At the Penzance station, Sherlock had really intended to help with the luggage. He really had. But as they walked out onto the platform, he noticed a placard with his name on it and his feet just started walking in that direction, inadvertently leaving Mary to deal with the luggage on her own. The placard was held by a young PC, complete with uniform, standing by a patrol car (much to Sherlock's chagrin); 20 or 21 years of age; recently graduated; still lived with his mother; had two cats; smoked too much, tried to hide it from said Mum; overly-enthusiastic fanboy. This insufferable child introduced himself (Sherlock could not be bothered to remember what he said) and blathered on and on about how honoured he was to meet his idol. Sherlock tuned it all out and just waited for Mary to come and deal with the boy for him. He was thankful to John for many reasons, to be sure, but Sherlock would never forgive the man for making him famous. It was so tedious.

Mary hauled their two cases up to the patrol car, that little muscle in her usually patient face twitching with annoyance. "I'm your doctor, not your bellboy," she muttered at him under her breath and dropping his bag on his foot. "Lazy git!"

"My associate, Dr Watson," Sherlock presented her to the PC grandly, hoping to deflect her irritation into proper channels. It was the boy's fault for distracting him, after all.

"Dr Watson! We weren't expecting you to come, too! I'm so chuffed to meet you! I'm your biggest fan! Alec Gates, my name is," the young man practically swooned.

"Erm, thank you." Mary offered her hand, and he held it much too long for manners.

"I admit, I always thought the famous Dr Watson was a man," Alec said breathlessly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I always thought that, as well," he muttered sarcastically.

Mary opened her mouth to explain, but the hyperactive PC was off, shoving their cases into the backseat of the patrol car and then opening the front passenger door with a dramatic swoop, gesturing Mary inside. She glanced at Sherlock, who was too amused to interfere, and gracefully slid inside. This left the driver's side rear seat for Sherlock to fold his long legs into; but the discomfort was worth the show.

Alec flung himself into the driver's seat and they were off. "I'm to take you to the morgue in Helston first, and then on to the crime scene. The witnesses are meeting us there at 16:00. Dr Watson! I read your blog all the time! I've got all the cases memorized. I've commented more often than any other follower of yours. Perhaps you remember me: I comment under 'numberonefan'."

Mary hid a smile. "Yes, I do remember you, in fact. I'm glad you enjoy the blog. But really. . . ."

"The inspector took the liberty of renting a cottage on Poldhu Bay for Mr. Holmes. It's a one bedroom—I hope that's all right. We weren't expecting you, Doctor, like I said. I suppose other arrangements can be made."

"I'm sure we can work things out, dear," Mary said impatiently. Sherlock was impressed with the condescending way in which she pronounced the word "dear". Strong men would be stung by it. Lesser men would be utterly cowed. The young PC was oblivious.

"I was thinking, maybe you'd like to go to dinner with me tonight, and, you know, talk and stuff," the idiot child continued. "I'd really like a chance to get to know you better."

"Sorry, I really can't, Mr. Gates." Mary waved her left hand in an emphatic gesture, giving the boy every opportunity to view her wedding ring. He could not or would not see it. He also would not give up.

"You can call me Alec," he said generously. "Hey, I never caught your first name."

"Didn't you? And I thought you were a great fan of my blog?" she said superciliously, with another grand sweep of her left hand. She had clearly had enough of this nonsense.

"Well, I assume that's a pen name, seeing as you're a girl."

A girl! Sherlock smirked. Mary was so out of this boy's league—classier, more mature, and infinitely more intelligent.

Alec continued to prove his cluelessness. "If you can't have dinner tonight, maybe we can have coffee in the morning. I never thought I'd meet such a pretty detective."

"You should meet my husband. He's even prettier than I am," Mary replied.

Sherlock was amused to see the boy visibly deflate. "Your husband?"

"My husband. John Watson."

The boy was covered in disappointment. "You're not the real Dr Watson?" he asked, heartbroken.

