A/N: For reasons unknown even to me, I'm bringing Octie back. -csf


2nd.

In his best scholar demeanour, the great Sherlock Holmes declares solemnly: 'She is a purveyor of maritime memorabilia around Scarborough.'

I squint. 'You mean; "she sells seashells by the sea shore".'

He nods, conceding the point to me. I tally up another point in our made up game where Sherlock is way ahead of me. He's a natural at this. And we're bored enough in a police station outside London, waiting on Lestrade to vouch for us to a bewildered local police inspector.

My turn. 'Hmm... The tyre clad expedients of the inner city public transportation-'

'"The wheels on the bus go round and round", John.'

Damn it. He gets double points for guessing correctly before I finish my attempt. He keeps doing that, too.

'That's fourteen points advantage to me, I believe. Are you tempted to forfeit yet, John?'

I raise a finger. 'I'll do better after I get a cuppa from the vending machine. Want one?'

He shrugs, but I know it's an act. I can read him. I'll get him a pack of crisps too. He's getting too skinny again.

He'll have them as he's distracted by the "talk like Mycroft" game we've been playing. Sherlock's got the natural advantage, but my unwarranted exposure to dramatics master villains has been a helpful learning tool.

'John? My hot beverage of scorched fermented leaves of Camellia sinensis and refined saccharides with a dash of—'

'Tea is coming! Cut it out, Sherlock!' I promise precociously, as the machine took my money but won't to do anything now.

From the waiting room I hear muttered triumph: 'I'll count that as a win for me, shall I?'

What? No! I wasn't playing, I—

The local inspector returns with a gaunt edge to his expression as he waves us on to follow him to the crime scene. I'll bet he heard a long list of do's and don't do's from Lestrade, useful when dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

'Mister Holmes', he starts.

'And doctor Watson', Sherlock interjects naturally, without even acknowledging me at his side. I vaguely wonder if one day Sherlock catches himself adding my name and title when he's, in fact, alone. I guess I won't ever know. Unless Lestrade snitches on our friend.

'You say you saw a corpse by the train tracks?'

'No, I don't say that at all.'

'But you said—'

'I saw flying apex predators circling the skies above a specific location, deeper in an embankment, and I did not have a straight line of sight to the dead person.'

'Could have been a stray dog or a fox, Mr Holmes.'

The detective shakes his head. 'Too many corvids about. They are highly intelligent creatures too. They wouldn't waste their times in high numbers to only grasp a snatch of food. No, this was no fox. At least not just one.'

The inspector tries his best to keep his cool, but I can tell he's dismissed us as excitable city folks already.

'DI Lestrade says it's easier just to let you have it your way and be done with it. So we're taking one of the cars. Can you tell is the general location of your "crime scene", Mr Holmes?'

'I can give you the specific GPS coordinates, the estimated above sea level altitude and the exact time of the spot event.' Sherlock strains a tight smile. 'I'm a trained detective.'

The inspector shrugs, hardly impressed. 'I spend all day surrounded by detectives, I know what you're all like. Come along, let's see if we can find your roadkill...'

Sherlock glances my way, looking absolutely shocked, as soon as the local inspector dashes off ahead of us.

'We should send Lestrade a Thank You gift, you know', I point out, solicitous.

'I wouldn't be so sure', the detective retorts, grumpy. 'Lestrade has clearly failed to impress this colleague with the incredible gift my genius is to the force.'

.

Sherlock's mood did not age well with a backseat ride on a clearly marked police vehicle. People on the local narrow winding streets would all turn their heads and sternly follow the passing police car. For once, I missed London's big city anonymity.

By my side Sherlock soon dropped the angry glare – more suited to actual caught criminals – and replaced it with a superiority attitude, full of high cheek bones, upturned collars and raised chin. He's one heartbeat away from discreet waving at the crowds like the Queen.

I try to ignore all that but my phone's battery dies on me, at the worst time it feels. Caught between Indignant and Awkward, I'm internally groaning in my own seat.

'John. The writing apparatus is more potent than the fencing essential.'

I actually groan. Not here... but can't help myself.

'Did you mean "the pen is mightier than the sword"?'

'Of course, John. Thought I'd give you a chance to catch up. Knew you'd get writers references right.'

'Oh, did ya?' I challenge.

Smugly, he claims: 'I know my blogger well enough.'

The foreign inspector is looking like he thinks we're just nuts.

Guess he's cleverer than I gave him credit.

.

