Forelock Holmes
A Pony in Pink Part 1
I have been rather busy with Doctor Whooves and yet I find myself with spare time. So, I perused the archives and found the MLP Sherlock crossovers. Only one appealed to me, the pony-fied version of Sherlock (by a different name of course). But it was unfinished and incorrect to the MLP world. Too few references and too many mistakes. So, in this extra time, I will be pursuing a new story. It's elementary my dear readers. But don't worry, Doctor Whooves will stay in motion.
I've borrowed a "few" names from Pony in a Box Productions, modified the characters just smidge to fit Equestria of course, but this is and most likely will stay, Sherlock.
And a history note, this is fifty years after FiM, so technology is more advanced and stuff has happened. Cell phones, guns, no cars though, but science is almost up to ours. Trying to make it close as I can to the actual show.
Hoofdon, one of the largest cities in Equestria. Ponies say it is the most peaceful as well. But they are wrong, very, very, wrong. Because under the screen of colorful magical ponies, is murder, scandal, and evil seen almost nowhere else in the peaceful world of Equestria. This is the side of the world, where ponies aren't the most happy, they aren't the most fit, and they most certainly not the most harmonious.
For instance, Doctor John Trottson, an light tan earth stallion who was once a member of the Royal guard sent back home to Hoofdon after a terrible injury put him out of the job. Appearance: tan coat as said above, a shade lighter short but spiky hair, brown eyes, and a red cross cutie mark on top of a pair of crossed swords. Field doctor for the royal guard.
How had he been injured? It had been in the Changeling attack, no not the Canterlot Wedding attack, since then there had been more attacks than anypony had ever seen ever. He was caught in the worst of these attacks, captured and held hostage. He was brought back starved, dehydrated, and badly injured. His front left leg never quite healed right, it still was stiff and even painful to move.
That battle left him traumatized and gave him horrible nightmares that not even Princess Luna knew how to stop. One night, after a fit of these nightmares, John simply sat on his bed. He would not be sleeping again that night. He looked up and glared at the brace he had to wear to walk. It was clunky and uncomfortable, and he hated it.
A few hours later, the sun rose over Hoofdon. Outside was the hustle bustle of normal life, inside the little room was John Trottson, sitting at his desk, laptop open. The page it had automatically opened to was his blog, "The Personal Blog of Dr. John Trottson." But the actual entry, was empty. His psychotherapist had told him more than once to blog often, set up a routine, talk about anything and everything that happened to him. But what was there to talk about when nothing ever happened to you?
Opening montage
October 12th, down by the train station, a well-dressed, middle aged business stallion walked across the concourse of the busy Hoofdon railway station. He was talking into his mobile phone with his secretary back at the office.
"What d'you mean he took the coach?" he demanded.
"He went to Canterlot," his secretary replied, "I'm sorry, you need to get a cab."
"I never get cabs," the stallion replied. There was a moment of silence before the secretary whispered: "I love you," into the phone.
"When?" asked the stallion. The secretary giggled before telling him to get a cab. The business stallion smiled, hung up the cellphone, and hailed for a taxi coach.
Sometime later, the same stallion was cornered in a room, his back to a window that appeared to be many many stories above the ground. He had a small glass bottle in his hoof, with three large red and white pills in it. He slowly unscrewed the cap, and with a terrified nervous swallow, he downed the pill.
His body was found a few hours later, dead.
November 26th, two colts in their late teens, a Pegasus and an earth pony, were running home through the rain. One had an umbrella, the other was trying to shield himself with his wings. They tried to hail a taxi coach but it drove right past them.
"I'll be back in two minutes mate!" the Pegasus yelled before turning and walking away.
"What?"
"Going to get my mum's umbrella!"
"You could just share mine!"
"Two minutes 'kay?" and he turned and ran. The earth pony waited, he waited for a lot longer than two minutes for his friend to return. And when it passed the fifteen minute mark, he turned and followed.
But his friend was nowhere near home. He was in a stadium, sitting in the top box sobbing. Because in his hooves, was a bottle of red and white pills. He slowly unscrewed the lid, and with shaking hooves, swallowed a pill.
The next day, the newspaper headline read this: Colt of 18, Kills Himself inside Sports Center.
January 27th, at a public club in downtown Hoofdon, a wild party for the MP Lickity Split was going full swing with pounding music and flashing lights. Two of Split's aides were chatting at a table away from the chaos.
"Is she still dancing?" asked one.
