

I reddened and cleared my throat. "Er-hem… Holmes? Scotland Yard would like a word with you."

"Tell them I'm busy." He didn't look up from my analysis.

"Er, Holmes… This is Scotland Yard. The police force? You can't just—oh, give me that." I strode across the room and snatched my paper. Holmes chuckled and took the phone.

"Yes, this is he. How are you, Lestrade?… Fine, fine, brilliant as ever… I assume by your tone this is not a social call?… Oh, really? I might come. Keep everything ready in case I do." He turned off the phone.

My face was still a deep red; I hoped Holmes couldn't see under all my fur. I cleared my throat again, fiddling with my list. "Deucedly sorry, Holmes," I muttered. "Terribly rude of me to make something like this… And about a fellow flatmate, to boot…"

My companion waved away my apologies. "No, Watson, no. It is quite natural to be mesmerized by me. I completely understand."

My embarrassment receded to a kind of wonder at Holmes's narcissism. Holmes continued, "I gather from your feeble attempts at analysis you are completely in the dark as to who I am. Since I already know almost everything about you, this doesn't seem quite fair. I should like to enlighten you, good doctor. That call I just received was a summons from Scotland Yard. Care to accompany me? All will be explained."

I did not know whether to laugh at this silly human's overblown opinion of himself or to be annoyed at his constant slights at my own intelligence. I resolved to find out more about him before passing judgement.

Fog hung over Castelia like a shroud, enveloping everything in its damp embrace and suppressing all sound. I was quite glad to be in the cheery taxi instead of on the streets. I turned expectantly to Holmes in the seat next to me, awaiting an explanation. He seemed to have no inclination to give one, however, so we sat in an awkward silence for a while. Finally, I cleared my throat. "So, Holmes… Who are you?"

He remained turned away from me, staring into the drizzle. "Who do you think I am?"

When I could not respond, he barked, "Come, come, Watson. Use what's left of your brain. I have very erratic knowledge, as you have noted on that paper. I am visited by all sorts of people and Pokémon. I receive summonses from Scotland Yard. Who can I be?"

I considered this. "A…bank robber?" It was an absurd suggestion meant to insult—for I hate guessing games—but my flatmate just gave a quick chuckle.

"Close, Watson, very close. But no." He straightened his back and puffed out his chest, finally looking at me. "I am a consulting detective. The world's first and foremost, in fact." I arched an eyebrow. He sighed, and his chest deflated a little. "Consulting detectives are consulted" -he put some emphasis here—"by people to solve mysteries only detectives" – more emphasis—"can solve." He spoke as one would to a small and stupid human child. "Even Scotland Yard has trouble from time to time. On those occasions, they call me in."

It sounded silly, but I had witnessed firsthand Holmes's deductive abilities... "Seems rather quixotic."

He nodded grimly. "Quixotic it may be, but the money keeps me alive…" We watched a family of humans huddled on the sidewalk in blankets. He scowled. "It's hard to find work when you Pokémon steal all the jobs."

I felt my face get hot and my paw clenched at one of my shell swords. "Now, you listen here. Humans have trapped Pokémon in tiny prisons for centuries. King N's saving us means we can have lives and jobs! Is it our fault we can do them better than you humans?"

I stared into Holmes's cold, calculating eyes, furious. Those eyes blinked back, analyzing, reading my thoughts… yet there seemed something beyond the grey. Grief? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it was gone in a moment, and I wondered if I had imagined it. He spoke, and his voice was as cold as his eyes. "No. It is not your fault you can succeed better than humans." He turned away to the window again, but I could still feel his eyes somehow. "It is your fault if you cannot spare a thought for us, though. Humans may have treated Pokémon badly, but is that an excuse for treating us badly now? Does that change anything? Does that somehow justify keeping my people down, to keep this circle of enmity going?"

I had no answer, and the rest of the trip passed in silence. Finally, a small worn-down one-story at the address given loomed out of the fog. I paid the cabbie and he drove off, leaving us to walk the short distance to the police tape cordoning off the area. A Stoutland with badges on his shoulders and an officer's cap trotted up and greeted us. "Mr. Holmes, thank you for agreeing to come out here on such a grey day. This case has us absolutely baffled." He noticed me and frowned. "Who's the Samurott?"

"Ah, this is Dr. Watson, ex-captain in the Marines. He will be… assisting me here." Holmes did not look at me.

