Shabbily dressed in faded jeans and a bleach-spotted jumper, and dark-shouldered with the rain, the giant of a man thumped into the room without waiting for either invitation or introduction. Watson stepped between Holmes and the stranger.

"Bill? You free?" the man called, rubbing a meaty hand over his thick black beard. "Been looking everywhere for you…favour to ask."

The man stopped and processed, belatedly, that the vicar wasn't alone. His manner changed in an instant, though he remained no less intimidating a figure.

"Ah. Guests, William? Sorry for barging in. I thought you didn't have anyone staying this week."

"I hadn't until yesterday! Doctor Leon Sterndale, may I please introduce Mr Sherlock Holmes and his frien…ah…hm…companion, Mr Watson. They've just arrived from London."
"Doctor, actually," John piped up, moving forward and offering his hand to Sterndale. "A colleague, I see."

"No."

The word was uttered by Leon Sterndale and Sherlock simultaneously, which put a tang of aggression in the air.

"Anthropology, in fact," Sterndale offered, looking to Holmes rather than to Watson.

"I know," Holmes replied.

"Pleased to meet you. I've heard your name, Mr Holmes."

"Yes, and we've heard yours. William mentioned you in connection with the business which brought us here. It was your window, was it not, which was broken last week?"

"It was. Damn nuisance that it should happen now."

"Understandable. Domestic repairs, and so near to your departure. Are you to be long in Africa, Doctor Sterndale?"

"Here we go," Watson sighed with weary exasperation.

"What?" Sterndale barked. "Roundhay, you've told—"

"No, no indeed, I haven't!" the vicar replied with glee in his expression.

Sterndale laughed brusquely and extended his hand to Holmes. "The papers have it right, then, Mr Holmes. How do you know I'm going to Kenya?

"Oh, you would ask, wouldn't you?" Watson breathed to himself, and Sterndale glanced sharply across at him. Sherlock inhaled audibly.

"Don't be alarmed, Dr Sterndale. The signs present themselves quite clearly. That you're on the brink of leaving the country is simple enough to see. You are educated and evidently well off, however your clothing is evidently worn: these are the things you grub around in – not what you would casually wear in company had you any other choice. Your usual wardrobe, then, is unavailable; probably packed into your luggage, ready for departure. You have a list protruding from your coat pocket, well handled. That it's so near at hand suggests you've been consulting it regularly; in fact, you were putting it back into your pocket as you came through the door. This list is evidently important, probably a list of tasks you need to complete before you leave. The first two at least, 'cancel newspaper' and 'gas meter reading', suggest a departure from home. Indeed, with all visible items on that list crossed out in pencil – that very stub of pencil that you have wedged behind your ear - you must be nearing the end of the list: also a sign of your imminent departure."

"So why Africa? I could be going to Chicago."

"Please…an easier point to discover than the last. Your face and hands, though not currently tanned, show the kind of damage caused by prolonged exposure to intense sun. You have spent much of your life near the equator, but not recently. People are creatures of habit, Dr Sterndale, their lives running in circles. You're likely returning to a place you've gone many times before. Why Africa, then, instead of some other tropical place? Your keychain, the one I see sticking out of the pocket of your jeans, has a curious memento hanging from it. If I'm not mistaken, it's the canine tooth of a lion set in gold. Now, you can buy such trinkets if you know the right sources and have the means, but this tooth shines with the polish of long handling – you finger it regularly, as though it has some special importance to you. In taking your hand when you entered, I noticed that the flesh at the base of your right thumb bears a deep scar – a scar that might be caused by the puncture of just such a tooth as you have - simple, then, to assume that the tooth is a trophy from a personal and harrowing encounter with the very beast from which it came. There are other signs, of course, but these are enough to leave me certain of your plans."

The silence left in the wake of Holmes' demonstration had a buzzing energy all of its own. Watson unzipped his jacket and pressed his cold hands to his damp and ruddy neck, struggling between exasperation and pride. His heart was racing and he felt a great stirring deep inside him that would take a long walk to settle down again. Sterndale was at first unreadable, though he soon broke into a bearlike grin.

"You are a magician, Mr Holmes." He shook Sherlock's hand a second time. "Correct on every point!"

"Didn't I tell you, Leon?"

"I hardly liked to hope, Bill! Well, Mr Holmes? What of our troubles, eh? I'm sorry that I shall be so soon away. Ordinarily, I'd offer my help. I want to know what's happening in our little village here."

"Sherlock will give what time he can to the case, Doctor Sterndale, though he's mainly here to—" Watson began, feeling more than ever like an assistant…a handler.

"I expect to have the problem fully in hand in short order, Dr Sterndale."

John turned to challenge Holmes. "It's his first priority, though, to rest. Sherlock's health has been suffering."

"Nonsense, John! I've never been happier. It'll be my pleasure to set things right in Tregannick, if I can."

"Oh, you can, Mr Sherlock, I'm sure of it!" the vicar interjected.

A sudden face at the window behind Sherlock sent John's heart skyrocketing and brought an uncontrolled yelp from his throat. It was the face of a young man, who waved at the vicar through the rain-streaked glass. William beckoned him in. The slender youth shook out his umbrella and stepped quietly into the hall, where he remained, the sitting room being now too full to comfortably accept him.

"Hullo! I hope you don't mind my coming in. Sorry about the rain," the youth began in a quiet, lilting voice. "Hello, Leon."

"Mortimer!" the vicar said. "Good timing! May I introduce Mr Sherlock Holmes, Mortimer, and his… this is his compani…er…friend, Doctor Watson – beg pardon! Gentlemen, this is Mortimer Tregennis. Sherlock's come because of my letter, Mortimer!"