"Yeah, if you can call it that," the other replied.
"Did you get her bag?" He lifted up the red purse, "Got it." The first aide looked out into the dancing crowd, and frowned.
"Where is she?" Lickity Split had long since gone outside in hope for a break from the noise. And after losing her purse? She just wanted to go home. So she started walking.
But instead of finding herself at 314 E Thunder street, she was behind some building sobbing hysterically. As she cried, she slowly reached for the tiny bottle of pills that sat in front of her on the ground. She was found dead the next day.
Police Press Conference, good for news, not well for the detectives themselves. DI Lestrade and his assistant Sally Donovan were in the spotlight, presenting what they knew about the suicides.
Lestrade was an earth pony, silver mane, darker grey coat, wearing a black suit for the conference. Donovan, a Pegasus with dark maroon hair and an almost pink red coat.
"The body of Lickity Split, Junior MP for Transport," Donovan began, "was found late last night behind a building in Greater Hoofdon. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles that of Sir New Deal and Cloudy Wind. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective inspector Lestrade will take questions now." One of the reporters spoke immediately.
"Detective inspector, how can suicides be linked?" she asked.
"Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of-"
"But you can't have serial suicides," the reported interrupted.
"Well apparently you can," Lestrade replied. Another reporter asked, "These three ponies: there's nothing to link them?"
"There's no link to be found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one-" Suddenly everponys' mobile phone went off. Each with the same message: Wrong! Donovan checked her phone and saw the same message.
"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," she said.
"Just says, wrong," the first reported noted.
'Yeah well, ignore them. Okay if there are no more questions for DI Lestrade I'm going to bring this session to a close."
"But if they're suicides what're you investigating?" asked the second reporter.
"Is I said, these, these suicides are clearly linked. Um, it's and, an unusual situation. We've got our best ponies investigating." Another trill as all the phones went off once more, with the same message: Wrong!
"Okay, one more question," Donovan said, annoyed with the insistent texts.
"Is there any chance that these are murders?" asked the third reporter, "and if they are, how do is this the work of a serial killer?"
"I, I know that you all like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides," Lestrade insisted, "We know the difference. The, um, poison was clearly self-administered."
"But if they are murders," continued the reporter, "how do ponies keep themselves safe?"
"Don't commit suicide," the DI snapped. The reporter looked at him in surprise before he continued. "Obviously this is a frightening time for ponies, but all anypony has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." The mobiles sang for a third and final time, most of the phones said wrong, but Lestrade's read:
You know where to find me.
FH.
Lestrade groaned exasperated, shoved the phone into his pocket, stood up, and left the conference with a quiet "Thank you."
Shortly afterward, he and Donovan were back at New Trottland Yard.
"You've got to stop him doing that," Donovan insisted, "He's making us look like idiots."
"Well if you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him," Lestrade replied before storming off.
In the Square Park (don't ask why it's called that, I don't know) John Trottson decided to go for a walk. Well, it was more of a limp, the brace making him slower when he walked. He passed by a Pegasus stallion, who was sitting on a bench enjoying a cup of coffee. When John passed by, the stallion looked up, smiled in surprise and called after him.
"John!" he called, getting his things and trotting over, "John Trottson!" John turned and looked at the stallion.
"Stand, Mike Stand?" he asked, "We were at Bart's together." Referencing the hospital John had gone to learn how to be a field medic.
"Oh yeah, sorry, Mike," they shook hooves, "Hello."
"It's been a long time eh?"
"Yeah."
"I heard you became a soldier, that you were being attacked by Changelings, what happened to you?" asked Mike, gesturing to the brace.
"Changelings," John replied. A little later, they both came back with to-go coffee and sat on the bench chatting idly.
"Are you still at Bart's then?" asked John, unaware of the sympathetic glances he kept getting.
"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be," Mike sighed, "I hate them!" they both laughed at that one.
"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"
"I can't afford Hoofdon on a soldiers' pension."
"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Trottson I know."
"Yeah I'm not the…" He stopped. Mike looked away awkwardly as John put the coffee down and tried to get his good hoof to stop shaking. Mike looked back over, "Couldn't Henry help?"
"Yeah like that's going to happen," John replied sarcastically.
"'I dunno, get a flat share or something?"
"Come on, who'd want me as a flatmate?" Mike chuckled thoughtfully.
"What?"
"Well, you're the second pony to say that to me to-day."
"Who was the first?"
