A/N: In the run up to Christmas, with the saccharine excess of old radio hits everywhere, here's what got stuck in my head: Sherlock has an anatomical heart model he pestered John to get him. He said it was for a case, but now he's very smug about it. Sherlock keeps telling everyone John gave him his heart for Christmas. That's a factual truth, I guess. John is very confused on how he got suckered into this one, and he never saw it coming. -csf


7th.

'Come, John, let us explore!'

I look on the ominous claustrophobic space immersed in eerie darkness and swathed from the inside in spider webs, and a small dry gulp clears itself off my throat.

'No need to hesitate now, John. You were doing so well just a minute ago!'

I frown. 'According to you, I was sleepwalking just a minute ago.'

He nods in acknowledgement. Serious, solemn even, he particularises: 'I want to know what goes on in your head, John, when you are dreaming away. Lowered inhibitions, fluid subjects transported from reality and recombined into fantasy according to your truest expression of self. John, I want to what your dreams brought you tonight.'

I smirk in a very self-deprecating way. 'Can't believe there's more than war torn dreams my mind can supply?' I ask, sharply.

His expression breaks, too human, and immediately I look away.

'I was asleep, Sherlock. It's a bit too late now, mate. Am awake now.'

'No', he refuses to believe. The evidence based detective always keeps this faith that I can be extraordinary, even beyond normal human standards. 'Focus, John! The average human only uses ten percent of his brainpower.'

'Actually I think that's been discredited, take it from a medical professional.'

'There you go, arguing meaningless details...' he huffs.

I smile as he's obviously getting all worked up, and decide to indulge his request. I take a deep breath and close my tired eyes.

No, nothing there. Only utter darkness, singled in high relief.

'Focus, John', my friend whispers, full of faith in my unproven abilities. I can feel the warm hand he lays on my shoulder. It grounds me, pulls me from the momentary damp and uncomfortable location to some safe place I knew not I carried inside me.

'That's it, John. Breathe slowly.'

I nod and try to focus harder. Immediately I feel something fall away from my grasp, as if disappearing from a radar. I search for what I lost, what had been there at the back of my mind, present but silent. Lurching. Revolving like plumes of smoke and movement. I follow that presence, inexplicable and implausible, yet it becomes brighter, present. Not as strong as that connection with Sherlock's warm hand on my good shoulder, but just as real to me.

Maybe I'm feverish, hallucinating by wishful overthinking myself into detecting some conscious presence about us. If so, all I can say is... it's working.

Streaks of wisped smoke in pale colours reach out from a corner behind me. I turn, ready to walk on over. At once I feel Sherlock's other hand on my other shoulder. Keeping me on the beaten path, keeping me safe, as I venture forth, eyes closed, fixed mind on vague wisps of colour.

The rustle of Sherlock's faithful long wool coat keeps following our steady steps on the unknown tunnel. In the back of my mind I wonder how is Sherlock illuminating the path ahead of us in these tunnels, keeping us from the cold watery undercurrents by our feet, just off the narrow path. His hands on my shoulders, keeping a steady hold on me, and no way to hold up a torch. Maybe he too is following instinct – and a mind map of the place as he saw it before pocketing his torch lit phone.

I stop as a heavy scent of sea and decaying maritime algae hits us. This is it. Octie's lair.

Without opening my eyes I turn my face to my left, to the water embankment and beyond.

'Three.'

I can feel the twitch in the unsuspecting detective as I speak suddenly in the overwhelming silence.

'Three cubs, Sherlock', I particularise. 'Triplets, I suppose, but they are quite distinct.' In fact, I could assign their presences the colours that have been haunting me. Ivory. Sage. Pale gold.

Reminds me of the beautiful iridescence of Octie's near translucent, suckers spotted skin.

And Octie's colours? They seemed to shift according to inner whims, secret moods. Is that what I'm picking up here? Three different states of mind, all curiously focused on the two visiting strangers?

I hear a small gasp from my best friend, who never lets go of me.

'Oh, John', he sighs.

I open my eyes. Blink fast in the darkness ahead, pierced by a sharp hallo of light from Sherlock's phone, and gulp dry.

Two small octopuses swim in circles, chasing each other. A third pierces us with a suspecting glare from a jet black pupil. There is no sign of an adult about. Adult of the species, I mean.

On the margin, and we've almost been stepping on it, leftover seaweeds, small mammal bones and other indistinguishable remains. They are dry and worn, as if old gifts from the mamma octopus to the little pups.

We've been called as babysitters, haven't we?

Octie is in distress, or worse, and this little ones have no one else but us.

I saw Octie just yesterday, she was alive, but cunningly hiding as if guilty or distrusting. Why hasn't she come back to her young ones? Why has she led me - us - here instead?

