There was never anything more welcoming than the tangy salt scent that rolled in with the sea to John Watson.

Ever since he'd been a young boy he'd relished in the ideals that the sea brought with it. He fascinated over the fish that washed up onto the local shores, and caused his mother many a fright when he ventured too far out into the deep. She often warned that the sea wasn't safe, and that it held many dangers that he wouldn't be unable to handle. John had always scoffed at the unintentional insult, although he always heeded his mothers' warning and retracted back to the shingle shore each time.

When those moments had occurred, John took his mothers advice, but secretly he wouldn't believe it. There were no dangers in the sparkling blue waters to him, save for the occasional bad tempered crab.

He respected the ocean, and it respected him back. Or so he had thought. It was that warped thought that had initially given him the idea to join The Royal Navy in the first place, and that was where he remained to this day. Still taking his mothers warning, but just not quite believing it.

Now, however, he knew what his mother had meant. The deep, dark ocean was not so inviting as it had once been. He was sodden in his breeches as tall, powerful waves flung themselves over the strong wooden side of HMS Edward, spilling across the surface of the deck. The freezing cold water sloshed and rolled along the boat, cascading down into the holds, picking up barrels idly and dragging them along with it.

John leaned over the side of the almighty boat and squinted into the distance. Through gaps in the waves, he caught sight of a glowing orange orb in the distance, and cried out as he realised he was looking at the ship that had been accompanying them on their voyage.

Hurriedly, he made his way towards the steps that led to the lower decks; a desperate attempt to inform someone of his theory that the storm bore more troubles for the already treacherous journey. For the current fire leaping about their companion ship gave every indication that a battle was about to be conducted.

John's stomach rolled over as HMS Edward threatened to do the same. He patted one of the strong wooden beams as he used it for support.

"We can do this." He reassured the mighty ship, but he couldn't hide the doubtfulness in his voice. The weather was vile, and the ship was threatening to turn over at any moment. If there was indeed another party out there who decided to act as a hostile force towards them, they wouldn't stand a chance.

The ship lurched dangerously, and John sucked in his breath, ready for more water to infiltrate the boat and send him and his crew to a watery grave.

"Archie!" John barked at the small boy who was huddled into a tight ball in between several crates. The boy looked up, whimpering slightly.

"Captain Watson!" He exclaimed, standing up quickly. "I didn't have any duties, and then the storm struck and so I- I wasn't hiding, Captain. Not at all." John smiled at Archie's hurry to try and worm his way out of the situation. He couldn't blame him for it.

"You'll be much safer in one of the lower decks, Archie. See to it that you find yourself there." Archie nodded quickly and began scarpering down a rickety ladder. John shook his head, chuckling at the boy's haste.

Archie had snuck himself onto the boat when they departed from Plymouth. A stowaway. Under normal circumstances, any halfway decent Captain who performed his duties proficiently would have seen to it that the stowaway would be made good use of, such as cleaning the men's boots. The boy had immediately offered to help, to try and make sure that he wasn't completely in the way. John had asked him what his name was.

"Archie, Captain." He'd replied timidly.

"Can you read, Archie?" He'd asked.

"No, Captain."

"Can you write?"

"No, Captain."

"You're completely illiterate?"

"Yes, Captain."

John had then straightened up. Archie was flinching, already presuming his fate.

"Well, Archie. I'm not happy that you've come onto this ship. The Royal Navy is no place for a child, especially with the current climate," Archie gulped "but, you may be useful. We'll do our best to see that no harm comes to you, but I cannot promise it. The next English dock that we find ourselves in will be the same dock that we leave you behind. During that time however I will assign someone to teach you how to read and write." Archie had beamed at the Captain's promise.

Most said that John wasn't true captain material. The fact that he'd been so lenient with Archie proved to many to be the only evidence they needed in the matter. To others however, John was an extremely well thought of captain indeed.

