Thanks, M Sherlock for beta'ing the original draft.

Sherlock Holmes had been finding it difficult to sleep. Molly was on nightshift again and he really hated sleeping alone these days. It took so long to do so without the warm body of his wife beside him.

He remembered the last time he had found himself unable to sleep, when Molly had suggested reading a book. Sherlock headed upstairs to the spare room to find one from the bookshelf which held Molly's assortment of novels. The Barbara Cartland novel had been successful last time in getting him to sleep. In fact, it had prompted a rather lovely dream. Perhaps that would happen again.

I do seem to have a predisposition for vivid dreams, Sherlock thought. He remembered them too, when he really wanted to. He was also rather good at using his mind palace to reflect on things. There was that one particularly vivid mind palace reflection he'd had when he had situated himself in his seat on the plane that was to take him on that one-way mission, which was certain to lead to his death within six months, at least by Mycroft's estimate, and his brother was never wrong about those types of things.

That had been such a weird, high-induced reflection. He had been himself in the Victorian era. The funniest thing was that Molly had been disguised as a man who worked in the morgue, and he had not even deduced it.

Sherlock suddenly realized he'd never told Molly about that strange mind palace dream. He'd have to do that when she arrived home. She'd probably find it amusing, especially when he told her that her manly disguise did not fool Watson in the dream. Really, that silly moustache should have been a dead giveaway, and the not-quite-masculine voice.

Oh well, it was time to find a book to read.

Sherlock selected one at random. Oh, he thought, how interesting that it is called The Love Pirate, given that I so much enjoyed pretending to be a pirate as a child with Victor.

He smiled at a memory of Victor and himself playing pirates by the lake at Musgrave Hall. The memories no longer evoked the ache they had at first, when his memory of Victor had been restored during the horrific events at Sherrinford.

Sherlock soon lay in bed comfortably, reading the novel. This time, he was only partway through the book when it slipped from his fingers and he fell asleep.

In time, he began to dream.

…/…/…/…/…/…/…/ …/…/…/…/…/ /…/…/

"Well, brother mine, I have a mission for you."

Lord Sherlock Holmes was sitting back languidly in his favourite chair in the parlour at his brother's family manor.

His older brother, Mycroft, Earl of Holmesbury stood looking down at him.

Sherlock yawned and clasped his hands behind his head. "So soon, Mycroft? I just found that damned missing racehorse in Dartmoor last week." Rather anti-climactic, that one, not even a murder in the end, he thought to himself ruefully.

"And a nice job you did of it too," admitted Mycroft, with a slight smile. "This mission is definitely more perilous. In fact, if I might be so bold as to say it, I believe it may be a ten on your scale."

"It involves murder?" asked Sherlock, removing his hands from behind his head and leaning forward in his seat with excitement and clasping the arms of the chair.

Mycroft pursed his lips and stepped back a pace from his brother. "Well, not exactly. It involves a murderer, however."

Sherlock sat back again, deflated, as his lips turned down a little "I suppose that is better than nothing. Hardly a ten though."

"Oh, you will change your mind when you hear who it involves," said Mycroft confidently, with a superior smile at his younger brother.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and drowned his fingers impatiently on the side of the armchair. "Well spit it out then, Mycroft!" he exclaimed, irritated. If there was one thing he couldn't abide, it was people who took forever to get to the point. He closed his eyes and waited.

"It involves James Moriarty."

That got Sherlock's attention immediately, and his eyes snapped open. "The criminal mastermind turned pirate who has terrorized crews and murdered uncooperative men on ships sailing for Dover, before pillaging them for their cargo? The man that has people so terrified to sail for the English coast for fear they will encounter him in international waters?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together and nodded solemnly. "One and the same."

He turned his head as a knock sounded at the door.

"Ah, that will be our tea and cakes." There was a note of satisfaction in Mycroft's voice as he said the words, and Sherlock was reminded of how much his brother enjoyed all things sweet and decadent. His rather portly figure was a testament to that fact. "Come in, Barrow."

A tall, dark-haired footman entered the parlour, holding a tray, on which rested a pot of tea, cups and saucers, sugar and milk, as well as a plate with a various assortment of cakes and biscuits.

"Shall I pour your tea, my lord?" asked Barrow, with an obsequious bow.

Sherlock looked over at the young man. Barrow had been in his brother's employ for several months now, but for some reason, he did not care for the young man, who seemed to always behave in a flattering, toadying manner towards his master.

Sycophant, thought Sherlock dscornfully to himself, as Barrow took the tray to a sideboard and began to carefully pour the tea into the cups.

Mycroft, however, did not seem to have a problem with the man, and continued his conversation with Sherlock as if they had not been interrupted. To Mycroft, servants were nothing more than parts of the furniture.