The Stoutland nodded and offered me a paw, all smiles. "A pleasure, I'm sure, sir. Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine!" He made an attempt at a chuckle.

"Don't call me Sherlock, Lestrade. Only my brother calls me that." Holmes brushed past Lestrade contemptuously and doubled over, examining the mud walkway up to the building. The Stoutland seemed hurt, but he watched my flatmate with excited eyes.

I approached Lestrade. "Holmes has a brother?"

Lestrade kept watching Holmes. "Yessir, he does. Never met him, though. Lucky blighter, whoever he is. I'd love to be related to Holmes. D'you know, I've been trying to get Sherlock to talk with me for over a year now?" He turned his eyes, pitiably hopeful, toward me. "Does he talk about me at all? No? Oh…" We watched Holmes get down on all fours and inspect a bush intently.

I twisted my moustache. "Why? Why do you want him to like you?" It seemed odd, really; Pokémon were better than humans in every conceivable way. Holmes was a pain to be around, anyway. Why would one of us go to such lengths for the acknowledgement of one of them?

Lestrade turned his big eyes towards me. "Dr. Watson, I admire Sherlock Holmes more than I do any other mortal, living or dead. I have watched that man perform miracles. I have watched him solve cases from dirt he found at the scene. I have watched him crack codes that eluded leading Alakazam cryptographers. I have watched him break down hardened criminals in the interrogation room after a few minutes. I have watched him bring down drug trafficking rings single-handed. I have watched him save my career twice now, and both times he acted like it was nothing. I have watched him work miracles, Dr. Watson. This man… This example of a specie we degrade and diminish is the closest thing to a god I know. If you knew Arceus, doctor, would you not also desire his friendship?" He stared at me as I considered this. Sherlock Holmes, a hero? Nonsense! He was just a human…

We watched Holmes as he walked slowly across the muddy path, his nose inches from the ground. Even at my distance, I could tell he was energized and excited; his head whipped from point of interest to point of interest, like a Noctowl's. Holmes scrutinized the ground for another fifteen minutes. I did my best to make smalltalk with Lestrade after his awkward monologue, but he clammed up and responded in brief, monosyllabic sentences. I discovered he was the chief of Scotland Yard, but that was the extent of it.

Holmes strode over to where we stood, mercifully putting an end to the silence. "I have seen everything." He gestured grandiosely. "Show me the scene of the crime." His eyes were bright, and he seemed to have forgotten our squabble in the cab. "The pheasant is running, Watson," he muttered as we walked.

I gave him a look. "The pheasant—what?"

He shrugged a little defensively. "The pheasant is running. It's something of a catchphrase."

"Ah." I nodded. "Right. Change it. Doctor's orders."

We were at the door to the house now, and Holmes paused a minute to inspect the lock on the door. Lestrade noticed this. "Door was unforced, Mr. Holmes. The deceased probably let the killer in."

Holmes mumbled something unintelligible and we moved on into some sort of a sitting room. It smelled revoltingly of rotting meat, I have to mention. An old man dressed entirely in green lay sprawled on the floor, the back of his head an ugly soup of blood and brain. I scrutinized the unfortunate man without touching him. "See how the blow is more toward the right side of the skull? Struck in the back of the head by a right-handed man with a blunt object, I'd say. Dead about 8-12 hours."

Holmes gave me an impatient look. "Watson, be a good chap and stop telling me things I already know. Be quiet, if you have nothing of importance to say."

I reddened, but refrained from insulting him in kind. If I noticed anything, I would certainly keep it to myself.

Holmes proceeded to inspect the room, though in lesser detail than he had the road. He stooped and picked up some bright green leaves blown into the corner. I watched him pause to examine the furniture. "Mahogany. This man had good taste," my flatmate remarked, running a hand over the overturned stool and table.

I stared. A man had been brutally murdered, and here Holmes was, appraising the deceased's furniture! Humans really were despicable sometimes!

Evidently Lestrade felt the same way, for he cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes—and please don't think I'm trying to tell you what to do—but there's something on the opposite wall you might want to take a look at." I stared at Lestrade too. Here was a Pokémon kowtowing to a human! What had the world come to?

Holmes stepped over the prone corpse on the floor and to the other side of the room. Above the fireplace was scratched a single word: BLACK. Holmes studied this for a while and shrugged it off. "Possibly a motive, possibly a red herring, definitely not made by the deceased. Either way, I try not to involve myself with the melodramatic clues. It's usually the seemingly unimportant ones that are useful." He turned to Lestrade, who seemed hurt again. "Well, Lestrade, I thank you for bringing me in on this case. It has been a most interesting walk."

