Pondering Potatoes

"This is getting fun!" Sherlock burst out of the door, John trailing behind him, as always.

"Creepy, more like."

"Really, John, you can't seriously be coming to the conclusion that this was something supernatural," he scoffed.

"Well, you have to admit that this whole situation's a bit strange."

"What do you think happened, then?" asked Sherlock, crouching to look at a flowerbed underneath the kitchen window.

"Well," John thought about it for a minute, "Marty saw something outside the window, right? Maybe it was, I don't know, some creature-"

"A creature that can kill a woman and scare two grown men into insanity?"

"Yes!" The doctor crossed his arms defensively. "It's… possible."

"I'm afraid I see some problems with your theory, John," said the detective, standing up again.

"How did I know you were going to say that?"

"Although, 'some' is an understatement," he continued. "Even after you get around the obvious difficulty of supplying some ghastly creature that inspires terror, it was raining so hard last night that the only way to see this creature would be if it was directly up against the window. However, nothing was up against the window last night, because there are no footprints or indentations in the flowerbed."

Smirking, John commented, "Maybe it can fly?"

"Now you're just being purposely daft. Instead of the demon hound of Baskerville, we have a demon bird of Cornwall?"

"Well, it doesn't have to be a bird. If it's supernatural, why would it need to walk in the first place?"

"Please, what personal vendetta could a demon have against three people in Cornwall? Is Euchre a deadly sin now? Funny, too, that a supernatural creature would be kind enough to wait until Marty Tregennis had left before it struck."

"Alright, alright!" The doctor held up his hands in mock defeat. "You win. I was only joking, anyway."

"Obviously. Even you aren't quite that big of an idot."

"Even me? Quite? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means exactly what I said."

"I'm glad you have such a high opinion of my intelligence. Anyway, it doesn't have to be supernatural to be creepy."

Ignoring this, Sherlock moved down the path. "Judging by the footprints, Marty Tregennis walked swiftly away from the house last night, and no one came or went after him. Whoever, or whatever, killed Brittany and drove her brothers insane was already in the house."

"So, now that you've killed my theory, what do you think happened last night?"

"It's too soon to know for sure; simply not enough facts."

"In that case," said John, checking his watch, "we might as well take a break for lunch."

"Which is clearly an order meant to look- unsuccessfully, I might add- like a suggestion. I assume I have no choice?"

"You can choose what we eat," he smirked, "but yeah. No choice."

JWJWJW

Due to the lack of nearby Chinese takeaway, Sherlock opted for soup. While John rummaged around the cupboards, the lanky detective sprawled on the sofa. Suddenly, they heard three sharp knocks on the door.

"Really?" John stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Can anyone not visit during a meal?"

"It's open!" called Sherlock, not moving from his position on the sofa.

A tall man with tan skin and bleached blonde hair walked into the room. Tall, thin, and muscular, he cut an impressive figure in the sitting room. He looked between the two men. "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, unsure of whom he should be addressing.

"That would be me." Sherlock raised his hand lazily. "And you must be Curtis Leo, correct?"

The man's jaw dropped, taking away a bit of his impressiveness, his eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. "How?"

"It's blatantly obvious, really. Only a few people live in this remote area, even fewer who know- and dare I say care- about the fate of the Tregennises. Coupled with the fact that you've been abroad very recently- your tan and the ticket stub in your pocket tell me that- the only man you could be is Curtis Leo. As I said: obvious."

"Right on all accounts," he said, sitting down in an empty chair, bouncing his leg nervously. "I came back from Africa because Rev. Roundhay told me about…" he swallowed, "…what happened. I figured I would come for the… funeral," he managed to choked out, "and drop by to see how the investigation about my fiancé's death was going. Do you have any theories, Mr. Holmes?"

"Starting to. It's too soon to know for sure. You wouldn't happen to know any new facts, would you?"

"How could I?" His leg continued to bounce. "I was halfway to Africa when I got the call; I booked the first available flight back. Can you tell me your theory?"

"Why should I?"

The botanist's eyebrows rose in surprise. Clearly, he was a man used to getting his own way. "Because I'm an interested party."

"I won't tell you my theory, since you obviously have your own and refuse to say it. However, I will tell you that there was a potato in the oven, and Mrs. Porter didn't put it there."

"A potato?" The nervous knee-bouncing ceased.

"Yes."

"That's all you'll tell me."

"Yes, unless you tell me something in return."

"I have nothing to tell!" Leo exclaimed. "Stop implying that I do!"

"Oh, please. You're not convincing anyone."

Mr. Leo rose to his feet. "I won't stay here and be insulted!"

"Then leave."

"I will!"

"Please do."

After the man stormed out of the room and gave the door a beating, John turned to his friend. "Well, you were certainly impolite."

