A Solution

Sherlock met John just as he was walking back out of the cottage. The doctor glared at his friend. "I thought I told you to stay put!"

"Did you seriously expect me to do that?" The detective raised an eyebrow.

"No," his friend conceded. "You really should sit down, though. You look like you're about to fall over."

"I'm fine."

"Aren't you always?" John rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"We need to," the detective cleared his throat, "talk to Curtis Leo."

"Not right now, we don't."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Why not?"

"In case it slipped your brilliant mind, you haven't eaten a meal yet today, so-"

"Really, John, not this again," he interjected, coughing several times. "I've eaten everything you've asked me to thus far; surely I can manage to skip one meal." Seeing that John wasn't about to give in, he tried a different tactic. "Don't you want to know who the murderer is? Although, I suppose, the question's all wrong, when you think about it…"

"What do you mean, the que- no. No, you're eating something."

"Don't you want to find out the solution, John?" He could tell his friend was wavering.

"Of course I- wait. Do you know who the killer is?"

"You're asking all the wrong questions, honestly."

"What does that even- no, no, you're not going to distract me. Do you know who the killers are?"

"Still doesn't quite work, I'm afraid."

"Quite? Do you know who the killer-"

"Still no."

"Ok," John tried again. "Do you or do you not know who the murderer or murderers or non-murderers or possible murderer or murderers are, were, or ever shall be?"

He smirked. "Yes, I do know."

"Is he, she, they, or it likely to kill again?"

"No."

"Then we have time for breakfast."

"But…" there had to be some other excuse. Yes, that would work. "The kitchen's still filled with an unidentified poison."

"Then we'll eat in the sitting room." The doctor grabbed his protesting friend's arm and dragged him down the short hall, depositing him on one of the overstuffed armchairs.

Sherlock watched his friend duck into the kitchen. When he emerged from the smoky room moments later, coughing, he commented, "You don't sound too good, John. Are you coming down with something?"

"Oh, shut up!" He set some sandwich supplies on the coffee table. Looking at his friend, he realized, unsurprisingly, that the poison definitely hadn't helped the detective's health. The man was even paler than usual, and his cheeks were flushed. "Here," he tossed his friend the container of paracetamol, and the detective barely caught it. Definitely not feeling one hundred percent, then. They assembled their sandwiches, with Sherlock scarfing down his entire sandwich in the time it took John to make his.

While the detective waited for his friend to finish, he picked up his mobile phone.

"Who are you calling?" the doctor asked, chewing on a mouthful of meat and cheese.

"Mrs. Porter. Ah, hello!"

"Hello? Is this the detective bloke?"

"Yes, it is. I just had one question-"

"Have you taken anything for your cough, young man? You sound a bit hoarse."

"I'm fine, thank you. I was just wondering, do you have a time-bake oven at Tredannick Wartha?"

"It just so happens that we do. Is it very important?"

"Quite. Thank you, Mrs. Porter."

"You're very welcome, dear."

He hung up. "Are you almost finished?" Sherlock tapped his fingers on the chair's armrest.

"Patience is a virtue," John said, savoring his lunch.

"Can you at least eat faster? I swear, Mycroft could finish eating a cake in the time it's taking you to eat that sandwich!"

"I don't doubt that," he commented, finishing the last bite.

"Good, you're done! Let's go, John!"

JWJWJW

"Yes?" Curtis Leo slowly opened the door to see the two men. "Are you alright, Mr. Holmes? You don't look too good."

"It's nothing," he waved it off, prompting an eye roll from John. "We're here about a poison, and it would be in your best interests to let us in."

At the look on Sherlock's face and John's crossed arms, he quickly glanced around. "Come in."

They entered a slightly cramped sitting room, the grey walls and grey chairs showing Leo's preference for function over fashion. The chairs were arranged in a half circle, two easy chairs on either side of a small sofa. As John sat down in one of the easy chairs, he saw the only picture in the room, a small photo in a plain wooden frame. It was of a grinning Leo, who had his arm around a beautiful woman, made even more beautiful by the smile gracing her features. She reminded John of Marty Tregennis, so he assumed she was the dead sister. The two looked so at ease, a striking contrast to the careworn man seating himself on the sofa. He looked as if he had aged a lifetime from the man in the photograph.

Sherlock seated himself on the other armchair and leaned back, fingertips together underneath his chin.

Leo's eyes shifted nervously back and forth between the two men. "What's all this about?"

"You know perfectly well what this is about," said Sherlock.

"I don't think I do."

"That's a poor attempt at a lie and you know it. We are here because of the death of Marty Tregennis."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"Oh, please, there's enough stupidity in the world already without you acting dafter than you are! I'll spell it out for you. I know that you killed Marty Tregennis."

"Wait, what?" John looked up in confusion. "He killed the Tregennises? But, he was in Africa when the first murder took place. And I thought he was in love with Brittany!"

Leo's face filled with rage. "I didn't kill Brittany! I would never to anything to hurt her."

"But you don't deny killing Marty?" Sherlock pressed.

Leo put his head in his hands, the very picture of a beaten man. He sighed. "How did you find out?"

"Now, just a minute," John still looked perplexed. "If he didn't kill Brittany Tregennis, then who did?"

"Marty, obviously." The detective rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yes," muttered the doctor. "Obviously. Exactly how is that obvious?"

"Marty," Sherlock explained, "was the only one who stood to benefit from his siblings' deaths and/or incapacitation. He also tried- unsuccessfully, I might add- to cover up the potato in the oven. Not only that, but he had opportunity."

"But, he had already left the house when the poison started burning, and the oven was off in the morning. How…?"