Lestrade seemed disappointed as well. "But… what have you found? Is it the work of a madman?"

Holmes laughed humorlessly. "No rush, Lestrade. You know I never like to share until I am absolutely sure. Come along, Watson."

He strode out. I looked at Lestrade, who sighed and studied the body. I muttered a quick goodbye and followed my companion.

Once in the taxi, I tried to pump Holmes for what he found out about the crime. He acted surprised at my queries. "Well, surely you know! We observed the same crime scene, did we not? You looked at the same things I did, did you not? I even called your attention to some of the things I found interesting."

I snorted. "What, the furniture? The leaves? The bushes?"

He nodded earnestly. "Yes, they all are relevant here. Think for yourself, Watson." He turned to look out the window.

I reflected. "All right," I began. "Here's how I see it." Holmes nodded and smiled in an encouraging manner. "The old man was sitting in his mahogany chair, meditating, or whatever you humans do in mahogany chairs. Anther man comes by, up the mud path, and is interested in the bushes. Maybe he's a botanist, I don't know. Eventually, the visitor goes up and knocks on the door to the building. The door wasn't forced, right? So the murdered man must've known the visitor and let him in. The older man and the visitor quarrel, perhaps, and the visitor kills the older man in a fit of rage. Some of the leaves from the bushes had caught in the visitor's clothes, and they're left behind at the crime scene." I sat back and surveyed Holmes with pride.

He nodded. "Interesting, Watson, interesting. Your theory about the bushes is very imaginative. But how do you explain the name on the wall?"

"You said yourself it could be a red herring, right? Well, the visitor, seeing what he had done, probably sought to foist the crime on someone else. Black is probably the surname of one of the murderer's enemies."

Holmes laughed. "I must say, your deductions are fascinating, though completely incorrect."

I stiffened, a little miffed. "Incorrect? I thought they were pretty solid, myself. Do you have any reasoning behind your putting down my ideas?"

"Plenty, my friend." I mumbled a request not to call me that, but he continued as if he hadn't heard. "Firstly, what makes you so sure the killer was a man?"

I frowned. "Well, surely a woman wouldn't murder an old man so brutally?"

Holmes waved this aside. "No, no. I'll rephrase the question in a way you'll understand. Why do you think the attacker was human?"

I recoiled. This was nonsense! "Holmes! What are you saying? Pokémon—Pokémon do not stoop to killing in cold blood! Only a human would be so heineous!"

Holmes' eyes hardened suddenly, and again I saw a flash of disappointment deep inside. When he spoke, his voice was deathly quiet, devoid of all emotion.

"Oh?"

A single syllable, yet uttered with such a frosty power underneath that I could not help but look away and shiver. I could not breathe until I felt those eyes averted out the rain-splattered window. The rest of the ride passed in a chilled silence that had nothing to do with the weather.

In the days that followed, Holmes seemed completely disinterested in Lestrade's case. He would do nothing but play his violin and observe microorganisms all day, leaving the flat from time to time. I longed to ask his opinions on the mystery, but I had an uneasy feeling that I had crossed some line during the cab ride back to the flat. When I refused to believe a Pokémon could commit murder, Holmes seemed… deadly. Not lethargic, not lost in a stupor, not enthusiastic, not energetic. This was a facet to Holmes I had never seen, and it terrified me, to tell you the truth. But, really! A Pokémon would never kill anyone. We are generally peaceful, and even when aroused only knock out or incapacitate enemies. Humans, on the other hand… Humans are highly prone to killing and pain. Always were. Always waging stupid wars, always refusing members of their own kind basic necessities, always imprisoning each other, always enslaving Pokémon, and murder. Cold-blooded murder. Humans solved their petty squabbles with it, or so I learned in my Human Studies class as a little tyke. Humans even entertained themselves with murder in books or movies! Disgusting. They are far more capable than Pokémon to end a life.

And yet Sherlock Holmes didn't think so. Of course, that could just be bias on his part, but that icy look he gave me was one used by the just, by the knowledgeable, by those who knew indisputably that they were correct… Or at least believed themselves to be. I have seen the look before on my old commanding officer back at the Moors, when he needed us to trust his judgment. He was never wrong when he had that look.

