A/N: "From: Santa. To: Sherlock". That's what it said in the neat label of a wrapped up Christmas present.

'John, we've had a break in!' That's what the detective shouted out early in the morning, upon the discovery of the said present on the mantelpiece.

'What are you doing?' A confused flatmate blurted out, bleary-eyed and bed-haired, as he came downstairs to find the detective dusting the packet for prints.

'Santa?' asked a jittery detective. 'Clearly an alias! Someone did not want to admit authorship. A left-handed person, judging by the scissor marks at the cut ends of the cheap, tacky, supermarket grade tape. It could be yours, but that's clearly what some person unknown wants me to think! Oh, this is clever! A meticulous but short-tempered person, judging by the crease pattern on the wrapping. The obvious choice of season adequate motif on the paper is stereotypical and won't allow for many guesses as to whom the culprit is.'

Right. It could never be that simple. That John Watson had left the mystery gift to a sulky detective, in the hopes of cheering him up.

'Are you going to open it anytime soon?'

'Surely not, John! I've been challenged on my own turf! I will not forfeit!'

John yawns and paddles back upstairs.

Next time he might just give Sherlock an empty box. Clearly the detective's biggest enjoyment is the trill of investigation, not the nice gift inside. -csf


10th.

'It'd be a lot faster of we all chipped in!' Lestrade verbally admonishes the consulting detective taking a break from the pushing and shoving of the metal carcass of a submarine, through the open wheat field distance to the watery canal. 'And I still don't see how this thing will fit the canal! The height if the vessel has got to be at least three times the depth of the damned water in there!'

Gasping for breath, I request: 'Leave that to Sherlock, he can sort it out.'

The genius finally snaps his attention back to us as the mini submarine hits the canal. Just as Greg predicted, it looks akin to a rubber duck atop a glass of water. In fact, it hardly reaches the running water course.

'Well, get inside', Sherlock urges us. 'John, I see no other way about it. I hope you have brought your gun.'

I nod. I have, of course. What is this all about?

There's no time left for questions as Greg Lestrade takes inside the last of the three octopuses. Sherlock elegantly slides in next, grabbing the edges of the metal hatch with confidence.

'Can we all fit in there?' I ask after them.

'Barely!' The inspector admits.

'Yes, of course we can!' Sherlock contradicts him.

I reach out to the metal hatch just as the first sounds of motorised vehicles drum up from the distance. I stop and look around us. Dark shadows are silhouetted against the bright skies all around us, we're surrounded.

I instinctively take my hand to my waistband, just as my fingertips make contact with the security latch on my gun, I know the single fire power is hardly enough right now. I can't shoot my way out of this one. They have the high ground. We're sitting ducks in a deadly trap.

'John!'

Hands grab me, steadying me against the hatch of the military vessel. I nod, half torn by the desire to stay and shoot as many as I can get, and – maybe – go inside, follow instructions, and just might have a chance at keeping my friends safe.

'John.'

I glance at the pale face of the man leaning up against me from behind, one hand heavily laid on my shoulder with familiarity and the other extended ahead of us both pointing at some lever sticking out from the canal bend upstream. Trusting Sherlock, I raise my gun and shoot at the lever.

It moves, as the bullet deflects on the metal surface, ricocheting away with a metal spark. Next thing we know, an onslaught of water is released our way, as dam gates open. Oh. Eyeing the incoming onshaught of water at high speed, Sherlock pushes me under the submarine hatch forcibly. Greg is pulling it shut after us, isolating us from the day light and enemies above, and two seconds later, just as Sherlock commands the torch on his phone to light up the narrow space, we are hit by the avalanche of water, that dislodges us from the banks and forces us onwards.

We're moving!

I feel the slimy tentacles of three octopuses climbing on my frame for safety, much like giant spiders with suction cups. I almost keep over as their scared little bodies wind around me in tight despair. The two girls are the bravest, wrapping around my waist, seeking my protection. The boy places himself tightly wrapped on top of my head, like a novelty hat. I brace myself on the bumpy ride the best I can.

Sherlock is sat at the old commands panel, a keyboard type of display in coppery oranges and oxidized greens of dials, buttons and precision navigational instruments. In front of him a vast window display in panels of curved glass, allowing the view of the healthy algae green tinted waters and gravel ground. Sherlock is at home trying to steer the levers and gears to the whims of swerving canals and bifurcations on the path, that we spot through a very dirty seethrough window at the front. Greg is just plain cheating, trying to call for back up on his phone, but the metal encasing around us is making any communication with the outside world near impossible.

The submarine has been gaining speed and suddenly, with one last loud crash, comes to a brisk halt against a quiet water front, and is left floating away in peaceful wide waters at last.

Holding his forehead, Greg is the first to react. 'Where are we?'

'Water reservoir of some description', the pilot retorts, finally releasing the tight grasp on the commands ahead of him.

'What a joy ride!'