He'd received many an injury, including being shot in the shoulder. It had been an arduous recovery, and John had frequently contemplated taking another gun and sticking a bullet in his brain. The thought had grown into a powerful desire when the wound became infected, as there were talks of an amputation. But he'd held through, and continued with his career in the Royal Navy, following in the respected footsteps of his father, Captain Hamish Watson.

As he watched Archie disappear, the boat swayed uneasily. John steadied himself, clinging onto another beam. Water was pouring through the like a power hungry waterfall from the top deck. He feared for the men below, praying that they'd listened his commands and secured the hatch doors. That should, at any rate, prevent the water from penetrating the lower decks.

As he continued scouring the lower holds of the ship in search of stragglers, a dog's bark overpowered the roars of thunder, and John cast his gaze towards the farthest corner of the room, where his sopping wet oaf of a dog was perched a top a not-yet-moving crate and wagging his tail wildly, tongue flailing as it hung out of his mouth.

"Gladstone!" John exclaimed, striding through the sea water and towards his dopey dog. "You fool, why aren't you in the hold with the other men?"

Gladstone's tail increased it's wagging as John picked up the dog and held it's face level with his own.

That was another area that caused concern amongst the men. What sort of captain would bring his sister's dog onboard a ship? John had good reason though, he thought. Gladstone was one of the loyalist dogs that John had ever had the pleasure of knowing. He could sense danger a mile off, and was the most dependable when it came to another person. If Gladstone didn't like them; John didn't like them. He trusted the dog's instincts above his own, and couldn't bare the thought of leaving him behind in England with his sister, who was sure to not look after him properly. Besides, Gladstone was an excellent swimmer.

He tucked Gladstone under his arm and continued navigating himself about the ship. Before long, he found himself in his own captain's quarters and crouching down to pick up the sheets of parchments floating gently in the water. They hadn't been prepared for the storm, not at all. He partially blamed himself for that, but even more so the one's who had sent them out to sea in the first place.

When John was a child (and incidentally just after he'd been told off by his mother for going too far out into the sea again), he stumbled across an old book in the town's library where he lived. At that age, John couldn't read, but he borrowed the book from the library and returned home with it cradled under his arm for his mother to read to him.

There were few pictures, but the ones that existed were beautifully sketched depictions of pirate ships, with strong, billowing flags bearing skulls and crossbones. The sea was sketched in elegant waves that tumbled dramatically over the sandy beaches, and the islands portrayed supported astounding palm trees baring all manner of fruits that John had longed to sink his teeth into.

The story itself told of a narcissistic captain, with a fierce attitude and a hunger for trouble. John had idolised him, yearning to hear more of the fictional pirate with the sly mind and cunning wit. He had longed to live a pirate's life; to sail the seven seas, raiding a pillaging villages, swimming in gold rather than water. Only, his opinion on pirates changed somewhat after news came to him and his family that his father wouldn't be coming home.

To be fatherless at John's age was not uncommon, especially when said father was a member of The Royal Navy and was constantly getting involved in various fights. But from that moment John had grown to despise the pirate breed, including the infamous pirate so glamorously portrayed within the pages of his favourite book. He loathed anyone who declared themselves a pirate, and was determined to never idolise one ever again. Although, secretly, he still kept a copy of the book. A momentum and reminder whenever he felt pity for some bedraggled pirate slumped across a port bar.

Yet, despite his hatred towards the scum of the sea (as he so dubbed them), he still loved the sea. After all, it wasn't the sea that had killed his father. It was the sword that had pierced his abdomen that was the one to blame for that. So, he joined The Royal Navy. Still getting to explore new worlds, and venture to far off places that the boy version of him could only dream of setting foot on. But being a part of The Royal Navy had it's down-sides.

For one, there were rules to be abided by. Usually, John was perfectly capable of following orders, but more often than not he wouldn't quite agree. One would have thought that being captain would at least grant a person the ability to make their own decisions, and indeed it did, but John still had orders to follow.