Down in the morgue of the nearby Bartholomew's Hospital, a unicorn was at work. Dark grey coat, very messy and curly black hair, steel grey eyes, and a cutie mark of a skull and magnifying glass. He was wearing a large black coat, black gloves, and a dark blue scarf. This was Forelock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective and expert crime scientist. Right then, he was examining how long it takes for bruises to form on a corpse.
"How fresh?" he asked the Morgue assistant Mousy Hooper. An earth mare with mouse brown hair, cream coat and a white lab coat hiding her Red Cross cutie mark.
"Just in," she relied. "Sixty seven, natural causes. He used to work here, nice guy." The black body bag was zipped back up; Forelock turned to Mousey and smiled.
"Fine, we'll start with the riding crop." The corpse was moved into an operating room where Forelock, no longer wearing the jacket gloves or scarf just a black suit jacket, began to beat it with a riding crop. Mousey watch from an observation room nearby, she kept wincing with each slap of the whip. Each whack became harder and faster until it was practically a blur. But that was enough, he was finished, and then Mousey came in.
"So, bad day was it?" she said jokingly. Forelock, ignoring her banter, pulled out a small notebook and pen and began writing notes.
"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," he instructed, "A stallion's alibi depends on it. Text me."
"Listen, I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished," Mousey began nervously. Forelock glanced at her, and then did a quick double take.
"Are you wearing lipstick?" he asked, "You weren't wearing it before."
"I uh, I refreshed a bit," she stuttered. He went back to writing in his notebook.
"Sorry, you were saying?" Mousey took a deep breath, worked up the courage and said: "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." Forelock put his notebook away then replied, "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." And he turned and left the room.
"…Okay." Was all a confused Mousey could say.
When Mike and John entered the lab, Forelock was down at the end, using his magic to squeeze a pipet onto a microscope slide. He glanced up at them before continuing. John limped into the room, staring at the massive amounts of scientific equipment covering every available surface. Microscopes, centrifuges, beakers and bottles, enough for a team of scientists, but just one?
"Well, bit different from my day," he noted.
"You've no idea," Mike added with a chuckle, taking a seat diagonal from Forelock.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," the unicorn asked.
"What's wrong with the land-line?" asked Mike.
"I prefer to text," Forelock replied.
"Sorry, it's in my coat." John reached into his own jacket and pulled out a small red smart phone.
"Here use mine," John said, holding out his phone. Forelock looked up at him.
"Oh, thank you." He stood up and walked over. Taking the phone from john he flipped it open and began texting rapidly.
"Changelings or Discord?" Forelock asked suddenly. John glanced at Mike confused, his old friend just smiled knowingly.
"Sorry?"
"Which was it, Changelings or Discord?" he asked, glancing at John.
"Changelings. sorry, how did you-"
"Ah, Mousey, coffee," Forelock handed John his phone then took the cup from the new mare's hoof. He did a double take, "What happened to the lipstick?"
"It wasn't working for me," she replied with an awkward smile. Forelock turned, and walked back to his station.
"Really? I thought it was an improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He took a sip of the coffee, and grimaced at the taste.
"…Okay," and she left.
"How do you feel about the violin?" Forelock asked suddenly. John glanced at Mike, silently asking: "is he talking to me?" Mike nodded.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Holmes replied, typing noted on an open laptop, "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He glanced up at Trottson, "Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." False smile, then back to work. John stared at him blankly for a moment, then looked once again at Mike.
"Oh, you… you told him about me?"
"Not a word," the Pegasus replied.
"Then who said anything about flat mates?" John asked.
"I did," Forelock replied as he slipped on his large black coat and dark blue scarf, "Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult stallion to find a flat mate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from action in the Royal guard. Wasn't a difficult leap."
"How did you know about the Guard?" Forelock ignored the question and checked his mobile.
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central Hoofdon. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He turned and walked past John to the door. John turned to look at him. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
"Is that it?" The unicorn stopped half way out the door, and stepped back.
"Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're gonna go look at a flat?"
"Problem?"
"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." Forelock looked at John for a moment before speaking.
"I know you're a field doctor and you've been sent home on account of injury due to a recent Changeling attack. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him- possible because he's an salt-o-holic (salt is a pony's beer) or because he recently left his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks you limp is psychosomatic- Quite correctly I'm afraid," Forelock gave him a false smile, "I think that's enough to go on with, don't you?" He turned and left the room, but a moment later leaned back in.