I blink, looking around from what I see outside, now that the rapid waters have cleaned the windows somewhat more. What do we do now? We've lost the bad guys, sure, but are we sinking the submarine and swimming ashore? And our little eight-limbed refugees?

A thud echoes in the metal submarine. Then another, and another.

Then silence.

We all glance at each other.

Until.

The vessel is yanked forcibly under the surface of the clear waters of the reservoir. Air bubbles rush across our window, disguising the view outside. Then another metal clank and another. Two more secure thick tentacles wrapping around our vessel. With a shimmering ivory tone and a majestic iridescent gleam. Octie.

A dark, unblinking eye narrows against the dirty front window, studying us, unnerving in its intensity.

We're safe now. In tow of a giant murderess octopus we know so well.

After a few minutes of guided sailing we are brought back to surface in a far edge of the artificial lake, next to shrouding willow branches. Safely out of view of curious bystanders. Sherlock opens the hatch and slowly passes each of the little feisty octopuses, who, at the sight of their mother, become docile and well-mannered at once.

The reunited family then starts a ritualistic rolling swim and dice routine on the peaceful waters, as if small turbines or spinning wheels, in a dance that brings them close and then farther apart, frolicking innocently in the water.

'I'll tell Mycroft to ignore anything else but the war submarine. He'll be grateful enough to comply', Sherlock comments.

'And them?' demands Greg, pointing at the creatures. 'We'll just leave them here?'

I nod. 'We found them a home. It will do for now.'

.

Dishevelled, jumper drooping from my shoulders, a yawn caught as it escaped my fuzzy brain, I follow the impending force of doom that is Sherlock Holmes on a new case. His refractory period between cases is fantastically short. He's up for it again, so soon, when all I want is to curl up and sleep a blessed restful night.

Not even the damp coastal wind can perk me up.

'Sherlock, it's a cold case. It's been a cold case for so long it's not really pertinent whether we tackle it today or tomorrow or in three decades time. Can't we just go back to—'

The detective firmly presses the ivory toned door bell and quickly brushes some imaginary lint off his immaculate suit, waiting impatiently for the front door to open.

There are footsteps the other side of the modern cottage door, energetic and springy. In less than no time a young dapper man opens the front door and smiles pleasantly.

'Ah, Mr Holmes! Welcome to our humble abode! We had nearly given up on the hope you'd come.'

Sherlock glances darkly at me and remarks: 'I've been delayed.'

Hey, it wasn't me, you know?

And anyway I got you this case.

One look around the house and I'm feeling like a fish out of water. Maybe I shouldn't have got Sherlock this case after all.

'Been busy, I expect', the gentleman with too much hair product and ogling my friend in a creepy manner politely chats as he hushes us through the expensive manor.

'John, makes us some tea', the client snaps.

'Excuse me?' I quip, stunned.

'John, my man servant', he clarifies, looking over my shoulder. I turn just in time to spot a fleeting shadow moving away.

Sherlock smirks. 'I've got one too. Mine is less well trained', he adds to bug me.

'Mr Holmes', the prick of a client starts again. 'You'll want in on this case. A locked room murder. The victim was my uncle, in fact, who was murdered in this very house. You won't regret having travelled so far. My uncle was found strangled to death in the bathroom, laying in a tub of cold water, no apparent reason for his death but the strange marking resembling the minute suction cups on his skin, a reality so preposterous no man could entertain— Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes! Sherlock!'

The detective firmly grabs his scarf and coat, glaring angrily at the client.

'Rudimentary at its best! Next time send us a real case and I'll have John sign you my autograph for your fan collection.' He points at a deerstalker on the coat hanger by the door. 'John always signs my autographs, I can't quite get the hang of those proud Hs, or frankly be bothered at all. Do tell everyone it is John who owns and signs the fan's replies, thus putting them off, my assistant is in need of a bit of a break. Anything I can do to ease his way a little... Come along, John! There's a train to King's Cross leaving in thirteen minutes from platform 3B and we can be home by ten!'

I get up, between the flippant detective and the speechless client!

'But the case, Mr Holmes!'

'Oh, yes, just pay John the usual fees, I don't handle the sordid monetary affairs', the detective waves off, swinging open the front door. Our taxi is still on the driveway, with the driver momentarily delayed by some faulty radio tuning. Sherlock just opens the car door, imperiously waiting for me to slide inside. Which I do, in equal amounts amused and bewildered.

'John!' Sherlock calls out.

I squint. 'I'm already inside, mate!'

'Not you. The slave one', Sherlock snaps. 'The one who held back our taxi because he's leaving his employer, he's had enough.'

I blink. How the hell he knows that? And I scoop over in the back seat.

Right on cue, a tall burly man leaves the house in a huff and slides inside the waiting cab. Sherlock slides next, with a wafted wave of the hand, and the cabbie sets off.

'Thank you, Mr Holmes. You're alright, aren't you?' the man we never met before smiles openly.

The detective huffs and turns to the window and the dull view outside.

The man glances at me, trying for an explanation. I shrug and melt into the cab seat. It can wait. All can wait. We're going home.

.