Pirates Of 221B

by thedaringkurtsie

Sherlock AU, influenced by Pirates Of The Caribbean. When the Navy are out of their depth, Which is always… They hire Sherlock Holmes. And when Sherlock Holmes is hired, no Pirate is safe.

A/N:

Title: Pirates Of 221B.

Summary: Sherlock AU, influenced by Pirates Of The Caribbean. When the Navy are out of their depth, (Which is always…) They hire Sherlock Holmes. And when Sherlock Holmes is hired, no Pirate is safe.

Pairing: Sherlock/John, Moriarty/Sebastian.

Rating: T for teen so far. Could go up to M if I get the courage up.

Notes: This was basically a massive excuse for me to listen to the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack. And I loved it.

Disclaimer: This based off the marvellous Sherlock Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle, using the characters reimagined for the BBC by Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat. I don't own anything, and I don't even for a minute pretend to. The title for this chapter was taken from the score "He's A Pirate" by Klaus Badelt and Hans Zimmer, used in Pirates Of The Caribbean- The Curse Of The Black Pearl. Needless to say, I don't own any aspect of that, either.

Pirates Of 221B.

Chapter 1-He's a Pirate.

"He's here, Sir."

Lestrade looked up from the seat he was slumped in, removing the tired hand from his forehead, and doing his best to look like he did in fact hold a very strong position in Britain's navy.

"Right," he mumbled, scratching at the light shadow of stubble that had grown over the past few days. "Right, of course send him in."

He hated having to resort to this. It was far from the most legal of procedures, but then sometimes you really did have to join them, in order to beat them, and there was that much corruption at the minute he doubted anything would seem odd anyway. What he was doing practically appeared saintly compared to some of what he knew damn well went on. And besides. This was for the greater good at the end of the day, even if it did involve bringing slightly less than legal parties to the table.

The wooden doors at the far end of the room opened, allowing more light into the dingy room than the grimy windows allowed. Anderson hauled him in forcefully, his hand tightly gripped into the scruff of the shirt that Lestrade presumed had once, perhaps been white. It was now a well weathered dull façade of the colour, which only seemed to contribute to his perpetual roguish look. Even as Anderson threw him down into the basic wooden chair across the oak table from Lestrade, he still kept his holier-than-thou smirk firmly intact.

"Please be careful Anderson. I know it doesn't look like much, but I do quite like this shirt." He adjusted the shirt over his shoulders lazily as he spoke, giving Anderson a cursory glance as he finished, producing a small snarl from the raven-haired naval officer.

"Water, Mr Holmes?" Lestrade asked tiredly, giving the jug of water and empty cup next to it a lazy push towards the young man, far too familiar with having to hold the pair apart.

"Thank you for your hospitality Captain, but is there a reason I've been so forcefully brought here? Or do you just enjoy inflicting Anderson's presence on me in confined spaces?"

Lestrade gave a small smile and slid the bundles and bundles of paper he'd been pouring himself over for the last few weeks towards him.

"If it's not too much, we'd like you to look over these. Find out who he is. And if you can, track him down. That is what you do, is it not Mr Holmes?"

He made no attempt to hide his smirk this time, and gratefully began scanning the papers he was handed.

"Well, you should know Captain Lestrade… I do believe this isn't the first time you've hired me." He let out a long sigh and placed the papers back on the table, his perpetually unimpressed mask back in place. "I'm interested. What do I get out of it?"

"New lodgings near the port. And, of course, if you succeed, we will be providing you with a ship, in order to find him. You'll have to assemble a crew yourself, but other than that…" he let the sentence trail off as Holmes began rolling up the papers in front of him and tucking them under his arm.

"Fine. I'm on board. I'll let you know when I find out more, which shouldn't be long from the looks of things. If I can go…?" He began to stand and looked between Lestrade and Anderson, who had placed his hand firmly back on his shoulder in his usual forceful manner.

Lestrade gave a stiff nod and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Anderson looked back at his Captain despairingly, as if begging him to reconsider his decision- to involve him in the first place or to let him go unhindered, Lestrade wasn't entirely sure.

The dark haired man smiled slightly as he disappeared back through the doors.

"See you soon Captain. I would so hate to keep you waiting."