"I am one of the Doctors Watson," Mary assured him gently. "I have been trying to tell you that all along."

To his credit, the boy took it well. "I apologize for the misunderstanding," he said humbly. "I've just been so . . . chuffed, you know . . . about meeting you, I mean. I got carried away."

"All forgotten. Let's just go on from here, shall we, Alec? My name is Mary, by the way. And you may call that fellow behind you Sherlock."

Suddenly Alec remembered that he had the famous Sherlock Holmes in his patrol car. He began to fire off questions about old cases, but fortunately for them all he did not seem to require answers. His soliloquy lasted the rest of the way to Helston.

000

The deceased, Brenda Tregannis-Sterndale, had been a beautiful woman verging on middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last emotion. Sherlock knew that expression well: the distress of trying desperately to draw a breath into uncooperative lungs.

"Her airways were not obstructed in any way?" he asked and was assured by the pathologist that they were not.

"Lungs are clear, also. No known drugs in her system, either. Not in her digestive tract, not in her nose or throat. No hypodermic marks anywhere," the pathologist continued, as Sherlock studied the body in silence. He motioned to Mary to give her assessment. She did a quick exam and sighed.

"I don't know, Sherlock. She obviously died of asphyxiation, but I can't tell why. There's no bruising around the nose and mouth, no marks of strangulation, no sign of a physical struggle. How she let herself smother without moving from her chair is beyond me. Most people would have flung themselves about madly, trying to breathe."

"Maybe someone sucked all the air out of the room," Alec Gates suggested.

"Don't try to think, PC. It's a pointless exercise," Sherlock snapped.

Mary put a hand on his arm. "Manners, Sherlock," she murmured. To Alec she said, "He needs silence to work at his best. Don't take it personally."

Anyone who had ever read John's blog was aware of Sherlock's eccentricities. Alec nodded sagely. He was seeing a great man at work. It was an honour to be insulted by Sherlock Holmes.

"This is useless. Take us to the scene of the crime, PC," Sherlock said at last, accepting a copy of the official autopsy report.

He fairly flew out of the room but stopped abruptly at the sight of a distinguished-looking, middle-aged gentleman who sat disconsolately on a plastic chair down the hallway. "Who is that?" he demanded.

Alec looked startled. "That's Mr. Sterndale! I thought he was in South Africa," he said exclaimed quietly. "I guess the Inspector got hold of him before he took off. The deceased's husband," he added by way of explanation. "He was in London the night she died, waiting for his flight from Heathrow yesterday. He imports cultural novelties. Sells 'em to rich folk. Quite a market for third world junk, I think."

Sherlock eyed Mr. Sterndale carefully but did not bother to approach him. Everything he needed to know was there in the cut of the man's suit, the state of his shoes, and his haircut. His business was adequate, but he depended on his wife's money for little luxuries; he'd had an affair—no, many affairs—not serious; heavy cigar smoker; came to the morgue straight from the train station. "He hasn't been home since he arrived from London," he concluded. "He's of little use to us at this point in time. Let's go."

000

Tredannick Wollas, a small hamlet near Poldhu Bay, was home to a few hundred permanent residents and a large number of holiday cottages which could be rented by the day, week, month, or season. Formerly a mining town, many of the inhabitants of the area now depended on tourism for their living since the last mine was closed in the late 1990's.

The family of the deceased were among those in the tourist trade. Brenda Tregannis-Sterndale and her three brothers owned a good deal of real estate in the Lizard Peninsula, including a resort hotel and a great many individual rental cottages, both bed-and-breakfast and self-catering. It was at one of these rental cottages that the sister had died and the two brothers had sunk into comas overnight.

Present at this cottage, awaiting Sherlock's arrival on a spacious front porch, were Inspector Parker of the local police; Dr Richards, the Tregannis' attending physician; Mrs. Porter, head of the cleaning crew for the rental properties; the local vicar, a Mr. Roundhay; and Mortimer Tregannis, the last remaining conscious member of his family.

