A/N: John knew there was trouble when Sherlock wanted to borrow John's "least hideous jumper".

Sighing to the man who goes to gruesome crime scenes with crisp lines, expensive suits, as if he they were both necessary and disposable, John tries to keep his voice levelled when asking his friend why he needs one of his jumpers (forget the adjective).

'"Christmas jumper day" at the Yard, John. I need to wear a jumper apparently, just because Christmas is nigh. Don't know why. Maybe the heating is broken, Lestrade wasn't very forthcoming, he kept sniggering under his breath.' John sighs.

'Maybe you don't really have to wear a Christmas jumper?'

Sherlock face falls at that.

'I indicated I would already.' He's picking up on something and John is sure his heart breaks a little at the thought of the genius putting the pieces together on someone's unintendedly cruel mocking on Sherlock's lack of knowledge on social conventions. Knowing Sherlock, he probably never held down a conventional job, not long enough to go through a Christmas jumper day, at least, and he wouldn't necessarily have picked up on such nonsensical custom on his own at Baker Street.

John is sure Lestrade will pay for this.

'We can wear matching Christmas jumpers, Sherlock, and I'll sock anyone who sniggers at us', John promises to his mate.

He means it. -csf


8th.

Back in the B&B, after avoiding careful scrutiny from the people running the place who already think Sherlock and I are very weirdso true, in fact – the two of us get into another tight spot. This one being the tiny bathroom adjacent to my room.

I think Sherlock's got a room of his own. At this point that is not an established point, given he spends his time hovering around in mine.

There is a residual mist in the air as the bathtub is filled with tepid (but not hot) water. Sleeves rolled high I carefully transfer bucket after bucket of toddler octopuses onto their transitional playpen.

I turn my head as I hear the squeaky trail of a finger over the foggy surface of the mirror above the wash stand. The detective with the curls frizzing and drooping due to the saturated humid atmosphere is writing a message on the mirror, for heaven's sake!

'They can't understand English, Sherlock, they're not enemy spies!' I protest.

He looks absolutely sidetracked for a moment. 'Oh, this?' Negligently he points to the mirror. 'No, I just felt like it. Do you mean, you never—'

I groan under my breath. No, I suppose I don't write secret messages whenever the bathroom mirrors are foggy. I'm an adult, and so is he!

'John, you are too responsible. You'll grow too old like that.'

I resist the urge to rub my twitching shoulder, thus proving I already am.

'Sherlock, I get it. Looks like fun. But we need to be responsible, be serious. How are we going to do this? For how long? Would we be better trying to pass these guys to London's aquarium?'

'An orphanage?' he reacts, sharply. 'I expected more humanity from you, John!'

Sherlock has turned on his antics mode.

'Do you really see us managing to do this?' I check.

'Naturally, John. And Octie will return as soon as we solve her case.'

I frown, taken by surprise. 'Solve her case?' I repeat, blank.

'Naturally, John. You didn't think she'd just abandon get pups out of whim, did you? We're solving her case so she can reunite with her family.'

.

The quick repeat investigation into the dead farmer's fields was a surprising request from the consulting detective. We left soon after, having made sure the three little refugees were safely hidden in the small bathroom, and had by then worn themselves out frolicking in a whirlwind of bathtub water that now they peacefully slept, gently floating in the water (one darker, lead grey toned, with one eye open, glazed over but half-awake still, the other two harmoniously melting in intertwined jelly limbs of near translucent pearl undertones).

'We're cephalopod carers now, John, how intriguing', Sherlock comments, flipping his collar up to line up with his cheekbones.

I just my hands deeper in my jacket pocket, feeling a bit chilled too.

'Never had a pet octopus', I comment.

'They're not pets, John. They are creatures of the wild, and their likely mind power is higher than ours, going by brain size alone.'

'So is a whale', I comment.

'Ah, but whales don't have eight arms. Look at the potential within those three young creatures, John! If we could teach them, guide them...'

Oh, bother. Sherlock would be lethal as a parent, wouldn't he? John, a toddler is the perfect test subject for my newly synthetized drug, their immune system is pristine and I can rule out other drug interactions! John, it wasn't theft, don't be boring, I just had the child cross the laser beams field in the museum to prove the object could indeed be stolen from that poor example of high security! John, it's Thursday, on Thursdays we speak French, and on Fridays we speak Portuguese, children can learn many languages at once, unlike you.

I sigh, feeling a bit worn out. The village is flowing according to its own rhythm around us.

'John, you look tired. Was this trip a bad idea?' my friend asks me softly, eyes on the street ahead, giving me enough privacy that I may actually answer truthfully.

'No. Not a bad idea, Sherlock. We are where we are needed and that is all that matters.'

'How very self-effacing of you', he comments drily. I don't think Sherlock believes in selflessness much. He just acts on it all the time.

I guess you can't believe in what you don't want to acknowledge in yourself.

'So, what are we doing here?' I try to resume the purpose of our little excursion.

'There has to be a crime', Sherlock proclaims his conviction.

'Why?' I challenge that assertion.

