These are the moments he lives for. Standing proudly at the bow of his elegant ship, the man closes his icy eyes and breathes in the salty air. Spray from the ocean below licks at his brow and settles in his curly black hair. One long hand contentedly grips the wire that connects the bow to the mast as the other holds a brass telescope, a gift from his brother. Sherlock Holmes, ruler of the seas, is a pirate.

As the wind licks at his long black coat and causes it to swirl gracefully around him, he opens his eyes and releases the cable. He gently rolls the spy glass in his hands, studying it as a smile plays on his lips. He can still remember the first day he had set sail on this newest adventure. His brother, Mycroft Holmes, had been there to see him off. The British government had given him the telescope and made him swear to return safe, saying that he had lost too many a ship to this mission already. This voyage had been his brother's lifelong goal; to find and return treasures lost along the coast of the American colonies. It is a secret mission, known only to those most closely involved, seeing as piracy is seen as illegal and punishable by death. In most cases. Mycroft's chain of pirates in the Atlantic is the one exception, fighting the other pirates and gaining footholds in the new world. And his little brother, Captain Sherlock, finds himself at the center of the operation.

It's not like Sherlock is complaining; in fact, he is ecstatic. As a child, the ship captain had always dreamt of feeling the wind in his hair and the sea beneath his feet as he plundered and fought his way to fame as a pirate. So, when he was offered the job by Mycroft, the younger Holmes had immediately pounced and set about obtaining a crew.

"Captain!" An urgent voice calls him from his memories, and he turns to see a man with slightly graying hair running towards him. The sweat from working under the sun is prominent on his tan brow as he nears Sherlock. "Captain Holmes!"

"Aye?" the pirate answers as his first mate stops in front of him, saluting quickly.

"Sir, it's a ship. Off the port stern, she approaches."

Sherlock's expression hardens as he clambers up onto the short wall of the ship and leans over the side, one hand gripping a cable and the other swinging the telescope to his eye. He squints into it, to see that the man isn't lying. A handsome black ship is sailing along the horizon, its bow directed at Sherlock's in what can only be interpreted as pursuit. Sherlock gazes at it a moment before tucking the spy glass into one of his deep pockets and dismounting his perch. "Thank you, Lestrade."

"What are your orders, Captain?" The man, Lestrade, looks at him imploringly.

Sherlock rounds on him. He suddenly smiles. "Let down all sails, and order full speed ahead. Ready the canons and artillery, should battle arise. The chase is on."

Lestrade dips his head after a moment of studying Sherlock's calm expression. He hustles off, barking orders at the other men. As ordered chaos ensues, Sherlock returns to the bow and allows his eyes to slide shut again. An excited smirk rises to his mouth.

Battle. Oh, what an idea! Nothing brings more joy to the young captain's heart than a good battle. Being a notorious pirate with much experience and treasure under his belt, Sherlock is no stranger to battles at sea. Yet with every flash of his blade and pop of his pistol, a new unbridled exhilaration surges through his veins. In the heat of war, he can't seem to contain the grin that settles on his lips at the feeling that each attack is his first, and may very well be his last. This is what drives him on and keeps the fiery love of action burning deep within his soul.

But, as much as he adores the thrill of battle, there is still one thing that the pirate holds closer to his heart, and that is the chase. The late night scrutinizing of maps and legends in order to figure out where the previous generation of plunderers has stored their loot, safe from everyone but Sherlock's great mind. One look at an old seadog's log and he knows everything about his predecessors. The battle for answers that forever rages is his mind is what Sherlock most fancies; he cannot get enough of the deductions that endlessly fly about his brain. He can tell an enemy's motives by his left boot; he can tell exactly where the treasure is with one look at a man's hand. Yes, it is the mind games that push Sherlock on toward the treasure and glory.

And it is this skill that draws enemy ships in. They all want a chance to do battle with the young pirate and witness with their own eyes his brilliance. Perhaps they hope that they might be able to figure out his tricks to use on other foes, but Sherlock does not usually preoccupy his mind with motives such as these. As long as there is blood and a opponent with some degree of intelligence, he is happy.

With these thoughts racing through his mind, Sherlock turn once again to gaze at the ship in the distance. The wind suddenly howls harshly in his ears, and he turns his collar up against the cold. They are picking up speed to outrun their tracker, and Sherlock can't help the glint of anticipation in his eye. Say they do catch up? The brave pirate wouldn't hesitate to be the first to draw. Slender fingers twitch at the hilt of the sword clasped firmly to his belt.

It's been so long since he had a good fight.


Early the next morning, Sherlock saunters up onto the deck of his ship. He blinks wearily in the sunlight, but doesn't let his exhaustion slow him down as he makes his way over to the side of the ship. He certainly doesn't need the spy glass anymore, for they have obviously gained distance on them during the night. The pirate stares at it as a warm feeling of excitement boils in his abdomen and his hand curls around the handle of his blade. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth; confrontation is certainly inevitable.

The captain doesn't leave his post of watching the approaching ship. He observes its remarkable progress until noon through the telescope, when a new detail catches his eye and further arouses his anticipation. The ship is flying black colors; a pirate ship.

Sherlock whirls on a young man as he passes, grabbing him by the arm and causing the water to slosh out of a bucket he had been carrying. The man jumps, startled, but immediately recovers himself and apologizes. Sherlock's lip curls at the man. He certainly is disposable.