I sighed and scratched my head. It was no use fathoming the thoughts of my flatmate. His was a mind either incredibly deep—the mind of a genius—or incredibly shattered, like a madman's.

My shoulder had been twinging rather a lot lately, so I decided to forgo my daily walk and browsed the Castelia Gazette instead. I muttered as I read the headlines, a habit I'd picked up in boot camp. "King visits Pokémon orphanage… New Bark Knicks claim 27th career title…" I stopped dead. I read an article, reread it, and shouted, "Holmes! Holmes!"

He hurried into the sitting room from the lab. "What is it? What's wrong?"

I pointed a paw at the article that had caught my attention and mopped my brow while Holmes read. My Arceus… Six other old men, dressed monochromatically, found dead in their respective abodes… Each time, the word BLACK scratched at the scene… Some of them were dead of blunt trauma, others of thousands of tiny but deep cuts, and one—Augustus Rood—with a massive cut down his chest… The similarities between these cases and the case Lestrade called us in on were too obvious to ignore.

Holmes looked up from the newspaper, his eyes deadened with inner pain. "I… I could have stopped this," he muttered. He turned to me with a stronger voice. "I could have stopped this, Watson. I have known the murderer from the start, but I let him walk. I thought he would stop after the first, that his reasons were pure and just. I was wrong." He choked out this last bit, as if saying it was a pain he was not accustomed to.

I tried to soothe him. "Now, now, let's not overreact. Yes, this was a bit of a shock, but you can't let it upset you. I doubt you—"

"Shut up, Watson." He cut me off crisply. A steely glint appeared in his eyes, one I had never seen before. "Get Lestrade on the line. Tell him to be here in fifteen minutes. I shall return shortly." He strode to the door, flung it open, and marched down the stairs.

Holmes, Lestrade, and I were seated in the sitting room. The atmosphere was tightly charged. Lestrade and I stared intently at Holmes, who gazed into the depths of the unlit hearth.

"I was a fool, gentlemen." Holmes didn't seem comfortable with these words, but he spat them out nonetheless. "A fool even bigger than you, Watson." I passed over the slight. They came so frequently I had ceased to care. "From the moment I saw the crime scene, I knew the general identity of the culprit. I should have revealed it then and there, but I felt he had acted from pure motives, and—I hate saying this—I did not want to be bothered with it."

Lestrade leaned in. "Mr. Holmes, if you don't mind my asking, why did you think this?"

Holmes waved an impatient hand. "I will get to that, Lestrade. Don't interrupt me, please. As I was saying… I did not want to be bothered with the crime. I thought it beneath my notice. But he has killed again, gentlemen. Seven times, to be exact. No amount of justification can excuse this. He shall be caught and tried, as is the due process of the law."

He remained silent for a while. Lestrade ventured forth another question: "But, Mr. Holmes, sir, begging your pardon, but how could you know the murderer? We all saw what you saw, and yet—"

Holmes cut him off. "Lestrade, you and Watson are alike in that you look, but do not see. If you saw a chair, you would say, 'It's a chair. A rather nice one, in fact.' If I saw a chair, I would be able to approximate the owner's height, weight, occupation, and any number of things besides. Where you saw a muddy road leading up to the crime scene, I saw a road lined up and down with long, undulating snake-like tracks. Where you saw an unforced door, I saw a Pokémon with dexterity enough to pick a reasonably complicated lock. Where you saw a head caved in, I saw a tool or appendage used by a Pokémon with enough strength to kill a man. Where you saw a selection of nice furniture, I saw an unusually expensively furnished living room. Where you saw a bunch of random leaves piled in a corner, I saw pieces of the attacker torn off in a struggle."

I broke in, still miffed. "Holmes, why are you so convinced the attacker is a Pokémon?"

He gave me a sharp look. "Why are you so convinced he isn't? Look at our evidence. First: serpentine tracks. I know of no human able to make a serpentine trail. Second: the bushes. When I called your attention to the bushes, I wanted you to look at the mud in and around a particular bush that was disturbed. The murderer hid there, we can safely say. Clearly, the assailant was probably lying in wait for nightfall. The door was locked, so the murderer was forced to pick it. Not all Pokémon are that agile or dexterous with their limbs. The leaves in the corner indicate a Grass-type Pokémon; this would correspond with the door; no doubt Vine Whips would have been sufficient to move the tumblers in the lock. Finally, the blow to the back of the head was probably from the assailant's tail.