'Because I'm a detective who won't have his time wasted, or because there's always a crime anywhere. Most importantly, because Octie is on the run, after having attacked a dying farmer.'

'He wasn't dying.'

'He wasn't all that healthy either. For all purposes and intentions, it was a killing, if not a murder. Octie must have been provoked.'

'Maybe the farmer got too close to her pups.'

'Possible, but unlikely, she would have moved them away quicker than the arthritic farmer's approach.'

'Revenge, then? From pollutants? We know she's acting crazy from the heavy metal absorption in the well walls. Maybe she thought the farmer was poisoning her family purposefully with his pesticides.'

'Good, John!'

'I got it?' I'm shocked, and a bit proud.

'No, of course not. But you are doing an splendid job at enumerating all implausible and improbable theories.'

I squint. 'But not impossible.'

'Nothing is impossible if one tries hard enough. Why, I can turn that farm tractor into a smoke machine if I try hard enough, for instance. All it takes is to operate it really badly until the engine catches fire.'

I chuckle. 'Why would you want a smoke machine?'

'Because we're being watched, John. And not by a cephalopod brain. There is definitely some strong secret buried here in this farm, deeper than the wheat fields.'

I cautiously glance over my shoulder. I see nothing untoward.

'You sure, Sherlock?'

'Yes. And thank you, John, for so dutifully alerting the voyeurs we're on to them. No, no, don't feel bad, it was part of my plan!'

I'm flabbergasted.

Sherlock's hint is minute but I'm so attuned to his peculiar behaviour that I can pick up on the tiniest tell, like a shared language. As one we start a sprint in unison, running towards the rundown barn at the edge of the field. A modest construction of a single ground floor and comprised of a single division, painted outside walls in a faded sickly colour. The wide door is closed shut, there are no windows we can see, and it looks all together decrepit, abandoned, unused.

As we approach the structure a loud crash echoes in the barren fields, that reveal a fugue flight of corvids up to the sky. The noise is coming from the back of the barn, and the sound of dry wood splintering and giving out is fractionally preceded by a motorcycle speeding off from the newly opened "door", that gaping hole on the back wall, from which some unknown individual is now sprinting away at high speed on a bike, and leaving behind a plume of smoke and raided dirt.

I slow down fractionally, stunned, take my hand to my waistband in my back, and grab my faithful gun. Sherlock glances at me. I aim and fire, but miss the tires because of the trail of dirt, clouding my vision... and making me cough and blink and look away, as I feel the dust debris hiting my face, such is the force they were propelled backwards against us.

'Sherlock?' I cough my friend's name, voice scratching painfully on my throat.

'John! Come in!'

'But the guy is getting away!' I protest feebly.

He shakes his head once, determined. 'We wouldn't catch him on foot. What matters now is what he came here for. And', he adds like a magician about to show his best act, 'what he left behind.'

I step further inside the barn, my eyes getting accustomed to the darkness inside. That's when it reveals itself. A monstrous metal construction, a masterpiece of airtight stainless steel in a closed, oblong shape, with a top hatch.

'That looks like a small submarine', I comment.

Sherlock nods gravely, his features chiselled in a daring smirk, and bright, amused eyes.

'What do we do now?'

'Oh, now? We play hide and seek. We take this spoil of war and hide it elsewhere until we find the deep waters it was meant to be coursing through.'

'Are you sure it's waterborne?' I look carefully at the sleek surface.

'Oh, yes', Sherlock assures me in his deepest voice, crouching by the structure. Then he looks me straight in the eye as he points a finger at a point lower in the metal structure. 'Octie's been fighting it.'

And sure enough there are faded prints of adult octopus suckers.

.

I feel well worn as we return to the B&B, the substandard replacement of our beloved 221B. A sort of 221B&B, if you will, where I'm hoping to wind down a bit to gather some more strength back. I won't let Sherlock know but I'm feeling really cold and tired.

The lock turns dutifully with the key, and I don't even question Sherlock's muted hovering just a touch too close to me, not anymore. I take the first few steps inside and halt, in shock. Sherlock halts as well.

'John, what have they done?' he whispers, taking the scene in.

It's a shocked look spreading over the normally composed detective. We stand side by side at the door of my small room, not daring to step inside much just yet.

There are soap bubbles floating from the open door of the adjoining bathroom. Beautiful, light, playful soap bubbles, drifting peacefully across the room. There are mucus trails all across the floor, the bed covers, the chest of drawers and the wall mirror (how?), leaving behind tiny suckers imprints. A globulous head sprouts at intervals from behind my travel bag on the floor and another very relaxed creature is sprawled tentacles wide atop an ugly picture on the wall, like an ominous, overgrown spider. From the ceiling fan above the bed the most riotous of the offspring swings from a paddle and swims around in what I assume is childish delight.

I slowly turn my head to Sherlock, still somewhat in disbelief of my own eyes.

'Oh, good, John! That's positively adorable, told you they wouldn't be boring!' his glee is shining through his words.

'What?' I hiss, wondering how to fix this mess.

'They are growing up to look more and more like you, John. Exciting and deadly.'

.

TBC