A/N: Remember Octie and 'Ecology Sherlock' (I called it that, I'm coining it)? If you disliked those chapters them you might want to give these ones a miss. I'm bringing Octie back. At least I think I am; still under construction, please be patient. -csf


1st.

The detective contorts his features in mock disgust and theatrical displeasure as he finishes reading my latest blog entry on one of our past cases.

'Pfft! I'm clearly cleverer than you let on, John.'

'I call you brilliant in there.'

'Five times. It loses the ring of authenticity with the repetition... How about particularising on my unique mental prowess or compliment my wit and—'

'Why would I bother? You do a good job of it on your own, mate!'

He smirks fondly, but in a genuine display of shyness he won't look me in the eye.

'And this case you posted about? Another murder? I don't only solve murders, John. I'm a detective, not a murder fanatic.'

He could have fooled me already.

Sherlock replies to what he reads on my face, self-motivated to proceed on his own:

'Murder receives the ultimate expression of decry and ignominy from society. It thrills the ordinary citizen as it does not distinguish between rich or poor, men and women, old and young. It is the ultimate leveler, John! But I am not choosy. I can crack a Chinese riddle as fast as I can find a triple murderer on the tube ride.'

'Yes, I'm sure... Is this about that case you got by post today? Because, that case? I can't see the appeal in it for you, Sherlock.'

'I'm being nice?' he tries with big round eyes.

'To whom? Nope. It's not that, Sherlock.'

'I'm curious, then.'

'You may be curious but it's under a five. Definitely not the type of case you'd usually take.'

'Then I won't take it.' He quickly looks away. 'Seeing I can't count on your help. Can't be expected to work without a trained assistant.'

I sigh, recognising I'm being played by a consulting five year old. The case does not sound all that bad. Considering Sherlock can remain engaged in his case, and not get so bored he'll be climbing the walls.

'Also, John, you are in need of a change. Oh, just drop it, John, don't bother denying it; I'm brilliant, according to your own assertions. Did you expect me not to notice or just hoped I wouldn't mention? You have recently gained six pounds from overwork and badly slept nights, as your shoulder has been troubling you after that disastrous train journey. For once, murder might not be the crime to reel you back to health. We need something more subtle, a chance to ease you back in, so to speak.'

'Sherlock, I'm fine', I state drily.

'I'll be the judge of that!' he claims imperiously. I chuckle easily.

'Fine, if you insist. Shall I pack for us, then?'

'Pack for yourself, John. My bags are always packed when I go get them', he waves dismissively.

Yeah, I wonder how...

I chuckle as I get up. 'Will you contact the client to let them know we are on our way?'

He nods, absently. I wonder if the client will welcome the surprise guests.

And anyway, Sherlock is wrong; my shoulder is doing much better nowadays. It is he who needs a change of air, from his constant monitoring and worrying over his flatmate.

.

Sherlock Holmes is a man of many talents. He can read an empty crime scene in a few seconds and tell you who's been in there, their occupation and what they did before they left. He'll even tell you if one of the actors in the murder had a pet. Scotland Yard is always baffled by this ability. So am I, in a different manner. I always find it brilliant, really, but I've come to expect this level of genius from my talented friend. It's perhaps not entirely fair to the hard work that goes behind his genius, sure, but it's always a siphoned gift to be had at the right time.

What I'm hoping to find out is how the gifted detective can cope with a cold case, a lost crime scene, an evolved location, dead witnesses, archived evidence, and stubborn local constabularies. In short, taking Sherlock Holmes from the urban landscape and landing him in a little maritime village, with a local parish priest, gossipy neighbours, a twice-a-day train station and characters that could have come out of a Miss Marple novel. A rundown seaside resort area that has been taken over by incongruous shopping centre progress and a community of retired pastime gardeners, quickly losing its art Deco glamour traces.

Oh, and there's been no murder. At least, according to any evidence left behind and recovered by the local authorities. What we have is an old missing person's case, back from the times before Interpol and international passports data bases.

And I'm left wondering why Sherlock would even take this flimsy case.

Any day of the week but today Sherlock Holmes would stay well away from these cases. Yet, he clearly stated his interest in this particular case.

Because, as he flippantly stated, he thinks it will help me, in some bizarre and convoluted way.

Sherlock is becoming a softie.

.

'John, you would do well to pack in advance like me', Sherlock reproaches, dignified.

'I packed for two, so don't gimme that!'

Just because I can't find my laptop charger... I end up sighing and resorting to my last chance: 'Oh Oracle of Fortune, in your infinite ability to deduce people and events, can you foretell where I'll find my laptop charger?'

From across the train seats, with the formica table between us, Sherlock gives me a strange glare, not fully committed. 'Yes, I took it', he fesses up.

'Great, hand it over.'

'It's on your bedside table, John, at 221B. You will not have the need to use your laptop during this case. Think of it as vacations.'

'But – my blog!' I protest.

'You can use your phone for that.'

Can I? I don't need to verbalize it for Sherlock to read it right out of my mind.

'Yes, John. I can show you how. You are not particularly tech savvy, are you?'

I blink angrily, no need to rub it in. 'I was at a war front when phones shrunk down enough to fit in back jeans pockets, if only you could remember that.'

'And whilst on leave, I expect you had other things on the back of your jeans, like an illegal service gun?'

I smirk in nonchalance. 'Of course I didn't – like you said, it'd be illegal.'

He rolls his eyes. 'And, of course, mobile phones didn't make their way into the glossy pages of "Guns & Ammo" magazines. Oh, John, I know it's difficult for a man like you, but could you not be so dreadfully dull?'

I angrily shut my laptop lid.

'I'll stop browsing the pages of "Guns & Ammo" when you stop reading the local papers obituaries to play Dead man Bingo.'

'I only crashed in on the one funeral, John. Otherwise how would I have known if I had a full row? Even I can't tell between an accidental strychnine poisoning from a perfectly planned one!'

'Oh, please, you just—'

'Tickets and passes, please. All tickets from London's Charing Cross, please...'

Sherlock looks poetically out of the train window, onto fields with the last of their summer crops, leaving me to fumble on my phone app to bring up the tickets he bought for us. It ends up taking me a while longer than the train officer would have hoped for, and it's with relief that he finally moves on to the next passengers.

.

It's been too many hours cross country to count. My brain has been slowly turned to mush by the rhythmic trepidation of the train rails that shakes the compartment, the seats, our bones. The last half hour I've been absently checking my phone, deeming all humanity boring, putting it away, and starting all over. I'm nearly out of battery. I stow away my phone back in my jeans pocket, absently following my friend's line of sight to the surrounding landscape, rural and open, scarred only by the train tracks and the occasional clumps of trees.

'We need to stop the train, John.'

Sherlock's words are as calm as his expression is resolute.

'Stop the train? Why? We're not there yet. Almost, but not there.'

My friend is already taking charge, grasping the edge of the table to push himself off his seat, eyes fixed on a small red emergency lever on the far wall.

I stop him by grabbing onto his sleeve.

'What happened?'

'Murder.'

'I know. We're on our way, Sherlock.' Wait, I thought it was a missing persons case.

'No. Out there, John! On the fields.'

'Great, then we call the police when we disembark. We're not hijacking a train so you can see the crime scene quicker. We can get out at the next stop and double back.'

Sherlock looks absolutely thunderstruck as he ponders my logic. Finally, he composes himself and nods.

'Pack your laptop, John. We're leaving at the next stop. Oh, John, I knew you wouldn't let me down. You're my lucky charm. You can always attract a good murder. The seaside cold case can wait!'

.

TBC