"Anderson, hoist the flags. We are expecting company."

The man's eyes widen as he looks to the other ship and spots a black cloth flapping in the wind. He nods curtly. "Aye, sir." Anderson scuttles off, dropping the bucket again in his hurry and causing Sherlock to groan. What had compelled him to sign that man onto his crew?

A few minutes later, Sherlock calls Lestrade to him and orders that they slow down. The pirate captain is itching to see battle, and wants to hurry before the sun begins to set. It is just past noon, the perfect time in Sherlock's mind for a good spar.

Lestrade, on the other hand, isn't too keen on confrontation. "Captain, are you sure about that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Waiting is so dull," he complains. "I want to see some action!" The captain can't resist the little bounce of his heels and flash of his eyes as he makes this last statement.

Lestrade sighs after a moment of though. "Aye, sir." And then he's off, barking commands that are met with slight hesitation and confusion, as well as some weary glances at the dark ship behind them. It sets Sherlock's teeth on edge to see their hesitation, and he joins Lestrade in voicing his commands. The crew stops hesitating at Sherlock's angry snarl.

Sometime later, Sherlock stands defiantly at the front of the group of his men, all gathered around the edge of the deck. The sleek black ship has pulled up beside them, and gruff voices can be heard shouting from the other ship. Sherlock's grip tightens on his sword; his eyes burn with wild excitement. "Stand at the ready!" he bellows over the roar of the ocean.

"Lower gangplank!" a harsh voice screams suddenly. Sherlock watches in cold anger as a large board slams down onto his ship. He briefly worries that there will be damage to the wood; this ship is the closest thing to a home he has. He'll never admit it aloud, but he cares for her.

"Prepare for boarding," Sherlock announces, and a few of the men rush forward to tie ropes around the plank, fastening it in place. The captain's eyes are dark and emotionless as he watches it all play out in front of him, yet inside he is screaming in pure delight. This is it.

It seems that all of his men are holding their breath at once as a man appears on the plank and begins to walk slowly toward Sherlock's ship. Immediately, Sherlock starts to assess this man. He is flanked on both sides by burly crewmen, obviously trying to be intimidating to make up for his small, slender figure. He is obviously the captain, judging by his lustrous black cloak and neatly cared for tricorn. The man walks with an easy grace; one hand is buried deep in a pocket – obviously clutching a gun – while the other sways gently at his side. His grey leather boots are spotless and even shine a little as they click against the wood, and his trousers are slightly baggy around the thighs and coal black. He wears a puffy white shirt beneath the cloak, a sharp contrast against the darkness of the rest of his outfit. Sherlock can just see the tip of a rapier poking out the side of the fabric that billows around him.

Every inch of him, every angle, every curve – they all scream danger at Sherlock.

That only makes him grin even more as the captain hops lightly down onto his deck and extends a hand to Sherlock. He has an equally mischievous smile on his lips; he is here for the same reason.

"Captain James Moriarty," he announces in a smooth Irish accent.

Sherlock gazes at the hand for a moment before accepting it and gripping it tightly. "Captain Sherlock Holmes." He flashes his teeth at him in a winning smile, which causes the intruding pirate to laugh. He has an interesting laugh, like honey flowing over polished silver.

"Aye, of course; I've heard of you. I've heard plenty about the notorious captain," Moriarty spits the word; he still hasn't released Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock's eyes are unwavering. "And what have you heard, exactly? I presume you must have heard something rather interesting to drive you to board my ship."

Moriarty nods, and his smirk widens. "Yes. I hear you possess a map to the lost treasure of Sir Franklin." At this point Moriarty releases Sherlock's hand a draws the weapon from his pocket, pointing it straight at Sherlock's chest. "And I intend to get it."

There is a flurry of movement as Sherlock's men draw their own weapons to point at Moriarty and his crewmembers. Sherlock only chuckles, deep and rumbling in his throat. He feels a gruff hand at his shoulder, warning him. Lestrade. Sherlock ignores him. "Go ahead."

The next few seconds are a blur. Something slams into him from the side as gunshots ring out. White hot pain blossoms in his left shoulder as he falls, smacking his head against the wooden deck and causing his senses to blur. He snatches his pistol, planning to fire off a few rounds, when suddenly he realizes that he can't be sure anymore of who is on his side and who isn't. So he lays there, helplessly grasping his wound and waving the gun from target to target without firing.

"Captain Holmes!" An anxious voice calls Sherlock's attention, but he can't be sure of where it's coming from. "Captain Holmes, we have to move you; you're losing too much blood!" Sherlock suddenly sees a hand shoot out and snatch his gun away. "Put that down, you'll blow Lestrade's brains out!"

Fury courses through Sherlock's veins as he feels himself being dragged away. He shakes his head to clear the fog that muddles his brain and tries to get a look at the man grabbing him. The air is filled with gunshots, the clanging of metal on metal, and the screams of battling men. He wants to be out there, to fight. Sherlock angrily swats the hands away as they start to remove his coat.

"Leave me! I need to fight!" The captain starts to clamber to his feet, only to be knocked down by a boot as it kicks him square in the head. His grasp on reality suddenly disappears and he falls back down into darkness.