"Mr. Holmes. Thank you for coming to our aid," Inspector Parker began, shaking Sherlock's hand. "And Dr Watson. We weren't expecting you. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"This is a most extraordinary and tragic affair, Mr. Holmes," the little vicar added. "In all England, you are the one man we need."

Sherlock despised niceties. "Clearly, since you have both had this story second-hand, perhaps Mr. Tregannis should do the honour of telling me what happened," he said impatiently.

"Manners," Mary breathed for only Sherlock to hear. "What Sherlock means is, he would like to get started as quickly as possible," she told those gathered.

"Of course, we agree," Inspector Parker said genially, and Mr. Tregannis leaned forward in his chair.

"I. . . I hardly know how to start," he stammered, his face marked with grief.

"I suggest, at the beginning. For example, what were you all doing here when clearly none of you lives here? This is a rental cottage."

Tregannis nodded. "Yes, it's one of the properties we own. Our parents were deeply invested in real estate, Mr. Holmes, and when they died they left all of their properties to the four of us. Together, we have turned them into a decent living. Each of us lives on the site of one of our investments. George lives at the resort hotel. Owen lives by our rental cottages in Helston. I keep our properties at Mullion Cove. Brenda and her husband live here. We have six cottages in the Tredannick Wollas area. Of course, we see each other frequently—Lizard Peninsula isn't huge-but every three months, we get together in one of our properties and talk business and play cards and catch up with each other. We are a close family. It was Brenda's turn to host this time," Tregannis' voice broke. "I should have stayed here with them, but I was tired and wanted to sleep in my own bed. I left them at about 22:30. They were playing cards and laughing." His voice trailed off.

"Show me," Sherlock said abruptly. Mary nudged him. "Please show me where the tragedy took place, Inspector," he amended, scowling at her.

It was a cosy sitting room of a four bedroom cottage, very roomy and comfortably appointed. Chairs and a sofa made a conversation area around the fireplace on one side, and a card table with four chairs around it stood on the other. The chairs had been pushed back, but otherwise the Inspector assured Sherlock that nothing had been touched. The playing cards still lay on the table as if the family had been interrupted in the middle of a game. The windows in the room were shut, but the curtains still open. The lights were still on, and the fireplace doors open, although the fire had long died out.

"Who found the bodies?" Sherlock demanded. Mrs. Porter stepped forward. "I did, Mr. Holmes. I came by to get started on the cleaning. This cottage was to be rented by another family yesterday. We have a great turn-over of guests in this area, and many who return year after year. We are very popular establishment."

Sherlock waved popularity away impatiently. "Yes, yes, but what did you SEE? How were the bodies situated when you found them?"

Mrs. Porter walked around the card table, touching the chairs. "Brenda here, George here, and Owen here. They were slumped over as if they just fallen asleep where they sat. I was that upset, I passed right out on the floor when I saw them. I felt I couldn't breathe properly. When I came back to myself, I called Mortimer immediately, and Doctor Richards. I didn't touch anything."

Mr. Tregannis nodded, "I came over as fast as I could. The doctor and I arrived at nearly the same time. They were sitting exactly as they were when I left them. It was . . . horrifying! Dreadful!"

"I sent for an ambulance immediately," Dr Richards added. "There was nothing I could do for them, here."

"Could the comas be caused by severe hypoxia?" Mary asked.

"Certainly. All the symptoms are consistent with hypoxia," Dr Richards nodded thoughtfully. "But how were they deprived of oxygen? There are no signs of choking or drugs of any kind."

Sherlock steepled his hands and stood in silent thought. His eyes roamed the room, taking in every detail. Finally, he asked, "Your family were in good spirits when you left them?"

"Never better."

"You aren't aware of their being nervous or apprehensive about anything or anyone? They showed no apprehension of coming danger? They had no worries about the future whatsoever?"

