Eyes closed, fingertips pressed together under his chin and legs crossed at the ankles, Sherlock sat in his chair, three nicotine patches latched to his left arm under a hastily bundled up sleeve of his housecoat. To any possible observers, it would have seemed that the man was is deep trance.
The morning rose with its pale, wintery fingers poking through the windows of 221B Baker Street, finally dawning light on the seemingly peaceful man, casting shadows aside from everywhere else than the man's busy brain.
Letting his mind process the more improbable possibilities, like one of John having been magnetized so that the needle of the old compass was inexorably drawn to him, Sherlock's mouth twisted into a small smile at the idea, vividly picturing all metallic items swooshing through the air to cling and clink to John.
With a long-suffering sigh turning into a fond smile, Sherlock decided John had made him watch too may superhero movies, and proceeded to clamp his fingers around the octagon once more.
It was nothing out of the ordinary; Made of solid wood, no hidden lockers, no tiny sliding doors, nothing that would aid in revealing its secrets.
His non-dream, non-memory continued to bother him, niggling in the crevices of his brain, painting chimeric landscapes of endless seas, black pearls and black ships, sceneries with palm trees and brilliant sunsets.
Sherlock's hand itched at the aeriform touch he'd seen in his repose. A recollection which wasn't his, and yet, with another person, at another time, it could have been…
Closing his eyes again, leaning his head back, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the compass as if in a prayer.
It had all begun with what was meant to be only a test. In a jest. (Have I made a rhyme?)
To test dear William's blood heritage, to see if there really was some posh, tea-drinking, wine-tasting, poncey nob hidden in that wild, untamable and absolutely, undeniably swashbuckling nature that the young man had shown. Pirates nature, if you will.
In the middle of the ruckus with the marines in Port Royal, Captain Sparrow himself and Will being surrounded by the soldiers, no one paid attention to a dexterous hand planting a small object in Will's vest's pocket, in that precise, fleeting, impossible moment when everybody had their eyes on Will.
No one even noticed Jack glancing a look around to see if anybody noticed. Noticing nobody noticing nothing, he was free to get on with his fortuitous escape.
It was all for Jack's own amusement; something for him to ponder upon with a mental mischievous smirk on the quiet, uneventful days when there was nothing but the doldrums, the sea and the sun. And the rum. Just a little something to occupy his mind with. Something…interesting.
First, it had worked handsomely.
Imagining young William finding the pearl in his pocket, holding to it, putting it away and finding it again to fiddle with in growing anxiety, oh, it had been Jack's favourite pastime for weeks!
Then the thought had lost its certainty. All of a sudden, Jack had substantial difficulties getting the pleasant image back, and found it, much to his dismay, turned into something which closely resembled fear.
The entertaining picture had changed into Will finding the pricy surprise and giving it to the bonnie lass as a promise to spend all of his life in the boring, land-lubbing hebetudes.
On one otherwise perfectly normal day, Jack noticed that he couldn't shake the unwelcome image even when he wanted to.
The nice little thought had turned into an obsession in the next six months, distorted, winded, twisted and balled up into a daymare.
It wasn't what you could call a problem, per se. Jack usually enjoyed his obsessions, were they pleasant or not, him most certainly having a few, but with this one, he didn't really care for the fact that he couldn't get the first, pleasant, tingling view back.
Somewhere, deep within, a tiny voice which sounded remarkably like Miss Swann, spoke of times well spent, of devotion, of love and complete misunderstandings. Whispers of Will Turner having chosen a life on land, and finding happiness elsewhere, which most certainly was not with Jack.
Then it started to intervene his dreams.
In his favourite dream they were back in Port Royal, Jack hunkering behind Will at sword point, and in the moment when Elisabeth took her stand, in the spur of the moment to address Commodore Norrington, Will turned to Jack with the pearl on his palm, smiling, agreeing to the unuttered proposal, and in the same fluent, unspoken, mutual understanding that they had fought through the marines with, they took the plunge off of the cliff.
Together.
"Tea?"
"Coffee, thanks."
The only thing revealing Sherlock had startled at all was conveniently hidden beneath his collar, as the pale skin on the back of his neck tinged red.
"I was making tea, not coffee." John rubbed his sleepy eyes, yawning in the general direction of Sherlock. "Make your own."
"While you're in the kitchen, John…"
"Fine. But only this once. At least you didn't wake up Mrs. Hudson to cater you…this time, Sherlock," the reproach in John's voice was soft, curiously tugging forth another non-memory from Sherlock's brain, almost as if Sherlock had heard it before.
"Biscuits?" John didn't get an answer from the tall man sitting up in his chair, head tilted like he was carefully listening to the sounds outside the house.
And listening he was. To the words of the man who had sold the compass, the response to Sherlock's inquiries why he was so keen on selling it; "I've already got everything I want," the eerily familiar seller swished a hand towards the corner of the street, where there was a handsome young man, waiting for his companion, arms crossed over his chest, openly curious as to the ongoing proceedings. "He's standing right over there."
"Sherlock? Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, his thumb caressing the side of the compass gently, the real memory pushing through the surreal. Giving a glance at John hovering at the kitchen door, Sherlock smiled, hoping that John's worry might subside, topping it off with a; "Some biscuits would be nice, thank you."
However, these actions did not have the desired effect as John's eyes widened in amazement, pretending to steady himself against the doorframe, feigning shock. "Impossible!"
"Improbable."
Squinting at Sherlock, John quit his act and turned serious, suddenly wide awake. "What are we working on?"
"Nothing. You know my methods. I wouldn't eat otherwise," Sherlock set the compass on the armrest of his chair, the item catching John's interest at the movement.
"You're still fiddling with it? What's so special about it?" John took the few steps separating him from the curio, picking it up in front of Sherlock, and flicked it open.
"That's the mystery," Sherlock, bless his heart, managed to keep his voice level even when his heart picked up a new beat.
"That's odd," John shrugged, leisurely handing the polygon back to Sherlock, calling behind while disappearing back into the kitchen. "I thought the windows were heading East."