"Anyway, as I was saying, I have a mission for you," he told Sherlock, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning at his brother, who had decided to tuck his feet under him and sit with his elbows resting on his knees, while steepling his fingers.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's disagreeable expression. He had taken his shoes off, after all. He did not shift position, merely looked up expectantly. "Very well, I'm intrigued with the possibilities. What does the mission entail?." A mission involving Moriarty would certainly be a most perilous one, and Sherlock thrived on danger. In fact, Moriarty had conducted criminal activities on land before he became a pirate, and Sherlock was familiar with some of his past activities, although he had never encountered the man himself in person.

"It involves finding him on the high seas, and bringing him to justice," Mycroft informed him, finally deciding to sit down himself in a chair across from Sherlock. His expression was still annoyed, but Sherlock rather enjoyed annoying his brother, who was always a stickler for all the proprieties. Sitting with legs crossed underneath him was definitely a sore point for Mycroft, because gentlemen should not do such things.

As his brother continued to give him the evil eye, Sherlock finally had pity on him and slid his legs back onto the floor. "Why now?" he questioned, with a raised eyebrow. "As far as I know, his activities have been considered untouchable, as he carefully eludes the jurisdiction of our naval fleet. That's why he moved his base of operations to the ocean, when rumors emerged that he was the mastermind behind several major criminal acts on land."

Mycroft gave an acknowledging nod and pulled his brows together, as he pursed his lips. "That is true, although he covered his tracks very well and his direct involvement could never be proved." His expression cleared somewhat and a smile tugged at his lips as he continued. "This time, however, he made a grave error."

Sherlock glanced over at Barrow, who was still fussing with the tea things, carefully spooning sugar into the cups. He returned his attention to Mycroft. "What error would that be?" he questioned, returning his hands to the side of the arm chair, absently drumming his fingers on it once again.

"He attacked a very important ship carrying precious jewels for Queen Victoria, and the attack happened within our jurisdiction. Not by much, but enough that he is now officially wanted for the theft of the treasure." Mycroft furnished this information smugly.

Sherlock looked at his brother thoughtfully, then asked, "And how do you propose I am to find him? I do not recall our family owning a ship that would rival his vessel, The Black Pearl."

Mycroft was obviously ready for this question. "This is a government sanctioned mission, Sherlock. You will be in charge of the fastest new schooner in the fleet, The Sherrinford." Sherlock could hear the pride in his brother's voice.

Barrow interrupted then, offering the plate of cakes and biscuits. Mycroft immediately selected one of the larger cakes and patted his rounded stomach. "Mrs. Patmore always knows what my favourite cakes are. Do thank her for me, Barrow, won't you?"

"Of course, my lord." Barrow bowed again to Mycroft, then offered the plate to Sherlock, who was pleased to see that Mrs. Patmore had also provided his own favourite snack of ginger nut biscuits. "Thank you, Barrow," he said politely, selecting two and immediately shoving the first into his mouth, chewing vigorously.

Mycroft crossed his legs and accepted his teacup from the footman, with a nod of thanks.

Sherlock accepted his own cup of tea and took a bite of his second biscuit, chewing more slowly this time. He tried to recall what he and Mycroft had been discussing before they have been interrupted by the footman. Oh yes,The Sherrinford. "A mission of this type is certain to be extremely dangerous. I presume a reward would be involved with the recovery of the treasure?" He took a sip of his tea, grimacing a little. Apparently Barrow had given him the one with three sugars rather than two, it was sickly sweet.

"Naturally. The reward would be enough for you to build a small fleet of your own ships. The jewels that Moriarty stole are considered priceless." Mycroft took a sip of his own tea and blanched. He looked over at Barrow, who continued to hover, holding the plate of cakes and biscuits. "This tea is not sweet enough, Barrow," he complained to the footman, who immediately took the cup and added an extra spoon of sugar.

"My deepest pologies, my lord. I must have accidentally switched the cups." He looked over at Sherlock. "Can I make you a second cup, my lord, if that one is too sweet for you?"

Sherlock waved him off impatiently, giving the servant a rather disdainful look. "That will not be necessary. Just have a care that you do not make such a mistake in the future." Mycroft really needed to find a better quality of servant than this incompetent one, he thought with derision. Once again he had to force himself to return to the conversation at hand.

Ah yes, a dangerous undertaking that promised great reward. Dangerous and lucrative - this mission was becoming more appealing by the second. "In that case, I shall require that some of my own people accompany me." He looked at Mycroft, who was taking another piece of cake, and waited for a response.