The sun was hell. That was John's first and sole thought as he strode through the small port town, the sun grinning down at him in rays like a menacing phantom that seemed to grow only stronger when ardently dismissed. He placed his hands above his eyes as he walked, in a vague attempt a make-shift shield from the bright light. Why on god's green earth he had decided that coming to the Caribbean was a good idea, he had yet to work out- he assumed it would probably come back to him at some point, though- most likely whenever he thought of the bitter colds experienced in his homeland of London. Anyway, the career and business aspects of the Caribbean were said to far exceed that of London at the moment. The Empire was expanding, and discovery of new lands was the buzz-word of the century. He nodded as he passed two young women giving him quick glances over their fans, as he passed through the various stalls and attractions of the town's small market area. The richer families of London and the surrounding counties all had developed some connection to the hotter climates in recent years, and looking around, John could almost see why. The stalls were heaving with people; trade was everywhere you looked, dealing specifically to the sailors and various other guests from far off lands. He broke away from his thoughts and turned at the sound of his name being yelled across the square, over the sound of heated haggling and deals that were probably a little less than legal.

"John? John Watson?"

He looked about him for the source of the sound, and gave a nervous smile. So much for the anonymity of new shores.

"I thought it was you!" John saw the man ambling up to him before he had time to place the place the voice, his hand quickly being pulled into a firm shake by the man the man in front of him. "It's Stamford, Mike Stamford" The man smiled widely as realisation dawned on John's features, and began walking with him.

"What are you doing out here? I thought you were up in London studying medicine? Hardly a career likely to take you out here."

John smiled and nodded slightly as he walked, a little happier having found a familiar face.

"I could ask you the same thing." He chuckled, quickly playing the ball back into Stamford's court, and hoping his friend wouldn't notice. True to form, he missed the tactical aversion and quickly resumed talking.

"Well, you know how it is. Everyone's saying the money's out here now, so where better to look, aye? And you know the weathers not so bad. Heats a bit intense but you get used to that after a while- how long have you been here? Didn't even know you were coming. If you'd said I could have helped you out."

John frowned and dodged some children who ran past him screaming loudly. "I got off the boat yesterday. I've been staying in a room in one of the inns closer to the town, but it's hardly incredible. I've been meaning to look for somewhere more permanent, but I've hardly had time given the circumstances."

Stamford's face seemed to light up at this, and he beamed in John's direction. "Well why didn't you say? Look, there's a woman near where I am, looking to rent out rooms to sailors or people such as you. I can take you over there now if you want? It's not likely to be anything special but I'm assuming it'll be better than what you've got at the inn."

At a loss to do anything but agree at the sudden proposal, John nodded dumbly and felt himself being towed through the gaudy market in what he assumed was the general direction of the lodgings.

"Are you sure she won't be expecting visitors? I can hardly just turn up on her doorstep, can I?"

Stamford seemed to chuckle openly at this and kept pulling John with him through the streets as they walked.

"Why? Everyone else does. She's a dear, trust me, she won't mind at all. Just explain that you want to look at the room, and she'll happily agree."

They came to an abrupt stop in front of a simple wooden door, painted black by the owner in a clear attempt to differentiate it from the rest of the buildings in the small town. The numbers 221B were carved onto the front above a small metal knocker. The building was roughly similar to the others around the town, with a large white front that had been weathered into a dull grey. The front of the upstairs rooms jutted out precariously on wooden beams above his head, with a large bay window out onto the street. John thought he saw the slightest flicker of a silhouette in the window, but dismissed it and turned back to the okay panelling of the walls. It was clear the architect had wanted to keep in with idea of the Georgian houses at home in England, as the rest of the town seemed to mirroring, and John idly wondered what the town would have looked like before the empire came.

Biting the bullet as it were, John leaned forward and rapped the knocker against the door, before leaning back and waiting nervously.

The door flew open a few moments later, and small woman in a deep purple dress stood before him, a warm smile on her face.

"Hello, dear. Can I help you?" Her eyebrows rose in askance, and John instantly felt at ease in around her.

"Yes, my friend said you were looking to rent some rooms and he thought I might be interested…" He trailed of nervously, not really knowing how to finish his request. Luckily, the landlady seemed to figure out what he was asking, and brightly extended her arm behind her into the house, signalling for him to enter.

"Come in, dear, come in. The room's just upstairs. There's two bedrooms, though, so you would be sharing the lodgings with someone else. Would that be okay, for you, Mr …" She trailed of expectantly, waiting for him to give his name.

"Oh, er, Watson. Doctor John Watson."

