A/N: John walks in to 221B. He stops at the door frame, takes stock of the surroundings, and sighs audibly.

Every single object in the cluttered living room has been expertly gift wrapped by some stealthy Christmas-themed wrapping-paper ninja while John had gone downstairs to Mrs Hudson for a cuppa.

Sherlock saunters in from the kitchen eyeing his work appreciatively. 'Mind the Christmas cracker themed ones while you unwrap them, John', he comments, taking a sip of tea, before he turn and leaves.

'Wait, why all this?'

'I was on a roll, John! You were right, gift wrapping can be a lot of fun!'

John is left alone, shaking his head and smiling. Sherlock knows him too well, knows just how to keep him on his toes. -csf


9th.

'John?'

'Just a headache, Sherlock.' A massive migraine, in fact. Setting in like a heavy blanket, weighing me down. I want to curl up in hiding, take my hands over my ears, shut my eyes tight and just block out the entire world until this horrid feeling goes away.

Instead I steel myself and force a brave smile to my lips. Mustn't let Sherlock know.

The detective huffs, grumbling about the length of time "this inconvenience has gone on". Suddenly he twirls on the spot to viciously glare at the small octopus on a wet towel, sprawling over my stomach. I've lulled him to sleep at last. Wasn't an easy task. Now I'm reclined in a foreign armchair in 221B&B, with a contented sea creature resting against me. It's oddly peaceful.

I hear the click of a nearby desk lamp being turned off, in a lucky serendipity.

'What if he's poisoning you?' Sherlock asks me, very seriously. A note of concern in his voice, but I notice he's still asking me, the doctor in the room, for my advice. 'Is it safe that you are holding him?'

We've settled, without scientific evidence, that the rowdiest of the three younglings is a boy and the two quiet ones are girls. Although we can't tell apart any anatomical difference except for the deeper tones this one seems to favour exhibiting, while the quieter ones settle often for lighter tones.

'He's not poisoning me, Sherlock. You know this. I'm not even glittered up like a mermaid anymore, thank goodness for that! You tested my blood, you made sure, you nutter. Under false pretence, I may add.'

'Did you really believe me?' he's surprised.

'Not really, no.'

Sherlock scrunches his face.

'And yet you let me?'

'I trust you.'

He twirls again, this time walking away as he grumbles under his breath.

I'll always trust Sherlock.

Suddenly I part the small creature from me, jump off the chair and rush to the small bathroom, banging the door behind me.

'John?'

My last glance of Sherlock finds him holding up a confused octopus in his arms as I'm about to be very sick.

.

'John, are you better?'

My friend keeps asking me this, every two minutes, like a lost child, completely ignoring the absurdity. Yes, I'm better, but it's by incremental improvements. Overall, I'm still feeling a bit like crap.

'I'm perfectly fine now', I lie, straight-faced.

Sherlock squints. 'Never noticed just how green you normally were, John', he comments, straight-faced.

He turns away and I almost sigh in relief. Have enough on my plate without my meddling friend.

'Right. Had enough', he stares, in a chilling calm.

I blink, feeling startled. And guilty.

'I didn't mean to snap—'

'John, get up. I'm getting you your jacket. We're getting this finished today.'

'H-How?' I stutter, bewildered.

'We're doing the classic detective declares deductions routine. Easy. Come along, John. You really don't want to miss this. You won't have seen this one coming!'

.

'We're back at the farmers land, where it all started, Sherlock. We've brought a police inspector with us from your grand reveal.'

Sherlock looks beyond the fields of wheat, onto the distance. He looks quiet, patient, if only at the surface. The same brilliant and ebullient energy I'll forever associate with my genius friend bubbles under the surface.

'The local inspector can have the credits on this one. I don't need any more fame than your blogs bring me, John.'

By our side, Lestrade protests: 'Sherlock, you invited me! I was quite busy too, thank you very much!'

Sherlock turns, looking aptly confused. 'Oh. Lestrade. Hmm, hi.'

I'm giggling. I know for sure the younger detective is pulling the inspector's leg on this one. Greg breaks into a knowing smirk.

'Go on, you muppet, what is this all about then? This has got to be one of the biggest cases you've brought me to.'

'Oh, I seriously doubt that, inspector. The truth can be far wilder than any of our imaginations until we put all the facts in their correct order.'

'Go on, then. Knock yourself out', our friend incentivises. He too knows well that gleam in the tall dark haired detective's eyes. The one that silrnyly promises miracles and grand reveals.

'No, I would not gloat', Sherlock replies demurely, for once. 'This case has caused John severe adversities. It all started quite by chance, as the best adventures often do. A glance out of a moving train's window and I found a natural neon arrow to a dead farmer. Close inspection of the evidence on the body brought back the memory of an old acquaintance. A mythical but genuine giant octopus we once freed from London's sewer system back into the wild. What was she doing so far up the coast in an irrigation canal by a farmer's field, we may only speculate. It could have been a gestation and birthplace niche, but her pups are now growing strong and independent. No, I don't believe Octie was looking for a home, but for a safe hideout from something far dangerous, possibly lethal, that sprung on her. You see, Octie has uncovered a very old, Second World War operation from the Allied forces. A defence weapon that was never deployed, in the end. Here, you may ask? So far from London or anywhere of importance? Well, then, where else would you hide something of importance when there were bombings taking place, but a peaceful countryside landscape, deeply engaged in the effort to feed the nation with food? Here was the ideal hideout for a new war weapon, a mini submarine, the one John and I have found.'

Greg squints. 'Does your brother know about this?'

'Mycroft won't comment.' Sherlock shrugs, keeping a straight face.

'That's as good as an admission, Lord help us!' Greg whispers.

I recap, for the confused audience: 'Octie found the submarine as she was hiding from danger. Maybe a tide of runoff pesticides made way to her safe place and threatened the survival of her family, throwing her into a vindictive murder spree on the farmer. But why her fixation on the submaribe? Why not just run away with the little ones she so desperately needed to protect?'

Sherlock turns to me, soberly. 'Perhaps she had made the submarine her home and safe refuge. There's even a chance she connected it to the sea and hoped it could take her there. What she didn't count on was the greed of a farmer.'

'The dead man?'

'The one who alerted the foreign intelligence, who sent ahead one of their own, a Chinese mafia spy, to scout the product and check it as legit for the buy.'

'That was the runaway guy in a motorcycle?'

'Of course, John. A quick search of the licence plate gave me the much needed connection with the Chinese embassy.'

'There's nothing remotely Chinese in all this case!'

'You'll pardon me if I disagree, but why don't I leave it till later. If there is nothing you'd pick up on, John, is but proof of the counted upon professionalism from a man hired by a secret and secretive foreign power in England. In the end, the nationality is hardly the point. Many other foreign powers could, to the date, have shown interest in the abandoned automated submarine tucked away in a barn by the canal.'

I sigh and look down on the three buckets of water and toddler octopus we have with us in the middle of a wheat field.

'And Octie's family? Mystery solved, how can we save them?'

Sherlock smiles softly. 'Good old John. Yes. Octie. I suppose that leads us to having to take the war submarine, make it work and free the captive octopus plus reuniting her with her pups, relocating them to safety. Have I left anything out?'

'Yes. Just one thing. How are we going that?'

Sherlock smile broadens.

'Come and see for yourself, John. Do take notes. You'll want to blog over this.'

Lestrade protests as he follows us: 'I thought you said I could have this one, mate!'

.

TBC