"The name's Forelock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street," he winked, "Afternoon!" And he left, leaving behind a dumbstruck earth pony medical doctor and his smug friend. John looked at Mike, jaw still hanging in disbelief.
"Yeah, he's always like that."
When John Trottson returned home that night, he took out his mobile and checked the recently sent messages, more specifically the one Forelock Holmes had sent. It read:
If brother has green ladder,
Arrest brother.
FH
John looked at the message for a moment more, then looked across the room to his closed laptop. He got to his hooves, slowly walked over to the desk, and sat down. He opened the flat-ish computer and opened a search engine called Quest. After another moment of thinking, he typed "Forelock Holmes" into the search box. Enter.
The next day, or, to rephrase that, the next evening, John Trottson found himself limping through Hoofdon down Baker Street. Keeping an eye on the door numbers. As he walked up to 221 B, a black taxi coach pulled up by the curb. Out stepped Forelock Holmes after handing a few bits to the driver. The cab drove off and Forelock walked towards the flat.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John greeted him.
"Forelock, please," he insisted, they shook hooves.
"Well, this is a prime spot," John noted, "must be expensive."
"Oh, Mrs. River, the land-mare, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death, I was able to help out," Forelock explained, albeit a bit boastfully.
"You stopped her husband being executed?"
"Oh no, I ensured it." The door opened and out stepped the land-mare, Mrs. River. A middle aged Pegasus with very curly aqua mane and tail and a sky blue coat, her cutie mark was a broom mid-sweep, and she was wearing a purple long sleeve dress.
"Forelock, hello," they hugged briefly.
"Mrs. River, Doctor John Trottson."
"Hello."
"How do you do?" Mrs. River stepped aside and motioned them in, "Come in, please." The two stallions stepped inside and she closed the door behind them. Holmes immediately started up the stairs, John followed him just a bit slower. Forelock waited to go in until John had joined him at the top of the stairs.
The inside of the flat was quite nice, if it hadn't had boxes and boxes of stuff everywhere. The living room was good sized, with two armchairs, a couch against the wall to the right, and a fireplace. The kitchen was directly around the corner, and it looked very similar to Forelock's lab back at Bart's, science equipment on every available surface.
"Well, this could be very nice," John admitted, looking about, "Very nice indeed."
"Yes," Forelock agreed, looking around the flat happily, "Yes my thoughts precisely." They said the next part simultaneously.
"So I went straight ahead and moved in."
"As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out-oh," John paused, realizing what Forelock was saying. "So this is all…"
"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." He walked across the room and started to half-heartedly tidy up. John spotted something on the fireplace, "That's a skull."
"Friend of mine," Forelock replied removing his jacket, "When I say 'Friend'…" Mrs. River stepped into the room.
"What do you think Doctor Trottson?" she asked picking up a left over teacup, "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."
"Of course we'll be needing two," he replied. Mrs. River winked before trotting into the kitchen/dining room and complaining about the mess Forelock had made on the table. John shuffled his hooves awkwardly, then went over to one of the armchairs, fluffed the pillow, and sat down. He looked across at Forelock who was still tidying.
"I looked you up on the internet last night." He stopped cleaning and looked at John.
"Anything interesting?"
"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." Holmes smiled proudly.
"What did you think?" Trottson gave him a "you've got to be kidding me" type of look.
"You claimed to be able to identify a software writer by his tie and a train engineer by one of his front hooves."
"Yes. And I can read your military record in your face and your leg, and your brother's habits by your mobile phone."
"How?" asked John. Forelock just smiled and went back to cleaning.
"What about these suicides then Forelock?" asked Mrs. River, walking into the room with a newspaper. "I thought that'd be right up your alley." Forelock, not entirely listening, walked over to the window. "Three exactly the same."
"Four," Holmes replied. He looked outside as a familiar face stepped out of a police coach and ran into 221b. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time." There was a thundering of hooves as DI Lestrade raced up the stairs into the flat.
"Where?" asked Forelock.
"Brixton, Laurenston Gardens," the DI answered.
"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."
"You know they never leave notes?"
"Yeah."
"This one did. Will you come?"
"Who's on forensics?"
"Bunsen."
"Bunsen won't work with me."
"Well he won't be your assistant."
"I need an assistant."
"Will you come?"
"Not in the police coach, I'll be right behind." Lestrade nodded, said "thank you" and left. Forelock waited until there was the noise of the front door shutting, then he leapt into the air with a cry of "Brilliant!"
"Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note," he grabbed his coat and scarf as he danced about happily. He turned and headed for the kitchen.
"Mrs. River, I'll be late. Might need some food."
"I'm your land-mare dear not your housekeeper."
"Something cold will do. John have a cup of tea make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" And he rushed out the kitchen door.
"Look at him all dashing about," said Mrs. River, "My husband was the same way. But your more the sitting down type I can tell." She turned towards the kitchen. "I'll make you that tea, you rest your hoof."
"Damn my hoof!" John yelled, instinctively. "Sorry I am so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing…" he waved his braced hoof for emphasis.
"I understand dear, my wings just like that." She turned to leave again.
"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."
"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper." And she left. John sat there for a moment, then he picked up Mrs. River's discarded newspaper. It was an article about the first three suicides, with a photo of the DI who'd just dashed in. But before he could read further, a voice caught him off guard.
"You're a doctor," Forelock Holmes said, leaning in the doorway, "In fact, you're a Field doctor."
"Yes," John Trottson replied, getting to his hooves.
"Any good?" asked the detective.
"Very good," the doctor replied.
"Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths."
"Mm-hm, yes."
"Bit of trouble too I bet."
"Of course, yes. Enough for a life time. Far too much."
"Wanna see some more?"
"Oh-ho yes." Forelock spun around and left the flat, new assistant in tow. John called out as they left: "Sorry Mrs. River, I'll skip the tea! Heading out!"
"Both of you?" she asked at the bottom of the stairs. Holmes had almost reached the door but he turned around and walked back to her.
"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting around when something fun is going on!" He hugged her quickly then turned back to the door.
"Look at you, all happy, it's not decent," Mrs. River complained, but she couldn't help smiling as they walked out into the street.
"Who cares about decent," asked Forelock, "The game, Mrs. River, is on!" When they stepped out onto the street, Forelock raised a hoof and called: "Taxi!" almost immediately one of the black coaches rumbled up to the curb. He opened the door and they climbed in, headed for Brixton.
The first half of the drive was silent, mostly because Forelock was busy on his smartphone. John kept stealing nervous glances at the stallion he was following to who knows where to investigate a suicide. Eventually, Forelock noticed these sideways glances and put the phone down.
"Okay, you've got questions."
"Yeah, where are we going?"
"Crime scene," Forelock replied, "Next?"
"Who are you, and what do you do?" asked John, curious.
"What do you think?" Hesitantly, John replied, "I'd say private detective."
"But?"
"but the police don't go to private detectives."
"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job."
"What does that mean?"
"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"The police don't consult amateurs," said John, oblivious to who he was talking to. Forelock threw him a "seriously?" look
"When I met you for the first time yesterday I said 'Changelings or Discord.' You seemed surprised."
"Yes how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I saw.
[Flashback to yesterday in the laboratory]
Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room…
"Bit different from my day,"
Said trained at Bart's, so military doctor- obvious. Your tanned except for under your jacket. You've been doing things outside but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan, militaries in Equestria only fighting when Changelings or Discord attack-
[end of flashback]
"so it had to be one of those two," he said, partly finished. There was a brief moment of stunned silence.
"You said I had a therapist," John continued.
"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Forelock said nonchalantly, "Then there's your brother." He held out his hoof for the phone, John pulled it out and showed it to him.
"Your phone, it's expensive. E-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare- you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then." Forelock took the phone and held it in the air with magic. (Yep, I'm guessing at least 50% of you forgot he was a unicorn eh?)
"Scratches, not on many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The stallion sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."
"The engraving," John supplied. The phone was turned over revealing a message on the back that said:
Henry Trottson
From Bella
XXX
"Henry Trottson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young stallion's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a soldier who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is.
"Now Bella, who's Bella? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife not mare friend. She must've given it to him recently- this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then- six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would've kept it, ponies do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants to keep in touch."
"You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you won't go to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."
"Ho,w can you possibly know, about the drinking?" asked John. Forelock smiled, "Shot in the dark, good one though. Power connection: tiny scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night, he goes to plug it in to charge but his hooves are shaking. You never see those on a sober stallion's phone, never see a drained without them." He handed the phone back.
"There you go, you see- you were right," said Forelock Holmes.
"I was right? Right about what?
"The police don't consult amateurs." The was another moment of brief silence.