My friend may be a great investigator, but when it comes to translating quickly ascertained coordinates and reading landmarks on the terrain, I'm this impromptu trio's specialist. After all, I'm the trained soldier. In no time we ditched the patrol car and made our way cross terrain through fields of wheat. I lead the way in decisive steps, leaving no room for arguments in the ranks. Sherlock follows like a stiff bodyguard figure, easily keeping up with the march. The local inspector is out of breath and probably inwardly cursing Lestrade, as he follows in the back.

We find a dark silhouette huddled in the embankment, just like Sherlock predicted. As we come near, a flock of birds – taking advantage of nature's free gifts to help them bear through the incoming winter – takes flight in anguished cries of protest.

I'm the first to crouch and check for pulse, even if the presence of those pecking birds has clearly stated the death. There's nothing we can do for the grey tinged old man in ragged clothes.

The inspector lets out a muffled operation as he recognises the dead body.

'He's the farmer. These are his fields.'

Sherlock points out, briskly: 'John, the knee.'

I frown as I ponder the awkward angle. 'He broke his leg, but there's no swelling, no significant bruising. His face is red, multiple capillaries broken at skin's surface, swelling on the feet but not just at the soles as if he'd been up for hours. No, I'd say heart attack. The knee gave as he toppled over. Out here in the middle of the empty fields, there was no way he could have got help in time.'

'And the local scavengers took advantage of the free meal', Sherlock finishes with no emotion.

'Poor man. Died alone.'

'Death is always a lonely business, John, an experience made for one.'

I glance at Sherlock, wondering how can he be do callous that he won't allow the one moment of consideration – when I see his eyes widen in shock. I follow his gaze.

There's a slime trail on the edge of the nearby stream. The small manmade irrigation canal is just a well dug ditch where the water flows freely in a bed structure full of algae residue. I could expect a multitude of small mammals to take advantage of this convenience, from otters to badgers, that being accustomed both to land and water could leave trail marks on the sloped banks. But the slightly iridescent gleam of the slime trail, too wide to be a water snake and too significant to have been a struggling frog meal to a heron, leaves me a bit perplex.

Sherlock and I are both city folks. There could yet be a perfectly logical explanation for this. That it reminds us of an old acquaintance – Octie – could be the rarest of coincidences.

Really, we cannot be finding traces of a deep sea creatures among cultivated wheat fields, can we? It's frankly impossible!

I'd ask Sherlock, but he hates that word – Impossible – and will deny it as a knee jerk reaction.

He'll take Improbable instead.

The detective reacts with cautious moves, bending his lanky frame to reach the slimy mud and collects a few samples.

'John, I hope you had the foresight of packing my microscope.'

Ah! I smile victoriously. He finally admitted. He knows I'm the one packing for him.

However I frown quickly. I didn't pack the microscope. It really doesn't get used quite as much as that.

.

'Remember that case we had? And saving Octie and her pups? Remember how it went? I thought she was going back to the high seas, Sherlock. We saved her so she could go home.'

Sherlock glances my way, across the table at a local busy pub.

'We saved Octie so she could be free.' He then shrugs. 'What she did afterwards was always up to her. And may I remind you that giant octopuses like Octie are understudied and it's thought they have a vast geographical area of influence, that they travel along their life cycles?'

'We found her on the Thames, having babies. The Thames is a tidal river around London. But here? How many miles are we from the sea? It must be fresh water only around here. It's being used for crops!'

Sherlock nods, conspiratorially. 'And yet we are not far from the coast, and our cold murder case.'

'Missing person's case', I correct automatically.

'Something like that', Sherlock dismisses, unbothered. 'Octie could have travelled this distance, or indeed one of her descendants, if desperate enough. The fresh water provides less buoyance, thus increasing the chances to remain unnoticed.'

'Or this could be some other animal altogether.'

Sherlock nods, because he prides himself to be an open-minded investigator, but looks very unconvinced.

'What we need, John, is a replacement microscope.' And he gets up, ruthlessly ignoring his pint. Nothing is ever welcome to foggy his reasoning during a case. 'Come, John, we must put wrongs right if we are to find the right path.'

I get up, tense.

'Octie is not a murderer', I defend, tense.

'She's also not a scavenger. And there were no marks on the farmer's body consistent with a fatal interaction between them.'

'So she's got nothing to do with the murder!'

'Oh no, John. Au contraire. She's a witness, potentially about to be framed for a murder she didn't commit.'

'She did the last time. Commit murders, I mean.'

'Self-defence, we ascertained. Mother instinct, to protect her pups.'

'You really aren't bothered, are you?'

'I seem to have a soft spot for righteous murderers', and he winks at me. 'Come, John. We must find and protect the giant octopus. Come!'

.

TBC