"What do we have, then? A serpentine Grass-type Pokémon with the ability to produce vines and the strength to crush a human skull in a single blow. Namely,-"

A knock came from the door. "Mr. Holmes?" It was Mrs. Hudson. "A gentleman to see you. From some landscaping service, apparently."

Holmes looked at Lestrade and me with a finger at his lips. He pointed to places on either side of the door and mimed grabbing something. We nodded and took the positions indicated. Holmes cleared his throat. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, send him in."

The door opened and a middle-aged, mild-looking Serperior slithered in. He gave Holmes an easy smile. "'Ello, guv'nor. You want a tree in, or what?"

Holmes shouted, "Now!" and Lestrade and I lunged for the visitor. The Serperior's face contorted into a mask of rage, and he tied up the Chief Inspector with a powerful Wrap. Lestrade's eyes began to bulge, but I Megahorned the Serperior at the base of the skull. He collapsed immediately, unconscious, and Lestrade extricated himself from the coils.

Holmes approached from where he had stood during the fight as Lestrade cuffed the assailant. "You didn't kill him, did you, Watson? No, no, good. He's coming round. Of course, finding the murderer was simplicity itself, as Serperior are rare in the city and this one took no pains to conceal his identity. I walked into his landscaping company and requested a tree to be delivered by this particular individual." Holmes kneeled down to be face-to-face with the now-conscious Serperior. He asked a single word: "Why?"

The grass snake said nothing, only eyeing Holmes sullenly. He suddenly broke into speech. "Awright. I'll tell ya. I'm not ashamed of what I done." His accent and poor grammar dropped suddenly. "It started many years ago, before any of you were born, before N came to power, back when Pokémon and humans were still partners. I was just a young Snivy owned by a kindly professor, a part of her research into the origins of Pokémon. There were three young human kids who lived in the town I did, and for one of their birthdays, I was given to the young man by the name of Hilbert Black. My friend Oshy—an Oshawott—and Tepper—a Tepig—were given to the other two. We set off on an adventure, a traditional coming-of-age quest to see the world. Hilbert and I bonded quickly. I discovered he hated his name (perhaps with good reason) so I took to calling him Black. Black was a peaceable sort; he disliked Pokémon battles, and at first only fought other trainers when he had to. I loved it, though. All the Pokémon did back then. Once Black overcame his fear of hurting me, we became a great team.

"As we journeyed, we discovered the existence of a radical group by the name of Team Plasma. Their leader, Ghetsis, said Pokémon were nothing but slaves to the whims of their trainers. I loved Black dearly by then, and we both knew Ghetsis's words to be untrue. We fought Ghetsis and his Team Plasma goons at every turn, often aided by strong trainers called Gym Leaders and the kids from our hometown. Black met a girl, Hilda White, who decided to travel with us and provide support.

"Time passed, we trained, Black caught other Pokémon… One day, we discovered Team Plasma's true plot: they planned to use the legendary Pokémon Zekrom's immense power to force trainers to release their Pokémon. Resisting Trainers would be killed.

"Well, none of us wanted that, so we (and by 'we' I mean Black, Hilda, the Gym Leaders, and Black's friends) started rushing around Unova, trying to find the stone to control Zekrom's counterpart, Reshiram. We did, finally, just in time for Team Plasma's coup-de-tat. A massive fortress rose up around the Pokémon League—the seat of power at that time—and Plasma grunts invaded. Black and I beat them back, of course, but Hilda was injured in the scuffles and had to remain behind while the rest of us went on into the castle.

"Fighting was brutal, room-to-room close combat. Many of our allied Pokémon were knocked out, but we finally pushed through to the topmost floor. We were attacked by the Seven Sages of Team Plasma, a group of 'intellectuals' who dressed monochromatically and carried one type of Pokémon. The Gym Leaders held them off to allow Black to get through.

"The final room we entered was beautiful, all marble columns and pools of water. There we found N, the figurehead leader of Team Plasma. N was at that time a pure but misguided youth who genuinely believed Pokémon were worse off with humans. He was really controlled by Ghetsis, but N was the one with Zekrom, so we challenged him to a battle for all the marbles.

"It was intense. At the end of it, we came out victorious, but only Reshiram and I remained conscious out of Black's team. Even as N acknowledged our superiority and prepared to call off the assault, Ghetsis appeared and challenged Black to a battle, knowing full well in what condition his team was in. The Pokémon of Truth was knocked out by Ghetsis's Hydreigon. Though I fought my hardest, I too was defeated soon after.

