A/N: Still not an octopus. Could be quite useful. I bet they're great at multitasking at work. Need that done today? Just give it to my third arm on the left. Not urgent? My eighth arm will take it. Oi, that's my stapler you're taking, better bring it back! -csf


4th.

Someone knocks at the B&B's door. I waddle through thick water vapour mist, before I wrap myself in my bathrobe from the bathroom door. Cross the tiny room and go meet those familiar but unexpected knocks.

'Greg!'

The friendly Scotland Yard inspector's honest muggy grin awaits on the other side of the door.

'John! Nice to see ya, mate.'

'What's up? Did Sherlock put you up to this?'

'As a matter of fact, yes. Giant octopus were his exact words. Never a please or if you're not swamped by cases the genius deems too boring to take. No, Sherlock said giant octopus and uncooperative local inspector.'

I sigh. Sounds like our friend, alright. I shrug, as I turn on the complementary kettle in the room, so I can offer Greg something like tea for his trouble.

'Sherlock also mentioned you, John', the inspector admits, still eyeing me attentively. He's got a good heart, Greg.

'And you've come all this way because of a giant octopus and me? You shouldn't have. I'm a soldier, I can take care of myself. Besides, I've got Sherlock', I add in earnest.

'Yeah, soldier', Greg agrees with some awkwardness. He doesn't want to point out that years of overseas experience fighting enemies in sandy landscapes did little to keep me from drowning yesterday. 'Bet that comes in handy often, but a giant octopus? What did you do, did you show it your medals?' he jokes, lightly.

I feel my cheeks redden. I just about keep my cool, I surmise silently with shifty eyes.

'Medals? Who said anything about medals?'

'Our boy Sherlock. I've seen them, John. He—' The inspector stops and his smile breaks. 'Right, he nicked them. Sherlock nicked them. He is a bloody kleptomaniac! Just like my badges!'

'No, no, I make him give you those back', I say, appeasing. 'I'd have lended him my medals. You know Sherlock has weird ideas about personal property anyway.' I gesture vaguely. I'm proud of those medals, of what they stand for. But out here, in the civilian world, people see pressed metal and colourful ribbons and imbue them with romanticized meaning. Out here, they don't mean to them what they still mean to me.

'Gosh, John, he didn't use them to his advantage or anything', Greg starts sharply. I look up, startled. The inspector assures me: 'Even Sherlock has got some decorum on a war veteran's service medals. Mrs Hudson was there too, I think. It was 221B. He just showed us your medals. At least, I think they were yours. He said they were.'

I shrug. 'Sherlock is a detective. If anything, living with a detective is a forfeit to any right to privacy, even more if the detective is Sherlock ruddy Holmes.' I turn to hide a proud smile. Can't keep a secret from Sherlock. It once used to annoy me. A man should have a right to privacy. Now I realise I'm never alone. It should be spooky, but no – it's comforting and endearing, if in a creepy manner.

'So – that octopus. What did it do to you?' Greg asks, as he takes in the steaming cup of tea. Before his words vanish into silence he lays his eyes on my bruised and blistered wrist. 'Blimey.'

'It's tender, but not painful. I think she just wanted me to follow her, but she got startled.'

'She? The octopus is a she?'

'Naturally, Greg. We've met her before, in London.'

'We're nowhere near London.'

'Yeah, that's not a good sign, is it?'

'As a doctor taken a good look at that injury?'

'I'm a doctor', I remind him, tersely.

'You could have broken bones or poisonous toxins in your blood.'

'Nah, Sherlock doesn't think so. Octie is a proficient killer.'

Greg squints. 'Prolific too.'

'Justified.'

'Was she? Was that before or after you named her as one would name a pet? She's a beast, not a pet, John. Look at the state of you!'

I roll my eyes and a confrontation is narrowly avoided by the London detective storming into my room as if it was the habit of a lifetime.

They're all ignoring I'm still wrapped in a bathrobe.

'Ah, John, good, you're awake!'

I grimace; why would he want to barge into my room if I wasn't awake?

In a flurry of activity he totally ignores Lestrade, probably just to annoy the DI. It works every time.

Shaking my head slightly I go make Sherlock a cup of tea too. This is how we roll; Sherlock is high, frenetic lightning storm energy released in bright flashes, whereas I take the back seat and ground him with homely gestures, make sure he eats, drinks, takes off his beloved wool coat – he could forget about it and collapse into bed with his coat still on, except Sherlock wouldn't go to bed, he'd fall asleep atop his microscope, his laptop, and once over a cage with an anaconda (Sherlock claimed he was keeping the anaconda warm in the cold warehouse; don't ask).

Meanwhile, the younger detective is fretfully unwrapping a brown paper package at the small desk. I come closer to hand him his tea. Sherlock's green eyes sombre down as they flutter a glance over my injured skin.

What? I'm left-handed, do I need to start doing everything with my right hand now? Will everyone stop being so touchy?

He sips the tea, and waves away my solicitous offer of a coaster so not to mark the wooden desk. On second thought he gracefully unfurls like a lanky cat, grabs the coaster and sits back at the desk having pocketed the coaster.

Kleptomaniac, yep.

I move away with a tight smirk.

Soon the two investigators launch themselves into elaborate theories and counter theories after the facts. I discreetly grab my bag and take to the small bathroom to get properly dressed. If I don't there's a chance Sherlock will grab me and try to dash out the door to investigate the flimsiest crazy deduction of the moment.

.

'Where did you get that microscope, Sherlock?'