Mycroft chewed and swallowed a mouthful of cake before answering. "That depends on who your trusted people are, Sherlock." He flicked a crumb from the side of his mouth. "We have already spoken to Captain Greg Lestrade. He would captain the ship, although ultimately he would be answerable to you."

"That would be acceptable. I have worked with Lestrade. On occasion. Never knew his first name was Greg, however. For some reason I believed it to be Geoff or Graham," Sherlock remarked, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He knew he was rather notorious for his ignorance when it came to first names.

"Well, who of your own people do you wish to add to this mission?" Mycroft asked, with his eyebrow raised in question, before popping the last morsel of cake into his mouth, and following it with another sip of his now sufficiently sweetened tea.

Sherlock pondered the question, furrowing his brow in concentration and pursing his lips. "There's Dr. Watson, of course. I am sure he would accept the position of first mate, and he is also a skilled doctor should the need arise for one. He is an able assistant, and my friend, besides."

Mycroft nodded agreeably. "Of course. I had assumed you would require his assistance, and planned to suggest he accompany you. Who else do you require?"

Sherlock offered his brother a slight smile. "I am aware this is a rather unusual request, but I simply must have my cook, Mrs. Hudson."

Mycroft frowned, and set his mouth in a thin line. "It is considered unlucky for a woman to be aboard a ship."

"That is pure superstition, and I set no credence to it whatsoever. Mrs. Hudson is an excellent cook - well used to dealing with cooking for large dinner parties." He darted a glance over at the footman, who had still not left the room, but was now carefully setting the plate with the remaining sweet delicacies on the sideboard. He returned his attention to his brother.

Mycroft huffed out a breath. "Cooking for dinner parties is vastly at variance from cooking with limited food supplies on a ship." Then he smirked slightly. "Oh well, It's your funeral, brother mine. When Moriarty sinks your ship, remember my words of caution." His lips twitched as he added, "Who is to say she will agree to this anyway?"

Sherlock leaned forward. "Oh, she'll agree. The woman treats me like a son. Where I go, she goes", he said confidently. He noted Barrow finally giving a last bow to Mycroft and exiting the room.

Mycroft merely rolled his eyes. "Is that it then for your demands?"

Sherlock took another sip of his tea as he considered who else he might wish to bring with him. "I shall also require a cabin boy to run any errands necessary or convey messages to the captain. I have a young protégé named Wiggins who has helped me on several occasions."

His brother let out a slow breath and nodded. "That can be arranged. He would need to stay in a cabin adjacent to yours if he is young. Sailors can be a bit rough. Of course, Watson would have a cabin nearby also."

He paused, then continued thoughtfully, after finishing his tea, with, "I suppose we would need to assign a special one also for the cook, if you bring Mrs. Hudson. She definitely cannot bunk with the sailors."

"Of course not," agreed Sherlock, finishing his tea also. "Well, how soon would you require me to be in Dover? I presume that is the port from which you will expect me to leave?" He felt the usual sense of anticipation rise within him at the thought of bringing another criminal to justice.

Mycroft's lips curved upwards in approval. "You presume correctly. The sooner the better; within the week. Speak to your companions and make certain they are willing to accompany you. I shall be in touch soon." He placed his now empty tea cup and saucer onto a small table which was beside his chair.

Sherlock rose from his own chair, walked to the sideboard and set down his cup, in order to grab a third biscuit. He did so love ginger nuts, and he had to admit, Mrs. Patmore was certainly a most excellent cook, although not quite as good as Mrs. Hudson, he felt. "Fine, I will speak to Mrs. Hudson this evening, and John and Wiggins tomorrow," he said, then made a display of tossing the biscuit in the air and catching it in his teeth.

The Earl nodded, and Sherlock departed soon afterward, feeling rather excited at the prospect of what would certainly be a battle of wits between the notorious criminal turned pirate and himself.

One week later, the arrangements had been made and Sherlock was staying with his friend John Watson at the best inn in Dover. It was the night before their departure.

Sherlock entered the dining room of The Fox, in which were a number of round tables and glanced around. Several were occupied, there was an elderly couple at one, and three tables which consisted of only men. He assumed that some of them were crewmen from The Sherrinford, enjoying a last meal and drink of ale before the journey on the morrow.

He selected a vacant table that was adjacent to one where a woman, a man, and a younger woman, possibly her daughter, sat. He did not pay close attention however, having no interest in women, most especially not young women in particular. The older woman laughed at something, a high- pitched, simpering sound, and it grated on his nerves, making him wish he had selected a different table.

He sat at the table for ten minutes, waiting for John to join him as he mentally contemplated the mission. When John did not appear, he gave up and decided to order his meal alone. He was just in the middle of what was quite an exceptional dinner for an inn, when his colleague came up to him, looking rather irritated.