I glance over my shoulder to Sherlock Holmes. Where I'm near catatonic he's mildly curious.

.

'We can't do it. We're humans, for heaven's sake!'

From his chair in the B&B in my room, Sherlock shrugs. 'Humanity is overrated.'

'What are we supposed to do, take them home with us?'

'I suppose that is the plan. Unless you cherish that much your independence.'

I glare at my friend and sip my comforting tea. I'm still feeling a bit off-colour.

John Watson, babysitter extraordinaire?

'What are you doing?' I ask, glancing at my friend.

'Social media. Conversing.' He never takes his eyes off his phone.

Squinting, I wonder: 'With whom?'

'John, is your handle "armydoctor221"?'

'Nooo—' I prolong, curious.

He looks up, stilling his fingers for a couple of seconds.

'Never mind, John.' He puts the phone away. 'Just harmless talk. I've deleted the thread, don't bother noseying... However, don't be surprised if someone shows up at Baker street, this guy knows my address.'

I blink, worrying about my innocent friend. Is the genius this naïve or is he making this up to redirect my attention?

'Sherlock, what have you two been conversing about?'

He shrugs, feigning distraction. 'Thought I was talking to you. He was as predicable as you, the whole thing seemed so legit.'

I let my brows knit in confusion. He's messing with me, isn't he? At least, I hope so.

'Sherlock, I've been under your sight all this time. I couldn't possibly have been chatting with you on social media!'

He looks genuinely disappointed.

'Predictable, as I said.'

'No need to resort to insults', I retort, gruffly.

He reacts, seemingly honest. 'I wasn't. It's one of your most comforting traits, John.'

Now I know he's for sure mocking me, so with a sigh I file the whole incident away.

'And Octie's pups? What will we do about them?'

Sherlock smirks. 'Oh, please! You're too predictable to warrant an explicit verbal answer from me.'

.

'High tech, huh?'

'John, sarcasm is a lower form of humour', Sherlock snaps. That succeeds in shutting me up indeed, mostly out of stock. You see, I recognise I can be a grumpy old git at times, but Sherlock – self-proclaimed sociopath – is usually incredibly patient with me. Sure, Sherlock can be a loud, abrasive jerk at the best of times, no matter who is in the room. But there's always a kinder, gentler streak to his ways, and he's rarely derisive in handling me.

I surreptitiously glance at my friend, therefore.

'You cold?'

He grumps something unintelligible under his breath about my grammar.

Of course he's cold. We're both currently standing in cold stagnated water inside a tunnel off a well, wellies and rubber trousers on to keep us dry, but I bet he's as chilled to the bone as I am. Cold hands hold buckets where we hope to attract and entrap the abandoned – hopefully not orphaned – octopus cubs.

Playing hide and seek, they are.

A bulbous head pops above water behind the lanky genius, just as a gelatinous tentacle unwinds sinuously behind my back. We both edge forward eagerly only to crash against each other's efforts.

'John, this isn't working', he protests, rubbing his shoulder.

Massaging my forehead, I kip: 'No, seriously?'

'Sarcasm, John', he warns me.

'I've got endless supplies of sarcasm, Sherlock, don't push me.'

He rolls his eyes. 'John, can't you... I don't know... talk to them?'

'Talk? What like? Here, little octopus, come to daddy?' I ask, bewildered.

'I don't know', he dismisses me with a waved hand. 'You're the one with the shared mental link or something.'

'Sherlock, I had a fever. It's all a coincidence. You're a scientist, certainly you don't believe I can read the mind of a different species.'

He smirks dangerously. 'You can read mine.'

'Yeah, lots of fun there, Smaug the Great.'

'Scientists keep open minds to formulate theories that explain the facts, they don't dismiss facts because they contradict the preponderant currents of thought, John; and who's Smaug?'

I fight the urge to rub my face with my hand. 'A dragon in a book, never mind.'

'Dragons...' he ponders. 'You really have a fantastic imagination, John, I wonder if that is why Octie chose you over me.'

'Choose you, Sherlock?' I'm surprised, he's jealous now. He's jealous because I'm the target of a mythical octopus. A murderess octopus, if that makes it any less weird. No, I suppose it doesn't.

'Naturally a possibility, of course', Sherlock defends. 'My mind being far superior and organised not to mention—'

'—the big head?'

'John, sarcasm?'

'I'm always sarcastic when I'm freezing my—'

'John!' he interrupts me, pointing at my bucket. I have neglected the simple contraption the great mind thought of. Now, looking down, there's a peacefully quiet, ivory toned, mini octopus frolicking in the container.

Sherlock hums, like he does when he's faced with a challenge he's willing to take. I think I can still hear him murmur under his breath: teacher's pet.

.

TBC