A/N: Octie returns plotline. I'm making it up as I go along. Thanks for the patience. -csf


3rd.

'The Suffragettes, you said?'

'No, John. The Sulphurgettes. A jazz band comprised of female scientists.'

I hum, appreciatively. We're on a boring stake out for a mythical sea creature we once had the serendipity of getting to know. The prompt was creating music band names, with a science twist. That last bit was the only way I could get Sherlock interested in the game. 'And The Sulphurgettes's biggest hit?'

'It's called Resilience Blues. You know, due to the ubiquitous nature of sulphurous bacteria, that can withstand extremes of heat and pressure, being found in active volcanoes, for instance.'

I blink. Trust Sherlock to take any challenge seriously, even an innocuous pass-the-time game.

'Alright, you can have that one. Got any more?'

'Hundreds, John. I'm a certified genius. The Chained Hydrocarbons.' Our gazes cross complicit, his is alert mine and mine is open. 'Heavy metal, of course. Although in fairness, hydrocarbons on their own do not include metals, heavy or otherwise. John, it really loses its humour when I have to explain...' He presses his lips, vaguely annoyed. I want to chuckle at his antics, but he'd definitely take it the wrong way.

'Fine, fine. It's all fine.'

'And what gave you got, John?' he dares me, his eyes flashing.

'I've got movement', I call out.

'That's just a random name now, John.' Sulkily, he crosses his arms in front of himself.

Sunnily, I try not to chuckle.

'No. There! Through the side window, I can see movement.'

'Finally!' Sherlock hisses, triumphantly.

Hey, we were playing a nice game, don't act so excited! You're the one who banned all traditional board games!

'Is it Octie, though?' I wonder. We're hiding inside a decaying barn, isolated all around for miles of open fields. Night has just fallen on this isolated stretch of agricultural land and its darkness blankets the ground in soft hues while millions of starts light up the firmament above us in a pure and crystalline sparkle that the gelid night only enhances.

'I don't know', Sherlock admits, distractedly. 'How do you take fingerprints of an octopus?'

'Huh?'

'You don't', he answers himself. 'But you can study the next best things; footprints and ashes be damned! We've got tentacle trails on fresh mud and a fresh slime trail on the crime scene!'

'That hardly proves it's the one giant octopus we know, the one that once saved your life.'

'Worry not, John, I'll always trust you with my life.'

I blink. What? I'm not jealous!

'I really rather you didn't constantly put yourself in danger because of that trust.'

'Modesty becomes you, John, but is so dreadfully trifle, wouldn't you say?' he ignores me easily, getting up in predatory moves of his own, storming stealthily out of the old barn.

He knows I'll always have his back. Even at the expense of a good telling off once it's all said and done.

I get up, a bit more noisily as my joints crack from long inactivity, just waiting. As soon as I reach the open cold night air, I find that I cannot locate Sherlock. He's vanished into thin air, apparently. Only movement now comes from the small stream's mist. An odd smell of shellfish and decaying algae spreads alongside the scent of ripe wheat. An incongruity that tingles at my senses, already on high alert.

'Sherlock!' I hiss in the dead still night.

I jump as something brushes up my trouser leg. Before I turn my head to look I've cocked my gun and trailed it on the strange presence. Even in the nocturnal darkness I sense no danger in the unabashed presence of a eerily ivory coloured long winding tentacle tip, nipping at the cuff of my jeans like a pet. It doesn't seem aware of my drawn gun or the danger it poses. Certainly one bullet might not be enough to kill a giant octopus, particularly if I shoot off one of the tentacles of the multi-limbed creature, but it's more than that. This creature is all powerful and does not fear a mortal man with his toy metal contraption.

I doubt Octie remembers me, I decide as I put away the gun. She's a creature of the wild, returned to freedom. Not a house pet.

She's certainly big and imposing, I remember. Not fully in sight yet, she's as long as the length of a car and her tentacles as thick as a loaf of bread, tapering at the ends, covered with tentacles on the underside. The head is a formless lump with big, dark, gelatinous eyes and a piercing gaze.