"Was I supposed to play the 'charming host' for a man who willingly withheld important information?"

"No, but you could at least be civil." The doctor crossed his arms. "How did you know that he was withholding information, anyway?"

"He wasn't just here because he wanted peace of mind about how his fiancé died; there was none of the usual blabbing about how shocking the whole thing was, no 'Why them? Why her?' drivel. His body language said that he was nervous, not grieving, and he was very adamant about hearing my theory. Conclusion: He knows more than we do and wanted to see how far I had gotten. Your soup's boiling over, by the way."

"What?" John quickly looked back into the kitchen, groaning at the foamy sight that greeted him on the stove. "No!" He quickly removed the pot to a different burner, switching off the heat. "Well, lunch is ready!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Wonderful."

Thankfully, most of the soup was still salvageable, and the doctor spooned it into two large bowls.

As John set a steaming bowl on the coffee table, the detective sat up. "Potato soup, how fitting."

"Why are you so fixated on that potato?" the doctor asked, sitting down with his own.

"It's an important potato. Did you notice how Marty Tregennis quickly changed the subject after I mentioned it?"

"No, I didn't. Does it tell us anything?"

"Most definitely."

"Ok, good." After a brief pause, John asked, "What does it tell us?"

"Not sure yet."

"Yes, I can see that it's a very important potato, then. Eat your soup."

This earned him a glare, but Sherlock did as he was told. "Well," he said, after finishing several spoonfuls, "it's not horrible."

"Thank you," John rolled his eyes, "I will cherish that comment. So, you said that Marty Tregennis was acting suspicious. Do you think he's the murderer?"

"Could be." He finished his bowl. "Now, shut up; I need to think," he said, lying back down on the sofa, putting his hand together underneath his chin.

Knowing that any subsequent attempts at conversation would be useless, John left the room, taking the empty bowls with him.

JWJWJW

"Sherlock, you need to eat."

"But I just ate!" He opened his eyes, abruptly coming back to reality. He was still lying in the same position.

"That was four hours ago," John said, crossing his arms.

"It was?"

"Yes. Are you feeling ok?" His hand reached for his friend's forehead.

"I'm fine. You know that I never keep track of time when I'm thinking." He tried to push the doctor's hand away, but to no avail.

"And you know that you're not fine. I think you overdid it today," John frowned, taking his hand back. "I want you to take a paracetamol with dinner, ok?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, sir. What is for dinner, anyway?"

"Pizza. Did you know that this cottage has a time-bake oven?"

"A time-bake oven?"

"Yeah, it's one of those where you can set the clock for what time you need the oven to turn on, and then set another clock for what time it needs to turn off."

"So you don't have to worry about burning your food? Maybe you should ask Mycroft for a time-bake stove."

"Exactly! Do you think he'd get me one?"He walked into the kitchen, opening the oven. "Do you prefer pepperoni or Hawaiian?"

"I'd prefer not to eat anything."

"Not an option. You're getting pepperoni."

They ate in a companionable silence, John growing more and more amused as he saw his friend grow more and more tired. After his friend's head threatened to land in his plate of pizza for a second time, the doctor hauled Sherlock up by his arm.

"What are you doing?" Confused, the detective blinked.

"Putting you to bed."

"I'm not tired!" he protested.

"I'm sure you're not." John led his friend down the short hall to Sherlock's bedroom, opening the door. "You just happened to use your plate as a pillow."

"I need to think!"

"You've thought quite enough for today." John dumped Sherlock onto the bed.

Lying face down on the sheets, the detective gave a muffled, "I don't need sleep."

"Yes, you do. Good night!" Quietly, the doctor shut the door.

JWJWJW

Sherlock awoke with a start. His room was still dark, but a watery light was starting to seep through the curtains. A sound reached his ears: someone was banging on the door to the cottage. Pulling on his dressing gown, the detective pushed open his bedroom door, finding his way down the darkened hallway.

The pounding came again. Lifting the curtain on the front door window, he saw a man standing there. He wrenched open the door.

"Reverend Roundhay?"

The kind man rubbed his hands together, clearly agitated. "It's Marty Tregennis, he's…"

"Yes?" Sherlock looked at him with interest. "He's what?"

"He's dead."

JWJWJW

Yay! Another chapter! Woohoo! Life is- guess what- still busy! I'm now memorizing lines for The Wizard of Oz (my school is doing it for the spring play).

Thank you again for all the support! I really can't say this enough: you guys are amazing! I'll try my best for the next update, but, as usual, I make no promises on when it will be finished. I hope you've enjoyed the story so far- I know I have! As always, reviews/follows/favorites are wonderful.

Special thanks to Meredith, who gave me a chapter title

Thanks for reading!