NOT What the Doctor Ordered
The day came and went with little incident after Rev. Roundhay left. The next morning, however, did not.
"Mr. Holmes!" The front door burst open, hitting the wall with a sharp Crack!
Sherlock set down his forkful of eggs and looked over the two men who rushed into the room. The reverend was disheveled, panting; the shorter man (most likely the lodger) was very pale and obviously distressed. The detective's face broke into a grin and he gave a low chuckle. A case!
John glanced at his friend, then did a double take. "No! You are not taking this one!"
"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson," Rev. Roundhay apologized, "but we've already called the police and they can't make heads or tails of it."
"Of course they can't," said Sherlock. "Who's dead?"
"M-my sister, and my brothers were d-driven insane," the shorter man said. The reverend patted his shoulder comfortingly.
"Really?" Sherlock's grin grew wider. "This sounds promising!"
"Tone down the excitement, ok?" John muttered. "The poor man's grieving, and you're not taking the case anyway."
"Oh, don't reprimand me when you won't even let me help the poor man. He's grieving, John," the detective said, sending his friend a look of mock concern. The doctor crossed his arms resolutely.
"Please, Doctor Watson. We wouldn't ask if there was another way," begged the reverend.
Wait for it...
"Fine!" There. "As long as you take it easy."
"Yes!" he exclaimed, coughing. "Now-"
"And you have to eat," John interjected.
"Will do. As I was-"
"And sleep."
"Yes, fine." Sherlock waved him off.
"And take paracetamol when I tell you to."
"Sure." He turned to their guests. "If you could-"
"Can I get that in writing?"
"Whatever!" the detective snapped, which prompted a chuckle from the doctor. He turned back. "Sorry about the interruption," John rolled his eyes. "If you could tell me exactly what happened, Mr. …?"
"Tregennis. Marty Tregennis."
"Tell me all you can, Mr. Tregennis."
"Well, my siblings live a ways down the road in a big house. They call it Tredannick Wartha."
"Why do you lodge with Rev. Roundhay if your family has a big house?"
"We had a disagreement a few years back," Mr. Tregennis explained, "so I moved in to Rev. Roundhay's spare room. We eventually solved the argument, but I had gotten used to my freedom and decided to stay with the reverend. Anyway, I made a habit of visiting my siblings every day. We'd sit around the kitchen table and play Euchre.
"Last night was just the same. We sat around the table playing cards until about 10:15, when I decided to turn in for the night and head back to the parsonage.
"This morning, I was going out for a walk and saw Dr. Richards's car pass me on the road. He slowed and rolled down his window, saying that he had received a call from Tredannick Wartha." He swallowed, obviously distressed. "He gave me a ride, and when we got there, the housekeeper (Mrs. Porter) showed us to the kitchen. I walked in and," here he broke down, "saw the three of them: Brittany dead, Owen and George were s-singing and l-laughing. They all had the most h-horrible expressions of sheer terror on their faces." His shoulders shook and Reverend Roundhay patted his shoulder consolingly.
"I take it that you have no theory on the cause of death, then."
Marty Tregennis pulled himself together. "It seems almost… supernatural. Devilish, really, that something could come into that room and scare a woman to death and two grown men out of their minds. How could a human do that?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have yet to observe a crime with a demonic culprit. How far is it to Tredannick Wartha?"
"Not far at all," said Reverend Roundhay. "I can give you directions so you can drive there yourself."
The pastor scribbled down some directions, Sherlock pulled on his coat, and they headed out the door. John, however, stopped halfway down the stairs.
"Sherlock!"
"What is it? Let's go, John!"
"You didn't finish your breakfast."
"And…?"
"You promised you'd eat." John smirked. "So finish eating."
"What? Now? But the game is-"
"On hold. Eat."
"That's ridiculous!"
"If you don't, I might just change my mind…"
Sherlock huffed and stomped back into the cottage. He emerged moments later, holding a plateful of eggs. Shoving them all in his mouth, he made a face at John. "Are you happy now?"
"Yes, actually." They climbed into the car, John in the driver's seat.
"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock snapped.
"I didn't say anything."
"You smirk too loudly."
John just laughed. He knew who had the upper hand here.
JWJWJW
Tada! Finally, someone DIED! (Wow, that sounds evil. Oh well, it means the story's getting interesting.) Btw, I looked it up, and apparently Euchre is played in CORNWALL. (At least, that's what the all-knowing internet tells me. It could be lying.)
Thanks again for all your support! Reviews and follows are always welcome!
~JillianWatson1058