The orders he was currently following had been set by a particularly well thought of member of British citizenry, and John had had to question whether the amicable request was actually a duty worthy of their time. John had queried it, but was soon silenced and told to carry it out anyway. John's stomach churned at the thought of an apparently sturdy government being twisted by a man with a pocket full of coins. Unfortunately, the men who made the rules weren't made so guilty of in their conscious when it came to accepting handsome fees in return for various workings being done. So John had to go through with it regardless.

His current journey (if the ship didn't sink beforehand), would take him to the magnificent shores of Pharaoh, named after the adventurer who had discovered and founded it, and onto the beauteous Bartholomew's Bay. It was a place John had visited quite often on his various adventures, and he had an acquired taste for the food there. Though this time he suspected that he wouldn't be granted the curtesy of dining on the delicacies that Pharaoh had to offer. For this time his stay wouldn't be so luxurious. He'd have to encounter pirates, again.

John pricked his ears up, and heard only the panting of Gladstone as he settled himself down on John's bed. The water had stopped forming waves in his room, and John sighed at the idea of the storm being at last over. The weather at sea was one temperamental bugger to say the least.

Hoping for the best, John decided to resurface to the top deck, leaving Gladstone in his room and cursing himself for allowing the dog to settle on his bed. It would reek of wet dog for at least a week.

John found himself standing on the top deck, breathing in a sigh of relief at the view that greeted him. The blackness of the storm clouds were quickly dispersing, being replaced instead by and impenetrable grey. John chuckled at how capricious the weather at sea was. As the ocean calmed, so did John's nerves.

He sighed happily as he leant up against the base of the thickest mast, allowing the sweet saltiness of the sea to flood his senses and shutting his eyes, just to ensure that his senses were devoted to smelling the scent as much as was possible for his weak human nose. Sometimes he envied Gladstone's smelling capabilities.

As more men resurfaced, a few climbing down precariously from the rigging after their observations of the battle being undergone by the other ship. John resented the fact that they couldn't help the neighbouring boat, but during the storm the sea had been too difficult to navigate, and nothing good would have come from compromising their own lives for the sake of a hundred or so more. Besides, the mission would never be carried out if they were sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

"What news of the other ship?" Stamford asked one of the men eagerly.

"Sunk." He gruffed, bowing his head, and the rest followed suit. Mourning their fallen comrades. "It was pirates. Impressive manoeuvring, mind. The captain knew what he was doing, certainly." He turned to face John. "Captain, I think there are more dangers on the way. From what I could tell, it wasn't a random attack."

John nodded. He'd expected as much.

"There's nothing to be done, I'm afraid." John told his men solemnly. "We can only continue our course and pray that we don't meet the same fate. Until we reach Pharaoh though, keep an eye on the horizon, and sound the alarm the moment a hostile ship is spotted. We should reach Bartholomew's Bay in a couple of days." The men nodded, before scuttling off to their original duties. However, John caught Stamford's shoulder as he turned to leave.

"We're not going to reach Pharaoh safely, not with pirates trailing us," John muttered gravely.

Stamford turned around to face him. "What do you propose we do, Captain?"

John shook his head, loosening his grip on Stamford's shoulder and letting his arm fall limply at his side. "We'd do well to avoid them, but we must be keen-eyed once on land. This pirate business is to do with the mission, and I suspect the ship that took down one of our own was commanded by the pirate we seek..." John's voice trailed away. He was growing nauseated at the prospect of having a pirate aboard his ship. He feared that rage for the death of his father would overpower him, and he'd end up shoving the poor bloke overboard before they'd even returned to English soil.

"It'll be fine," Stamford assured him. John smiled meekly. "He just has a big reputation. I suspect Captain Holmes will be nothing more than a thieving wretch of a man, what else would this Magnussen fellow want with him? He'll come easily enough. Especially when he realises why he is wanted back on land. No man can run away from their death."

"Why would anyone return to a place knowing that it's where they'll die?" John quizzed skeptically. "I'd avoid it as much as possible. Besides, we don't even know what has been done by this Captain Holmes to warrant such a fate. He may even be wanted back in Britain for a good thing. Stop putting thoughts into my head, Stamford. We'll see what kind of man he is when he's on this ship and not a moment sooner. Speculation will not do."