"None."

Sherlock picked up some papers on the end table near the sofa. "And yet, here are some business papers that show your properties in Mullion Cove are losing money. Apparently you have been mishandling the accounts and owe money to some questionable people, Mr. Tregannis. Your excessive drinking caused you to make poor decisions, perhaps?"

Mr. Tregannis gasped. "How could you tell all this from those papers?"

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Please," he said snidely. "So you argued and finally left them in a huff. Did they threaten to take your share of the properties away from you?"

Mr. Tregannis paled and sat down heavily. "No, no, it wasn't like that," he said faintly.

The little vicar stepped up then. "You must understand, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregannis is under treatment for his . . . problem. He's been through rehabilitation, and I am presently seeing him every day to help him continue to improve. He hasn't had a drink in months."

"They were upset," Mr. Tregannis admitted. "I had made a bungle of it, I admit. I had hidden my failures from them for some time, and they were unhappy to learn the truth. And I was ashamed. I left because I could not face them. But they were giving me another chance. We were putting together a recovery plan."

"Hmm," Sherlock looked the man up and down thoughtfully. Then he swooped down at the fireplace and sniffed and poked the ashes. "You had a fire here last night."

"Yes, the night was cool and damp."

"And you used all the wood in your log carrier," he indicated the empty canvas carrier on the floor beside the hearth.

"Yes, Owen put on the last of the logs just as I was leaving."

Sherlock sighed. "I need a pack of cigarettes," he muttered to himself. "No, I need three." Aloud he pronounced, "Dr Watson and I would like to go on to our accommodations if you would be so kind, PC. I need to think."

000

Their cottage was much smaller than the one in which the Tregannis family tragedy had taken place. Sherlock frowned. One bedroom, one combination sitting room and kitchen, one loo. It was fine for him, but what about Mary?

Mary seemed perfectly happy. "This is adorable!" she exclaimed. The small kitchen was stocked with a few foodstuffs for their use, and she crowed with happiness when she found the tea. "Oh, this will be very nice!" she assured Alec. "We'll be quite comfortable here."

It took several minutes to persuade the overly-helpful PC to leave. By that time, dusk was falling. "I'm taking a bath straight away," Mary announced. "I feel entirely filthy. I'll fix our dinner after."

"Take your time. I need quiet to think," Sherlock said tersely. He went out into the little garden in front of the cottage and sat on a bench, staring out into the gathering gloom on the moors.

But it was not to be. A figure approached down the lane, revealing itself to be the gentleman they had seen in Helston earlier that day. Sherlock rose to meet him.

"Mr. Sterndale," he intoned.

"Mr. Holmes," the man replied. He had a cigar in his mouth, and he offered Sherlock one. Sherlock lit up gratefully.

"I'm afraid my colleague will not approve," he commented wryly.

"Yes, the beautiful Dr Watson," Mr. Sterndale said. "PC Gates was telling me about her. I am all agog to meet her."

Sherlock did not like the lascivious look in the man's eye as he said this, and he was curious. Why should he care if a man looked lustfully at Mary? This is what it feels like to have a sister, he concluded, and was grateful that he'd spent his life till now without one. He did not like this feeling—this protective instinct that rose up in him. It was annoying.

"Mrs. Watson is indisposed," he said dryly. "Have a seat out here, Mr. Sterndale, and tell me what brings you here."

"Mrs. Watson, eh?" the insufferable letch grinned. "Looks after you, does she? Takes care of all your needs?"

"Dr Watson is generously committing her time here to helping solve the mystery of your wife's death, Mr. Sterndale," Sherlock said severely. "She and I could simply return to London if you feel this is not a noble cause."

Mr. Sterndale, although he did not look truly abashed, at least had the decency to pretend to look abashed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, you are right, of course. My poor, poor Brenda. I came as soon as the vicar called me. A moment later and I would have been on the plane to South Africa."