At least that's what I assume from previous experience, just before that tentacle softly curls at the top, incitingly contracting and releasing like a pulsing heartbeat, calm, quiet, tantalising. The colour morphs into darker hues of teal and sage and silver, ebbed in that ivory storm, not translucent enough to see the circulatory system under the slimy skin and not opaque enough to have it look as heavy as one of those tentacles must weigh.

I need to remind myself that poison runs under that hauntingly beautiful surface.

She gracefully curls and unfurls that one appendix, whilst slowly slithering away over the muddy surface of the water course's embankment. Of course, she wants me to follow her.

As if it was the most natural thing to do I bend down and grab that tentacle tip. Could have been a handshake of sorts, but I never force any movement on an unsocialised creature of beauty and the deep seas. I let her lead me.

That long tentacle slithers its way back with me, holding my hand.

In the semi-darkness I can tell it has emerged from the canal muddy waters, just the other side of a fallen tree trunk full of moss and lichens.

'John!' I'm being called, and I hesitate for I recognise my friend's voice. I'm about to answer when I can tell a change in tension on the strong tentacle limb. It quickly encircles my wrist, twisting around it and tightening like a vice. I squeal a protest that falls on death ears, just before I'm yanked forcefully forward.

.

I get kidnapped way too many times.

'You were not kidnapped, John. I can prove it, if you will only open your eyes. Also, you are talking without being fully conscious yet. It's unadvisable.'

I open my eyes, following Sherlock's instructions with a careful repeated blink.

'What – what happened?'

'I have successfully expelled most of the water from your lungs, John. You are now in considerably less danger, but hypothermia is a possibility to consider alongside dry drowning which statically may happen if you have yet any water in your lungs.'

'What?'

I'm confused. I look around. Sherlock is kneeling by the edge of the canal, the detective has irretrievably ruined another tailored suit. He must be freezing cold. I realise I'm deathly cold.

'I found you unresponsive, face down in the muddy waters. John, I— Don't do that again.'

I take a shaky hand to my forehead. 'Must have tripped on my own feet. Octie was here. She was leading me on. There must have been something she wanted me to see.'

'John... I found you unconscious. Dangerously positioned. And there's nothing here. Where was she leading you?'

I blink and focus hard on my friend's well-known face. He comes into focus a bit better.

'Are you saying Octie attacked me?'

He presses his lips thin, making a decision to evade a clear answer. At least for now. He won't be able to hold himself back some day soon, when he has more evidence to paint a clear picture.

'We must go to that infernal B&B the inspector mentioned. You are in no state to investigate tonight, John. A rest and a warm room will do you wonders', he promises me, helping me up.

.

'I thought you said "no investigating".'

'I meant you, not me, John. Obviously.'

'Obviously', I repeat, sarcastically.

'Give me your hand, John.'

I grump away at the investigator in full swing:

'My, how romantic!'

Sherlock looks up from my magnifying glass, poised an inch over my redeemed skin. He looks utterly confused, than a bit hurt, and finally he clasps his fingers like claws over my forearm with his free hand, demanding my cooperation.

.

I've got a very interesting pattern of blistering and swelling, he said. I seem to be allergic to cephalopods, he mentioned in passing. No, I could not go get some sleep, he insisted, imperiously. Apparently I need to be awake to answer the questions a muted detective won't ask.

I'm his sidekick still, but also his walking, talking piece of evidence. Sherlock Holmes must be thrilled. He's used to my compliance and just about using me as a doormat. Studying evidence has just become so easy...

I just want to lie under the covers for a couple of hours.

'Sherlock, it can't have been Octie! She wouldn't have attacked me!'

The transfixed investigator raises his grey eyes straight to my face.

'Your loyalty has not wavered. It's commendable, John. But you must remember Octie is confused, chased out of her home, apt to defend herself suddenly to minor perceived threats.'

I chew on the inside of my cheek before I blurt out: 'Octie is suffering from PTSD? Is that your deduction?' I shake my arm free from the stunned investigator. Sherlock pulls himself together enough to tell me:

'I'm not sure, John. But I know for sure that if she wanted you dead, that's how I would have found you.'

His eyes are trembling with unconcealed fear.

Octie makes a formidable adversary, for sure.

.

TBC