Stamford chuckled. "Since when have you grown to be fond of pirates?"

"I'm not." John shot back bitterly. "It doesn't do well to judge a person based on preconceived thoughts, is all."

Quietly, John had his own reasons for not judging the man too quickly. Although he'd never voice them out loud. Magnussen (the rich-pocketed filth who'd sent them on the mission in the first place), was a man who made John's stomach knot. He had no trust of the man, and the readiness at which the government had ordered John on this mission at one single measly request made John lose faith in the people he was working for. It just didn't seem right. And while he was certain that Holmes was well justified in receiving an inevitable death; John couldn't help but worry over whether this was indeed a man getting what he deserved for committing a crime he didn't know about, or whether their was something more sinister at play. He favoured the latter.

"Very wise." Stamford agreed. "Where's Gladstone?" He asked, changing the subject with a lighter tone. John grinned.

"I found him perched on one of the barrels, wagging his tail too, the stupid mutt." He laughed.

"Ah, well. That's Gladstone for you, I suppose. I better go and see to the men then. Archie should be around here somewhere..." As Stamford departed, John called after him.

"Don't mention about Holmes to any of the men." John didn't hear Stamford's reply, but he knew that his comment was heard.

Over the next few days, nothing more was mentioned of pirates, or the notorious Captain Holmes, for that matter. There was no further sightings of pirate ships either, and John took comfort in the fact that they hadn't encountered any more hitches. Each man aboard HMS Edward had their heart set solely on reaching Pharaoh, and when the distant land was spotted many cried out in joy.

John however did not share their appreciation of reaching their destination. This was Holmes' known location, and whether or not Stamford thought the man would come quietly, John knew that there was never an easy battle to be had. No man would go into captivity willingly. Especially not one who deemed himself a pirate.

They docked in the port, before climbing off of the boat and facing the blistering heat that Pharaoh had to offer them. Gladstone was trotting happily along the streets with him, tail still wagging.

As they descended into the heart of the town, they were bombarded with fruit sellers shoving shiny, round, bright fruits under their noses. John promised himself he would pick up a few of his favourites later, but the man beckoning for him to buy a particularly juicy looking fruit had been too persistent. John had then found himself carrying a wicker basket full of various types of fruit that he had yet to learn the name of, and his pocket was considerably lighter than when he'd arrived. Soon enough, he found himself feeling more like he was on holiday, rather than on a mission where he'd have to kidnap a man. It felt wrong to taint such a beautiful trip.

The streets themselves bore magnificent architecture, providing quite a contrast to the streets of London that John knew so well. The square buildings were all painted white, and pale pink blossom bloomed on the trees that lined the steep streets that wound around corners so graciously it seemed that it was the progression of a river's course, rather than paving slabs lain down by man. To John, the place was quite an oddity for pirates to seek solitude. It was just too peaceful.

As he turned his head and cast a glance back down the hill he'd been climbing, he caught sight of the sea glistening in the sunlight, and with it HMS Edward was resting peacefully. Until a darting figure caught John's eye, and he squinted in order to get a better look.

There were people climbing on board HMS Edward.

John scowled, unable to see who they were. "Gladstone." John ordered. The dog turned his head sharply upwards to look at John, he then trailed John's line of sight and began growling at the boat. John swore loudly before being a sprinting descent back towards the boat, but a mislaid brick caused him to trip, and his arms prevented his face from smashing onto the cobblestone street as his fruit spilled from the basket.

"Bugger it," John swore to himself, watching the fruit roll away and deciding to leave them in desperation to get the scum from his boat. He was just about to start running again, but a cool voice prevented him from moving.

"There's no point," for a moment, John could have sworn he was still in England. The rich voice reminded him of posh clubs that he'd never been able to enter until he'd achieved his Captain title.