"I see. I hope you haven't had too bad a journey, Mr Holmes. Trains to Cornwall are notorious."

"It wasn't a bad trip." Watson interjected, feeling himself at risk of fading into the wallpaper. Holmes was a hound on the scent, forgoing niceties.

"Are you Mr Tregennis of Tregannick Wartha, where there's been some trouble with a peeping tom?"

"That is my family, Mr Holmes, yes. My brothers and sister live in that house. They built it five years ago – just off the road to Pendrick Bay. They tore a lovely old home down to build it, too. It's the stupidly big one with the lights never off. You can see a mile out at sea. No wonder they get the wrong sort of attention."

Mortimer gave a chuckle, though the vicar remained sober-faced.

"I don't know how you can rest easy, my boy! There's something nasty in the area! Isn't that right, Leon?"

The huge man grumbled his agreement.

"Mortimer lodges with me, Mr Holmes," the vicar continued. "My house is too big for just an old codger to live there by himself."

Mortimer picked up his umbrella again and shuffled his feet.

"I'm sorry for barging in. I won't keep you. I only stopped because I was looking for you, William. You weren't answering your phone."

"It never gets a signal down here."

"Right. I wanted to ask if I could borrow your car tonight. I'm going to dinner at my brothers'."

"In the evening? This evening?"

"Well, William, that is when people usually eat dinner. I can wait until morning, but it would probably have gone cold by then."

"Oh, go on. Make fun of an old man's fears. That's right!"

"And I think it's going to rain."

"Y-fine. Fine! Come back up to the house with me. I'll give you the keys before I forget. But I don't like to think of you up there on that lonely road with a fiend on the loose, be it from this world or the next!"

Leon Sterndale said he had to be on his way as well, and the three men filed out the door, the vicar shouting housekeeping pointers as he went. When the door closed behind him, a sudden stillness moved in. Quiet at last, the cottage seemed no bigger now that there were just the two of them inside.

Though the day was still crawling towards noon, the sky was darker, even, than it had been on their arrival. Rain pelted the wobbly old glass of the front window, and Holmes peered through it as best he could, watching the strange assemblage of characters hurrying on their way down the ancient lane, until they disappeared around a corner.

Holmes then turned into the room, switched on a few lamps, and flung himself into the only armchair. He pulled a pen and his little notebook from his trouser pocket and began scribbling.

Watson found himself, for the second time in two days, standing in the kitchen doorway and glaring at Holmes, willing him to read his thoughts. He hadn't even had the luxury of time to remove his jacket. He could feel the book in his pocket pressing over his heart.

"One hour."

"Did you say something?"

"I was hoping for a single hour, Sherlock, before you launched yourself into this, whatever this is, this problem. Maybe long enough to read a newspaper."

"Mm-hmm."

"Or-or walk down to the harbour, kick a few stones-"

"That so?"

"-and get our bearings. Maybe even enough time for a cup of coffee."

"Go ahead, John. Do. Though none for me, thank you."

"Insteadinstead, you show off to this Doctor Sterndale.

"Interesting man."

"Yes, and he's going to Africa, apparently."

"A simple enough deduction."

"Simple?"

"For me."

"But what has it got to do, with-with anything that matters, Sherlock?"

Holmes began to come around to the conversation as it met with his current mental occupation.

"So difficult to tell at first."

"Nothing, Sherlock, you bloody show-off. It has no bearing at all. You tax yourself, demonstrate your 'terrible powers' as you would have it, astonish the locals and – and for what? May I remind you—"

"Remind me."

"-that you are, firstly, here for your own health, that you're not yourself, that you shouldn't be overworking your brain-"

"I'm not overworking my brain."

"-but you should be giving yourself a rest-"

"I'm not overworking! John-"

"-for my sake, for the sake of our friendship, Sherlock, if not for your own health."

"Sit down, will you?"

"I'm tired, Sherlock."

"I know."

"I'm so tired."

"Sit. Please."

"Of this. Of this constant-"

"I have no intention to do anything more on the case for the rest of the day."

The silence which followed had the faintest scent of understanding. The rain continued to tap icily at the window. John remained where he was, but he moved his hands to his back pockets and studied the slate floor.

"No?"

"Definitely not. What case have we got at present? Well?"

"Well-"

"Nothing! A break-in and a superstitious priest."

"I suppose-"

"Have we?"

"No, I suppose that's true enough."

"It's quite true. Remember that it was William's fear of evils to come that piqued my interest, rather than the petty points he reluctantly divulged in the letter."

"I'm not sure about reluctantly," John replied, beginning to relax. "The man's the human equivalent of popcorn."

"We wait. To let the brain work without material really is like racing an engine. It shakes itself apart. The sea air, rain," he said with a flourishing gesture, "in place of sunshine, and patience, John - all else will come.

"Right. Good," he whispered, feeling the knots in his stomach begin to loosen. "Good."

Holmes continued writing.

"Though, perhaps you'd be kind enough to see if there is coffee to be had. The stuff on the train was dismal, and it's been a tedious morning."

"Hasn't it just. I'll take our things upstairs first, if you don't mind."

Holmes made no reply and, not expecting one, John did as he liked. He lugged their bags up the narrow, twisting stair, found the door of one bedroom open, threw Sherlock's bag onto the bed, then went to find a second bedroom for himself.

There wasn't one.

"Sherlock!"


Undecided which should be heavier from now on: the 'mystery' or the 'romance' elements. Have an opinion? Want to see something specific? Leave a comment! Thx. :)