"I could only watch, then, as Ghetsis approached my beloved trainer and ordered his Bisharp to kill. I could only watch as Black's head plopped into the beautiful pool in the room.

"The rest was a blur. N, not having seen the fate of Black, believed Ghetsis's lie that Hilbert had fled. After N went to go sit on his throne, my Pokéball was crushed and I was ordered to leave. Weak, confused, and grief-stricken, I had no choice but to comply.

"The Gym Leaders were all executed, of course, because they continued to resist Team Plasma after they took power. Their killings were filmed and aired on national television to scare any others who had thoughts about keeping their Pokémon.

"Years passed. Pokémon gained the same rights as people, and human rights began to degrade. Employers preferred employees with abilities and vines and super strength than regular humans, so Pokémon got all the jobs. Any self-run human business was burned down or run out of town by undercover Plasma agents.

"N became King of Unova, and Ghetsis his trusted advisor. I wanted revenge for what they did to Black, but Ghetsis is always under heavy government protection, I settled for the Seven Sages. They had retired long ago, and lived quiet lives in different cities. They were the closest to Ghetsis I could come…"

The Serperior trailed off. The three of us stared at him for a few seconds. Holmes murmured, "I thought that old man had done something wrong, got himself involved in something illicit. Not many humans can afford mahogany furniture."

Lestrade got up. "Utter hogwash, of course," he scoffed. Holmes arched an eyebrow at him, but Lestrade continued on: "Our King is a peaceful and just man. Even the thought of such a violent takeover would revolt him. As for your trainer…" Lestrade's eyes became pitying, "I can't even imagine the tortures he must have put you through to make you believe these fallacies. I've complete confidence they'll let you off with a plea of insanity. Come along, then."

Lestrade began to lead the Serperior away. The serpent's long body writhed, but he could not break free of the restraining cuffs. He looked back at us. "Please—please, they'll kill me! Ghetsis won't let me live… But I don't care about that! All I want is someone to believe me, to remember past wrongs when I am gone!" His eyes, large and yellow windows to a tormented soul, met mine. We shared a glance for a moment, and I looked away. Holmes held his gaze, however, and just as Lestrade was about to close the door, my flatmate gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Holmes played his violin for hours that night. I sat in the sitting room with him as he played, and we turned our thoughts inward. His music seemed to reflect his musings, as it flowed freely from dark and intense accents to twittering melodies high up.

My thoughts ran in a manner like his. In an effort to straighten myself out, I asked myself questions, as was my habit in times of trouble.

Did I believe the Serperior? I asked.

On the one side stood my life's teachings. "N is good," they said to me. "N is the best of his kind. He is modest, kind, and just. Humans willingly followed him and released their Pokémon."

On the other was this outrageous tale from the Serperior. He was a murderer, unsettled in the head, but a living remnant of a bygone era. A possible lunatic saying Pokémon and people were meant to be together, that N took power violently, that there was a man behind him who really held the reins.

Holmes interrupted my train of thought. "Watson?"

"Hmm?"

"Watson, what do you plan to do?" Holmes had stopped playing, and now looked me straight in the eye. "You've had your first taste of what I do. While most of my cases aren't this… controversial, they are often dangerous, and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to step out. I'd love to have your company, though."

I held his gaze steadily, remembering the way he nodded to the Serperior and wondering if he believed the story. I stood up and extended a paw. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

In the paper the next day was a small column about the death of the murderer Serperior, who perished in a small accidental fire in his cell a few hours after being brought in. No other injuries were reported.

And there we have it. I know, it's long, but I'm sure you could do with the reading. I hope you guys got the little puns I threw in with famous peoples' names. The only one that was not hilarious and was actually confusing was "W.A. Floatzel". Sorry. That's a spinoff of "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart", the classical music composer.

So you know: there are more chapters- quite a few more- and they will come on a hopefully weekly basis. Nothing you do can stop them. Hah. At any rate, please support the Pokémon franchise and read the original Sherlock Holmes short stories! They're fun! Or just watch the old black-and-white Sherlock Holmes movies with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. Or just watch "Sherlock" on the BBC.

I really hope you enjoyed the story. If there's any mistakes you can see, or any positive criticism you can give, or anything at all, you type that review thing down there, ok? I really need the critiques, and I'll try to respond to comments or questions via next chapter or PM.

All right. Until next week then, hopefully. Stay strong.

-Wordsmith