"I'll be damned if I do nothing. That's my ship they're raiding." John scorned, gesturing towards the boat. Various crates were being tossed overboard.

"It's not your ship," the voice replied scathingly "it's The Royal Navy's ship. You're just the one in charge of it today."

John turned around, trying to find the source of the voice. He knew that the man was standing in a tight alleyway in between two tall buildings, but he couldn't see the man owing to the shadows.

"I'm done with your mockery. Now excuse me, I have a ship to salvage." John gritted his teeth as he carried on walking, dreading dealing with the the ruining his beloved boat.

"My men shan't leave anything to be salvaged." John wheeled around to find Captain Holmes smirking from beneath a sun-bleached black leather hat, with tufts of darker hair poking out from beneath it. He was taller than John, and was using it as an advantage to belittle him. Tossing one of John's pieces of fruit into the air with one hand while his other was rested on his hip. His piercing blue eyes were trailing the fruits journey into the sky and then back into his hand with fascinated interest.

"Your men?" John blinked. Holmes met his gaze and his smirk turned into a grin. It seemed genuine.

He shoved the fruit into his pocket, put one leg out in front of him and bent it slightly. He then crooked his elbow before swinging it across his body. "Arr," he said, gleefully.

Through all the pirates John had ever had the pleasure of knowing, they'd all supported the accent of their own country. In Holmes's case, his voice has tarnished with a fine English accent. Every know and again John would stumble across some pirate beggar who supported the stereotypical pirate accent, but it was a rarity. Now however, he was witnessing Holmes pull it off spectacularly.

"Cap'n Sherlock 'Olmes, pleasure to mek yer acquaintance." He extended his hand, his voice rasping slightly as he extended the 'ance' in 'acquaintance'. He was grinning broadly now, apparently pleased with his impersonation. Reluctantly, John shook his hand.

"Captain John Watson, and I'm afraid I can't say the same," He replied shortly, and Holmes's grinned dropped. He seemed disheartened.

"That was rude. I retract my 'pleasure to make your acquaintance' statement, which I'm sure you won't mind." Holmes scowled. John shrugged. He wasn't about to be to made to feel guilty of by some good for nothing pirate.

John stood silent for a while. His task was to find the man, and while it had rather been the opposite way around, Holmes was still now standing in front of him, and he'd be damned if he was letting him out of his sight. Holmes cocked his eyebrow.

"Not talking? Are you annoyed at me? I tried to be nice... Usually one would act as quite hostile towards someone who was planning on kidnapping them..." John blinked.

"How do you...?" He started, but Holmes snorted derivatively.

"Please. You have a low opinion of me, it seems." Holmes pulled the fruit from his pocket and began throwing it into the air again. "So go on then, what have you been told about me? It must be something awful for you to be glaring at me like that. I must find out why my head is wanted back on English soil before I make my daring escape."

John blinked. "I haven't heard anything about you. All I know is that you're wanted back in England, and that it's my job to make sure that that command is carried out."

Apparently, it was know Holmes's turn to be confused.

"You know nothing at all?"

John felt slightly self-conscious as he felt Holmes scour him with his eyes. He nodded, recomposing himself by straightening his back. "That's really very interesting." Holmes decided after a long pause filled with silence, but was now back to smirking at John

"You know of me though, naturally." Holmes said, he clasped his hands behind his back before circling John. John couldn't help but compare the Captain to an eagle stalking it's prey.

"Naturally," John agreed, feeling slightly trapped as Holmes continued trotting around him. "Captain Sherlock Holmes, I presume English born, and a known pirate icon with an unprecedented reputation; undoubtedly owing to your attacks on villages and wealth of treasure." John said firmly. As Holmes came round to face John again, John saw that the smirk was back.

"English born is correct, and I am a pirate, yes." He seemed finished, but at the same time he also seemed to be egging John on. John took to the bait.

"... But?"

"But! I have no interest in attacking villages for their treasure. That's tedious and ever so stereotypical. Really, Watson, I'm disappointed in you."