"A time-bake oven, John. Surely you remember me calling Mrs. Porter to ask about it? He set the timer to make the oven turn on and off, made sure to leave just before the poison started bake, and, when the victims were discovered the next morning, the oven had shut off by itself, and no one- well, almost no one- was the wiser. But you were the wiser, weren't you, Mr. Leo?"

The man just nodded mutely.

"You knew more than I did from the start, and, when the very man I was about to accuse of murder was found dead, it wasn't a very difficult leap to know who was behind Marty's death. You couldn't have (and wouldn't have, in any case) committed the first murder, but there was no question that you committed the second. You heard about your fiancé's murder when Rev. Roundhay called you, correct? He told you the whole situation, all the symptoms, and it sounded familiar. You knew exactly who had done it and how. Would you like to take it from here, or shall I continue?"

Sighing, Leo lifted his head from his hands. "You're completely right. As soon as Rev. Roundhay called me, I knew it was Marty.

"Since I was engaged to his sister, I had tried to get in his good books, or at least get him to be civil to me. I tried playing Euchre with them, which was how I found out about the rivalry. I know Marty probably claimed to you that things were all settled now, but that really couldn't be further from the truth. Even while just playing cards with them, I could feel the animosity just beneath the surface of their fake smiles. I never quite figured out what it was about, but I know I was something about the inheritance." He shook his head in disgust. "He killed them for money," he spat.

After a short pause, he continued. "Anyway, in order to try and earn Marty's friendship, I decided to show him my greenhouse. He acted rather bored the whole time, until I showed him my more poisonous plants. Wanting to earn his trust, I answered all his questions, glad that he was interested- or so I thought- in my occupation.

"The dirty little weasel waited until I had left for Africa, and then he struck. I don't even know when he had time to steal the plant; I had my eye on him the whole time he was in my greenhouse."

A sudden thought struck John. "I think I can fill in that detail. The first night we were here, I looked out the window and saw someone walking on the other side of the bay. It must have been Marty, walking back from breaking into your greenhouse."

"You're probably right," said Leo. "After the call, I rushed back to confirm my suspicions, and they were certainly confirmed."

"Why didn't you just tell the police that he killed them?" asked the doctor.

"Who would believe my story about a mysterious poison in the oven? Besides that, even if he was convicted, there isn't even a death penalty in Britain. He killed Brittany. I wanted justice for her death, and I decided to bring it about myself. I'm not proud of it; I'm really not. But, you can't even begin to imagine the horrid death Marty put her through." His eyes blazed.

"Strangely enough," John interjected, "I think we can, seeing as we almost went through the exact same death she did."

Leo's head shot up. "What?"

"I found a remnant of the plant," Sherlock explained, "in the oven at Rev. Roundhay's house."

"And then he thought it would be a brilliant idea to burn it in our kitchen to see if it was lethal."

"I told you, there was no other way!" the detective exclaimed, coughing.

"Then you know why he had to pay," the botanist continued, his face hardening again. "I drove to the Roundhay house in the middle of the night and-"

"Texted Marty," Sherlock cut in, "telling him to come down to the kitchen. You then proceeded to take his phone. Yes, we know that much. How did you get him to stay in the kitchen and not try to escape?"

"It was simple enough," the man said bitterly. "After I confronted him about what he did to Brittany, I took out my gun and said I'd shoot him if he moved from the kitchen chair. I put the plant in the oven, turned it on, and then waited outside the kitchen window. He didn't move from the chair." He shook his head. "I would've gone for the gun if I was him. Just the look on his face… But what's done is done." He straightened up. "Would you like to see the plant that's the culprit?"

Sherlock nodded. "We'd be delighted."

"Yeah," John agreed, "I'd like to find out exactly what Sherlock poisoned us with."

JWJWJW

Curtis Leo led the way down the rows of plants. Sunlight filtered in through the glass ceiling, and sprinklers were set up here and there, bathing the greenery in a gentle mist. "Here it is," he gestured to a large, leafy plant with hanging flowers. "Meet Brugmansia Solanaceae, or, as some people have nicknamed it, the Angel's Trumpet. All parts are poisonous, but especially the leaves and seeds. It can cause confusion, migraines, visual and auditory hallucinations, insanity at times, and even death."

"Not much of an angel, is it?" John commented. "With what that plant can do, they should've called it the Devil's…" thinking for a second, "foot… or something," he finished lamely.

"Yes, it's rather a pity that whoever named the plant didn't consult you first, isn't it?" Turning to Leo, Sherlock asked, "What were your plans?"

"I was going to go back to Africa. Now that Brittany's dead, there's nothing left for me here."

"Then go."

The botanist looked at him in shock. "I'm s-sorry, what?"

"You heard me. I said go. Pack your things. Don't come back."

The relief flooding through Curtis Leo was almost visible. He ran out of the greenhouse, shouting his thanks over his shoulder.

John just stared at his friend. "You just let a murderer go."

"It's not the first time."

"What do you-"

"You remember the taxi driver case, I'm sure."

The realization hit John like a brick. "Oh."

"I thought you might. Anyway, you really can't complain. I solved the case, after all. The first murderer's dead, the second will never kill again, and no one's keeping the police force from finding him- except the police force's own stupidity, of course. Above all, you get another exciting case to mess up in your blog."

"'Mess up?' I do not 'mess up' your cases!"

"What else do you call that horribly poetic prose?"

"Oh, so I make it 'horribly poetic' now, do I? I'm sure the great Sherlock Holmes could do so much better…"

They continued to bicker, walking slowly out of the now-abandoned greenhouse.

JWJWJW

Did you guess who the murderer was? Although, I suppose that question's all wrong, when you think about it… ;)

We're not quite done with this story, though, which makes ME happy, at least. There will be an epilogue coming, don't worry! And, thanks to spring break, it should come very soon!

Thank you again for your support! As usual, reviews/follows/favorites are sincerely appreciated!

~JillianWatson1058