"Why are you looking so discomfited, John?" he enquired. "If anyone should be annoyed, it should be me, as I was expecting you to join me for dinner half an hour ago." He spoke reprovingly, and John frowned at him.

"Circumstances beyond my control, Sherlock," he responded, flinging himself down onto the seat across the table from Sherlock

At Sherlock's raised brow, he expelled a breath through his nose and continued. "It's Wiggins. I've just come from examining him. He took ill as soon as we arrived, and I have determined him to have a severe case of food poisoning. He ate some of that rabbit stew at the last inn at which we stopped for a meal, and I suspect the meat was off." Sherlock's mouth dropped open in consternation at John's words, but he allowed his friend to continue, uninterrupted. "Fortunately he was the only one of us who ate the stew. Nevertheless, we have a problem. He will not be fit enough to sail with us at dawn on the morrow," he concluded, looking at Sherlock with a perturbed expression.

Sherlock scowled and slammed a fist on the table in annoyance. "Damn! We cannot tarry any longer, in order for him to recover. I suppose the only thing we shall be able to do is search for a local lad this evening to take on the responsibilities of the cabin boy."

John looked at him rather sympathetically.

Sherlock huffed and ran a frustrated hand through his dark, curly hair before he ordered, "See if you can find a replacement who does not suffer from seasickness and is an experienced sailor. There must be someone here who can accompany us. Offer him one hundred pounds. That should provide ample incentive to compensate for any inconvenience at needing to make such a precipitate departure."

John stood and walked over to Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Of course, Sherlock. I'll make enquiries. Sorry mate, these things happen." In an obvious attempt to lighten Sherlock's now dark mood, he added, "By the way, Mrs. Hudson is aboard the ship preparing the menu, limited as it is, for the crew. She is already complaining that there is not enough variety."

Sherlock's lips quirked involuntarily as he thought about his elderly cook. He could well believe she would be complaining about the lack of resources. "That can't be helped. We must have primarily non-perishable items for the journey. Fresh food will not last long."

"I understand, and I did explain that to her, but she still isn't pleased," his friend remarked, with a long suffering sigh.

Sherlock shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it. She would just have to make do. For now, he was more concerned about finding an alternate cabin boy.

John left the table and Sherlock ran his hands once more through his hair in agitation. He liked things to be done in an ordered manner and did not care for his carefully laid plans to be disrupted. He only hoped a replacement for Wiggins could be found in a timely manner. It would be most tiresome if he had to convey messages to the captain himself on board the ship.

It was some time later, when Sherlock had retired to his room after dinner, that there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" he called automatically from the chair at which he was seated, thinking once more about Moriarty and his plan to apprehend him.

"It's John, who else would it be?" came his friend's voice, from the other side of the door, carrying a tinge of amusement. "I've brought you a replacement cabin boy."

"Come in then," Sherlock responded, as he smiled with relief. John always came through for him.

John opened the door and entered the room. He pulled on someone's arm and brought him over to face Sherlock.

Sherlock stood from the chair and gave the young man standing before him an appraising glance. Short, probably about 5' 3" and quite slim. The boy seemed shy, unable to meet his gaze directly. He had rather long eyelashes, and nicely shaped eyebrows, which led to a rather effeminate look, Sherlock thought superciliously.

Rather apple-cheeked, a fairly small mouth, and the poor lad was biting his lip in obvious anxiety. Sherlock could see a little bit of brown hair peeking out from under the cap the boy wore. All in all though, the young man looked fairly presentable, dressed neatly in a shirt, a woolly jumper and britches.

My goodness though, for a young lad he seemed to have a rather disproportionately large bulge in those britches. Perhaps he is suffering from nervous excitement?

Sherlock had heard of such a thing, although he had obviously never experienced the distressing condition himself. Anything of a sexual nature was abhorrent to him.

"Lord Holmes," began John formally, "may I introduce you to your new cabin boy - Hooper." He turned to the lad. "Hooper, this is Lord Sherlock Holmes."

Author's note: Well now, there you have it. The first chapter in my latest Victorian style romance. Are you looking forward to seeing what comes next?

Did you recognize the names of Mycroft's footman and cook? If you happen to be a reader of my Journey story, you will understand the connection.

Depending on what kind of response I get to this, I may try to publish a chapter each week, possibly two if enough people show interest in it and let me know they want more.

Please also note - I am aware that the correct way of showing a dream is to italicize it, but I have decided to not do this, because then it becomes more difficult to italicize thoughts. I really dislike reverting to normal text in order to show a thought. I also think in general that is more difficult to read italicized text. So please bear with me, and I hope you do not find yourself confused when I leave the dream to return to the "real" world of the modern Sherlock.