John wanted to punch the man. A pirate could in no way be disappointed in a man of a higher rank than he, it just wasn't done. How dare this Holmes fellow express his disappointment in John. He had nothing to prove. The comment ruffled John, and Holmes saw it.

"Let's move on to you then, shall we? You're captain of HMS Edward, though you aren't respected as much as you would please from your crew... You were shot in the shoulder, in a war environment, so perhaps The Royal Navy wasn't your first option?" Holmes's eyes widened as he mouth formed an 'O'. John took a step backwards. "You wanted to be a pirate? Oh Watson! That's special! Is that where your hatred of me comes in? I can assure you, Captain Watson, it was not I who killed your father. I would very much like to discuss it with you further, however."

Holmes strode around John, with John tracing him cautiously. John was slightly in awe over what he'd just heard, and had to give himself a light shake in remembrance that this well-talking pirate was still, in actual fact, a pirate. Nevertheless, despite his determination not to show how impressed he was by Holmes' knowledge of him, John found the words tumbling from his mouth anyway.

"That was brilliant. How do you know all that? I confess that I was somewhat befuddled by you knowing who I am at all, knowing that I was sent here to 'kidnap' you, and I make no cover-up of the fact that my crew don't respect me as much as they ought to. You must not judge me for my bemusement that you know who I am. I often go without a second glance. I'm impressed by your knowledge of me." John conceded. "It's nice to meet a pirate who uses words rather than jumps immediately into a brawl."

Holmes's eyebrow rose slowly up his forehead, and he withdrew a long silver sword from a slick leather sheath hanging from his belt. While there was no mark upon the sheath itself, it was clear to anyone that it was made by a true craftsman. The sword itself was glinting in the sun as Holmes held it above his shoulder. John's hand slowly went to his own, although he suddenly felt like his sword-fighting skills were somewhat amateur-like in comparison to Holmes.

"Who said I do not brawl?" Holmes sneered.

"You haven't as of yet," John pointed out, "and we've been talking for a good while."

Holmes chuckled to himself. "Ah yes, 'a good while', and within that time span you've allowed me to stall you considerably, giving my own crew all the time in the world to raid your ship of any value it may hold. You're too easily tricked a man, Watson." Holmes slid his sword back into it's sheath, pride leaking out through his obnoxious grin. Only this time, it was John's turn to smile.

"I think not," John turned his head so that he was facing the same back-alley shadow that Holmes had been lurking in previously. "Gladstone."

Suddenly, a bark ripped through the air and Holmes spun around just in time to see the Portuguese water dog that was Gladstone launch himself into the air. Holmes yelped as the dog's jaws clamped across his right hand. As Holmes attempted to fight off the lightning quick dog using nothing more than his feet (the other hand was clasped around his freely bleeding hand), John threw himself feet first onto the floor and under the seething pirate in a rugby-tackle like move. Holmes crashed to the ground like a tree, while John straightened himself up, patting Gladstone's head as he did so.

"Good boy." He commended, and Gladstone was back to wagging his tail happily. "Apparently I'm not so 'easily tricked'. Did you forget I had a dog in my company?" John withdrew his sword. The point was nestled under Holmes's chin, and the captain glowered up at him, his blood soaked hand creating red spots on the cobblestones beneath.

"You're ship is still empty, most of your men are dead." Holmes growled.

"My ship bore no treasures except for a few maps. Besides, I thought you said you weren't interested in treasure? I've come here and I've done what it was my job to do. You're my prisoner, Holmes. You're coming back to England to await the fate that Lord Magnussen has sentenced you to."

John was feeling decidedly pleased with himself. Gladstone trotted around Holmes and took a menacing stance, baring his teeth as John returned the sword to it's sheath and tied a piece of rope around Holmes's wrists. He inspected the wound. Several sufficiently made puncture marks acted as the door way in which blood was seeping through. Gladstone had done a good job; he'd clean it up and put a bandage on it when he returned to HMS Edward.