Sherlock, clad only in his pajama pants, sat cross-legged on his bed with the cursed, Sherlock had come to insist, compass in his hands.

Hair tousled from his fitful sleep, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the compass needle sway from the direction of the sitting room to the kitchen, an back again. He could hear John's footsteps albeit the man trying to slink around noiselessly, and blamed the booming sound of cannons firing for the dream he'd had, before startling awake again.

Jack had bumped into Gibbs on the way to the Great Cabin and had given him specific orders not to disturb him under any condition, unless, of course, it was Hector, risen from the dead to breath Hellfire upon Jack and causing all kinds of trouble while attempting to take over the Pearl. Again.

Now he was sitting at his desk, maps and pieces of parchment scattered all over the surface, upon which the Captain was pouring, biting his lip in concentration.

So far his cunning plan had involved arriving in Tortuga.

He had doodled some scribbling on a piece of parchment to help him think, and so far he had struck out bartering a passage on a trading vessel and the possibility of commandeering a boat to sail into Port Royal all by his onesies.

No doubt there would be no sight of any merchant ships in the near vicinity of Tortuga in the first place, and, upon the off chance of that happening, they were most certainly all alerted of one Captain Jack Sparrow anyway. So unless he was going to learn how to shed his skin real quick-like, that was not a direction to heed towards.

Sailing alone, like before, could be an option, but the dockmaster would recognize him immediately, along with all the other good citizens of the fine town. They'd all had a real good look at him at the gallows…

The risks in actually going to Port Royal were both vast and major, so was there a way to lure Will out of there?

He twirled a quill between his hands, completely unawares of the ink smudging his fingers.

…If he could use the parrot to deliver a note to the smithy…Then again, it was a parrot, not a pigeon…

Startling, his heart practically in his mouth, Jack nearly upended the vial of ink at the sound of the knocking on the door

"I thought I told you I wasn't to be disturbed, you insufferable git!" He shouted harshly.

Mr. Gibbs` reply came with a shaky undertone.

"Captain, there's a visitor onboard, Sir… We `ad to fish `im up, and by the sound of it,

`e don't wish to be thrown back before talking to you, Cap'n."

Jack's hackles were raised. Realizing the absurdity of a visitor being aboard, given the unmistakable fact that they were indeed sailing, in the middle of the sea nonetheless, he donned his tricorn and lift his chin up, hand to his sword, bracing himself to meet this, who, or whatever it was that he was going to meet.

Taking a deep breath, Jack sat back in his chair. "Aye, c'mon in then..."

The door creaked miserably as it was opened.

"Oi! watch it!" Gibbs complained as the visitor shoved himself past Gibbs and into the Great Cabin.

Gibbs snapped his mouth shut to stop himself from sending a terrible curse over the man who had stepped on his toes, in more ways than one, mind, and closed the door to the cabin.

Shrugging, Mr. Gibbs took a sip from his flask of rum, and strolled up on the deck. This was certainly none of his business.

Jack's eyes widened with utter disbelief, unable to do more than hang his mouth open and nearly fall on his back, when his first reaction was to get as far away from the bloody ghost as humanly possible.

Instantly deciding not to give up without a fight, he stood up from the chair to level the eyes of the unexpected guest.

"Good evening, Captain Sparrow." The man stepped forth and deposited a small pouch on the table. "I found this. I believe it's yours."

With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock unraveled his legs and reached for his housecoat, unwittingly pocketing the compass as if he couldn't bear the thought of parting with it, an trudged into the sitting room barefoot.

"Nightmares again?" Sherlock sat next to John on the sofa, barely glancing at the TV that was responsible for the crash and boom of pirate ships being blown apart.

"Yeah-," John responded absentmindedly, nudging Sherlock's knee with his own; "Watch this, this is the best part." The childish enthusiasm made Sherlock smile fondly as he turned his interest on the screen.

"It's an undead monkey! Look!"

A critter with pointed teeth and decayed flesh screeched at Sherlock, and moments later, the eyes of the great detective widened in astonishment. 'Jack Sparrow,' someone said. A name which had become so familiar with Sherlock, he'd began to regard the man as a friend. And when he says 'friend'…

"That's the name the odd gentleman gave me," Sherlock said in a low voice, leaning back, his hand diving into his pocket to brush over the polygon.

"Who?" John shook his attention from the telly and onto Sherlock, biting into a sandwich.

"The man who sold me the compass." Sherlock thumped his hand to the sofa in aggravation. "I should've known it. There's always something!"

"What does it matter if he gave you an alias? It's not like you're going to look him up and invite him for a romantic dinner," John offered the nibbled sandwich to Sherlock, who took a bite while John was holding it.

Chewing his mouthful under the satisfied gaze of one worried John Watson, Sherlock fished the octagon from his pocket and tossed it on the table. "I would like to look him up and demand a refund. The thing is obviously broken. There's something profoundly wrong with it, but I can't quite put my finger on it. It troubles me," Sherlock opened his mouth in the direction of John, who obliged with sticking the rest of the sandwich between Sherlock's teeth.

"We need milk," Sherlock mumbled, lifting himself from the sofa, much to the surprise of John.

While Sherlock scooted over to the kitchen, John grabbed the compass from the table and popped it open, frowning at the needle as it made a full circle before hovering as if following something.

Shrugging, John placed it back on the table and began munching on another sandwich, returning to the late night rerun of Pirates of the Caribbean, forgetting all about the compass as he delved into the world of swashbuckling adventures and Aztec gold.

Sherlock returned with two glasses of milk, instantly noticing the compass open on the table. "Did you touch that?" he asked amiably, getting an absent 'Mmm-hmm' for an answer.

Not that there was anything wrong with John handling the compass, no, he was free to fiddle with it to his heart's content, but the fact stood, stark and sharp, indubitable and as fixed as a compass needle possibly could, that it pointed to Sherlock.