Fantastical Clues J by NW 3

by danglingdingle

Following on the tracks of 'John by Northwest' and 'Out of His Depth' This thing has taken a course of its own. pre-Sherlock/John slash. Jack/Will implied. Disclaimer: I do not own the compass, any of the characters, or hold rights on anything.

The dream, if one could call it that, seemed more like a memory than anything else, despite the era being long gone, the faces unfamiliar, (but there was something….someone…eerily well-known) the surroundings clouded in the haze of slumber, details switching places, time having no meaning, leaving the vast horizon his only true constant.

Sherlock turned in his fitful slumber, scrunching his forehead as if in front of a particularly puzzling case.

There had been something wrong with the captain for over half a year now, as Mr. Gibbs recalled, but the last month had been stressing for the whole crew. Jack had been distracted by his thoughts and, apparently, they didn't leave him alone even to get a good night's sleep. Usually Jack's behaviour becoming more odd than usual, meant trouble.

For the past three days the captain had just stood there, nailed on the spot, not noticing the burning sun nor the whipping winds that blew from the open sea. It seemed that Jack's world consisted of the helm of the Pearl, the sounds of the sea and the alcohol that he kept marinating himself with.

Standing there, caressing his Pearl with his tar-stained fingers, lost in his thoughts, Captain Jack Sparrow had his eyes fixed on a compass, watching the needle pinpoint to an exact location, the battle within the man overpowering. The choices to make were impossible to avoid much longer, Jack having dodged them, flitted between raindrops for long enough already.

He snapped the compass shut and made his decision. Hell might not hath fury like a woman scorned and Jack knew better than anyone else that it applied to a certain man as well.

Besides, when was the last time he'd denied his heart's desire?

Sherlock's eyes flung open at the last remnants of his dream, hand grabbing for the compass at his bedside table, the smooth surface comforting, in what was a feeling Sherlock was unfamiliar with - yearning. Longing. The reflection of the Captain's emotions shining off him brightly, pieces trying to find suitable places to fall into, rationally, in a mind which abhorred magic.