He smirks to himself, that little tell-tale victory sneer that is pure and innocent, as he anticipates that once again he's managed to captivate my curiosity like a master of ceremonies in an elaborate act to impress me. My attention still a gift he can summon on request.

'It was sent to me', he answers, indolent.

'Mycroft?'

'Let's not spoil the mood by mentioning bad words; no, not my infuriating brother.' Then he glasses his gaze ahead, perplex. 'Don't really think my brother owns a microscope. Although half of a Greenwich telescope belongs to him. Don't know which half. He won it in a bet with a foreign oligarch. No, this microscope was sent to me by a scientist of sorts. He's a knighted documentary maker, or something, I'm not sure, I don't know why I should care, I've always refused a knighthood myself...'

'You asked him for a microscope?'

'Ask is a stretch. I'll return it once I'm done, John.'

'You're just messing with me now.'

'Am I?' he taunts, that old smirk squirming his lips.

I sigh and gesture a polite request to have a look at what he's studying under that microscope. Looks like a sample of some viscous liquid to me. I return a befuddled look to my friend.

'That is slime produced by the creature that attacked you, John. I collected it at the scene.'

'I thought you saved my life at the scene', I snap. It comes across awkward.

'Multitasking, John! Told you before, John, I'll solve your murder if it comes to happen. You're my best friend, isn't that what friends are supposed to do?'

I chuckle at his fake naïveté.

.

Sherlock needs a sample from the scene of the crime to compare the slimy evidence with. He's trying to establish whether it really was Octie – or if we're dealing with multiple octopuses, I suppose.

'Are you sure you're okay with this, John?' the inspector asks, looking uncomfortable himself.

I look around on the cold sunset, the vast sweep of dying daylight ghosting the fields of wheat. It feels like a regular cold evening, suspended life hibernating for another night.

'Yeah, sure. Why ask, Greg?'

'Mate. It hasn't yet been a full day since you almost drowned here, at this spot, attacked by a giant mythical creature. You're not even breaking a sweat.'

I shrug. Noticing that does not go down well with Greg, I add: 'I don't remember any of it.'

Sherlock shakes himself up like a dog with a flea, before gesturing over the peaceful stream.

'It happened here, John', he narrates by deduction. 'Your struggle with Octie. She would have been a formidable adversary, battling in her own turf. At first you went willingly, guided by innocent curiosity and compulsive trust.' Sherlock is pacing along the margin pointing at steady footprints. 'Here. A deeper imprint, from your heel. You were balancing back. Ergo, she was pulling you forward. Unwanted advance, no prior signs of hesitation; the mood shifted suddenly. You are a capable fighter with a compact built, she must have employed not only a surprise attack but considerable strength. She overpowered you, there's a struggle in shallow water. Why wouldn't you get up, push her away, run for safety in the higher ground where she was at a disadvantage? Ah, there!' Sherlock bends and picks up a jagged edged rock from the cold stream. He brushes his fingers on the dark grey surface and rubs his fingertips together. He can't repress a visible shiver. 'Gold, oat, taupe, turmeric, and strands of silver.'

'What?'

'Dirty blond, they call it. Although I believe you fall into the average number of washes for a regular male.'

'My hair?' I surmise, surprised. 'And you've noticed the colour of my hair? I'll be damned...' I add, amused. 'You haven't, however, noticed it's going grey now.'

'These are some strands of your hair, John', he points out, almost in a hiss. 'On this rock where you hit your head. Your blond head.'

I raise my hand mechanically. My fingers explore a nice lump on my scalp, never realised it was there before. I look up at Sherlock, awed.

'I must say you're fitting the blonde naïve stereotype very well right now, John.'

'Sherlock...' I warn with a glare.

He proceeds, not acknowledging me:

'If she really was out to get you, she needed to keep herself near water, her natural medium. We know by previously observed slime trails that she can withstand some time on land, partially submerged or entirely on ground, but her advantage is the water, where her movements are coordinated, precise, lethal. In water she is fierce, free, powerful, John!'

I rub my face for a moment.

'You are saying she sees me as a land creature.'

The detective smirks. 'You're anything you put your mind to, don't let anyone tell you otherwise', he offers me the brilliant positive affirmation. It makes me smirk. 'But yes, two legs, no tentacles? Perhaps she saw on you her nemesis, the one creature that can defeat her kind, not through physical prowess or cunning adaptations, but underhanded devices and ploys she cannot understand. Revenge is a possible motive.'

'Revenge does not equate with surviving. She had taken refuge here, hiding and cowering away from humans, why waste precious energy attacking me? And that farmer?'

'Perhaps she is confused, John.' His sombre, dry retort seems to imply that I am as well, for defending Octie against all evidence.

.

'John, let me say you are very flippant about a near death experience.'

His words travel the crystalline silence of the fields we scrutinise, standing side by side. The inspector has moved away in his own investigation of the scene – more accordingly official guidelines than Sherlock's, I'd assume – leaving us a few minutes of privacy.

I scrunch my face and turn to Sherlock. It wasn't that bad, was it?

My friend and saviour looks warily back to me. Jeez, he makes it look really bad.

Can't remember a thing. The whole incident feels weirdly detached. As if it had happened to someone else, far away.

'Thanks', I say out loud, in case I haven't said it before. And I am thankful, I just don't feel like I've actually gone through it.

For his part, he has made every effort not to leave my side, even recruiting Greg to drop by and check up on me when he finally did.

Never alone again.

'If you ever put me through that again, John, I'm never letting you out of 221B again.'

He's going overboard with the whole kleptomania streak now.

.

TBC