"I understand you buy trinkets in third world countries to sell at exorbitant mark-up prices," Sherlock said, still irritated.

"Oh, yes, it's an interesting trade. It's amazing what people will pay for junk, if you advertise it just so."

"And you were in London the night of this tragedy?"

"Yes. I had a flight out of Heathrow that day, so I spent the night in London. I took the first train back here as soon as I heard the news. I was hoping you could ease my mind by telling me if you have made any inroads into solving this mystery."

Sherlock puffed on the cigar for a moment. "I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject, but I have every hope of reaching a conclusion very soon. It would be premature to say more."

"Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?"

"I can tell you nothing whatsoever."

"Then I am wasting my time, and yours," Mr. Sterndale sighed. He rose from the bench. "I suppose I will be seeing you and your Dr Watson another time, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock watched him leave, smoking and thinking furiously. He needed to follow the man surreptitiously. But what should he do about Mary? John he would have dragged along with him—directly from his bath if need be. But he was not sure about Mary. He told himself that he did not have time to wait for her to dress—but the truth was, he was afraid she might be hurt and could not bring himself to take the risk. After five minutes went by, he rose and followed his quarry, silent as the night.

000

Three hours later, he walked into their little cottage and realized he had made a grave error in judgment. Mary was furious. He could tell this even before she turned around to face him, and when she did turn around, he also turned around to go back out the door again.

"Stop right there!" Mary said sternly. He stopped but did not turn around to face her. Mary never got angry with him, not really. This was new. He did not want to know what Mary's wrath would be like.

"Where have you been? Why did you just swan off like that without a word? How am I supposed to watch your back if I don't have any idea where your back is?"

"You were in the bath. I didn't want to disturb you."

"Voices carry through doors, Sherlock! You could have told me you were going. You could have left a note. You could have sent a text. You turned your phone off! You left the gun on the bed! Are we working together, or not? Because I thought you needed an assistant," Mary was cooling off now, sitting in a chair and running her hand over her flushed face. He realized with a shock that she was not really angry at all, but afraid. It had never occurred to him that she would feel as responsible for his safety as he did about hers.

"I was following a suspect. I didn't have time to return to the cottage first. I had to turn my phone off in case a call should tip the man off that he was being followed. I didn't mean to worry you."

"I should hope not," she huffed. "What on earth could I tell John if I lost you? What could I tell Mycroft?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Sherlock admitted. "I didn't take you with me because I was afraid of what John would do if anything happened to you."

Mary laughed suddenly, her good humour returning like the sun bursting through a storm cloud. "We're in the same boat, aren't we? If anything happens to one of us, John will kill the other. Either way, we're both dead. We're better off sticking together, don't you think? At least, keep me in the loop, so I'll know what's going on, all right?"

Sherlock nodded and began making good on that promise at once by telling her about the visit by Mr. Sterndale. Mary listened as she heated up a tin of soup and cut sandwiches and heated the kettle.

"I followed him all the way to the cottage where his wife died. The curtains were still drawn aside, and I could see him examining the fireplace. Then he went home. I watched him sit and smoke cigars for a bit, but it seemed he was done for the night, so I came on back."

Mary set a bowl of soup, a sandwich, and a cup of tea in front of him and thoughtfully bit into a sandwich herself. "Why the fireplace? They were sitting at the table on the other side of the room."

"Why did Brenda die and not her brothers? She was closer to the fire than they were. That is the only difference in their situations."

"There was something burning in the fireplace that caused this? What? And how did it get there?"

Sherlock shook his head. He needed to order his thoughts. He drank the tea, pushed the food away untasted, and settled on the couch to meditate, his hands steepled beneath his chin. He never noticed when Mary went to bed.

The sun was just rising when they both were aroused by the excited voice of the vicar outside, calling to them. "Mr. Holmes! Dr Watson! My poor parish is devil-ridden! Satan himself is loose in it! There's been another death! Mortimer Tregannis has died in the night!"