"That…" John began, pocketing his phone, "Was, amazing." Forelock looked at him, surprised by the sudden compliment.
"Do you think so?"
"Of course it was. That was extraordinary absolutely extraordinary."
"That's not what ponies normally say."
"What do ponies normally say?"
"'Shut up.'" John couldn't help but smile as they pulled up to Laurenston Gardens. Forelock paid the cabbie as they stepped out.
"Did I get anything wrong?" he asked as they trotted towards the crime scene.
"Henry and I don't get on, never have," John said, limping along side Forelock, "Bella and Henry split up three months ago, they're getting a divorce; and Henry's a salty." (Like I said earlier, salt=beer or alcohol in Equestria. Drained=drunk, salty=alcoholic/drinker, etc.)
"Spot on then," Holmes confirmed, looking quite pleased with himself, "I didn't expect to be right about everything."
"And Henry's short for Henrietta" Forelock stopped dead in his tracks. .
"Henry's your sister."
"Look, what exactly am I here for?" asked John, confused.
"Sister!" Forelock said furiously, before continuing to walk.
"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"
"There's always something," the consulting detective muttered to himself as they approached the caution tape outlining the crime scene.
"Hello Freak," Sergeant Sally Donovan said, waiting for them.
"I'm here to see Detective inspector Lestrade," Forelock replied, oblivious to the snide nickname.
"Why?" asked Donovan.
"I was invited."
"Why?"
"I think he wants me to take a look," Forelock replied sarcastically.
"Well you know what I think don't you?"
"Always Sally," he said ducking under the tape. He stopped and took a whiff of the air, "I also know you didn't make it home last night."
"I don't- who's this?" asked Donovan, dodging the remark.
"Colleague of mine, Doctor Trottson," Forelock replied, "Doctor Trottson, Sergeant Sally Donovan, old friend." He said the last part very sarcastically.
"A colleague?" repeated Donovan, "And how do you get a colleague?" She turned to John, "What, did this one follow you home?"
"Would it be better if I just-"
"No," Forelock interrupted lifting the tape so John could walk under. As he did, Donovan pulled out her radio.
"Freak's here, bringing him in," she said as they walked up. Forelock kept looking around, taking everything in, hoofprints in the dirt, smells like perfume and sweat; he kept track of everything, because anything could be important. Another stallion came out of the house as they walked up.
"Ah, Bunsen. Here we are again," Forelock greeted with mock cheer. The forensics earth pony just glared back.
"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated," Bunsen warned, "Are we clear on that?" Forelock smelled the air again and replied, "Quite clear, and was your wife away for long?"
"Oh don't pretend you worked that out. Somepony told you," he scoffed.
"Your deodorant told me that."
"My deodorant?"
"It's for stallions."
"Well, of course it's for stallions! I'm wearing it!"
"So's sergeant Donovan." Bunsen turned around and shared a shocked look with her. Forelock sniffed again, "And I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"
"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply-"
"I'm not implying anything," Forelock replied walking past him, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over," he looked back at them, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors going by the state of her knees." Bunsen and Donovan stared at him in horror, Forelock smiled smugly then enter the house. John followed him into the house shortly after.
The house itself was empty, run down, and in general, old. It must've been one of those flat buildings because it had lots of rooms with kitchen outlets (water pipes) and a spiral staircase in the center leading up three floors. Ponies of all sorts were in every room, photography, searching for clues, doing police stuff. One room had all sorts of, I don't know what to call it, sterile costumes. You had to wear them in the actual crime scene. Blue latex coveralls, DI Lestrade was slipping one on when the detective and assistant entered the room.
"You'll need to wear one of these," Forelock told John, referring to the pile of blue suits.
"Who's this?" asked Lestrade.
"He's with me."
"But who is he?"
"I said, he's with me." John glanced over to Forelock, who wasn't putting on a blue suit but just a pair of gloves.
"Aren't you going to put one on?" he asked. Forelock gave him a stern look as if to say, "Nope!"
"So, where are we?" he asked.
"Upstairs," Lestrade replied.
To be continued in Part two…
Me: and that concludes part one of a Pony in Pink. Don't worry, part two will come soon-ish, updates will be sporadic and random because Sherlock isn't the easiest thing to- *text message signal goes off* Huh?
The text: Storygirl90, have you ever noticed that it seems the people who write in the Sherlock archives can use actual grammar? SH
ME: Oh Sherlock… He's going to be furious when he finds out about this.