She smiled brightly and placed a hand on her chest indicating to herself. "Martha Hudson. I hope sharing will be okay with you, dear, but I'm afraid it's all we've got."

He nodded and began climbing the stairs, before calling a quick goodbye to Stamford, who had yelled at him from the doorway that he had to go.

He paused in the doorway to the room, and scanned the area slowly. There were two armchairs near the centre of the room; adjacent to a small fireplace covered with letters, trinkets and what he thought looked like a skull, but refused to believe actually was one. By the window there was a small table covered with more pieces of paper, boxes in various states fullness and books sporadically littering surface like a hurricane had hit it. The bookshelves spread out around the room were also full, to John's surprise, as he had become convinced that half a book shop was lay about across the table on its own. A simple couch was pushed against the wall to the right side of the room, and spread out languidly in the armchair nearest the fire, was a tall, dark haired man with a violin tucked under his chin.

He looked as though he had fallen asleep while playing, his face void of all tension. The dark mop of curls on his head had fallen into his eye a little, and his long legs were crossed over just above his ankles, where a pair of dark leather boots began. A black tricorn hat hung on the back of the chair, and John gave a small start as the figure spoke without warning.

"I suppose you're here to look at the lodgings?"

"Yes. Is-Is that a skull?"

It wasn't the memorable and witty introduction John had been hoping for, but he wasn't really sorry. The thing had been grinning malevolently at him since he entered.

"You tell me, you're the doctor here, are you not?"

"How did you-"

"I heard you talking to Mrs Hudson downstairs." He opened his eyes and gave a predatory smile as he looked John over, before standing and striding across the room in one quick, lithe movement. "Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." He stuck out the hand that wasn't holding the violin and smiled again when John shook it nervously. "I'm the one you'll be sharing with. I'd apologise for the state of the place, but I think we both know I wouldn't mean it." He turned again and flopped back into the chair soundlessly, picking up his violin and beginning to tempt sounds out of it.

A few moments of silence passed on John's part, and he began inspecting the rest of the room. Looking over the thousands of books scattered about (medical journals, books on scientific theories; all largely non-fiction titles.), surveying the kitchen ( covered in more letters, newspapers, books and various stains that John wasn't sure what the source could have been.) before he finally gave in and turned to Sherlock.

"So, what is it you do? From what I can see from around the room, you seem to do a bit of everything."

"Do?" Sherlock asked, an inquisitive expression on his face, the only sign showing his attention wasn't just on the instrument in his hands.

"Yes, you know, like I'm a doctor. What do you do for money?"

Sherlock smiled down at his violin at this, as though sharing some great private joke with the instrument.

"I suppose you could say… I sail."

"Oh. With the navy, or…?"

Sherlock struck a foul note on his violin at this and his head snapped up, levelling a scowl at the doctor. "Of course not. They wouldn't know where to begin in my job if I drew an elaborate diagram for infants on the subject." He snorted and went back to his violin, effectively ending the conversation but leaving John with more questions than he'd actually begun with.

The candle cast an eerie orange glow over the papers he was studying, and he pushed himself away from the table again, in frustration.

It wouldn't connect. He could see it all there, see the trade routes he was using, the ports he was likely to call into and some of the connections he had all across the globe, and yet it still wasn't enough. He needed to know where he was, and soon, before he moved on again. That is, is if it was definitely him. And he was sure it was. One of the biggest fish in Sherlock's metaphorical pond, if not the biggest one, and he was within his grasp. He knew it wouldn't have taken the Navy long before they came to ask for his help, there was no way they could have tracked him down on their own, and now he was finally on the trail, he was elated. But that didn't change the fact that this was probably the hardest and most engaging puzzle Sherlock had been enlisted to help with. And only one man could help him. Sherlock winced at the realisation, and turned over other options in his head.

He slammed his hand down on the table angrily when he realised he was out of other options. Well, other "reasonable" options anyway. He grabbed his long coat from the coat stand, took his hat from where it rested on the back of the arm chair, and placing it on his head, ran down the steps of the house and into the cool night air.

The ship and barrel was only a short walk from the house, but Sherlock still took his time as he walked. Even if his presence wasn't anticipated at the inn, he still wanted to be late, even on his own terms. The bright orange glow of the lanterns in the window bled out into the streets, and caused Sherlock to look about him nervously. Being followed was not what he needed. The door opened under his light touch, and the music and noise of the patrons inside caused Sherlock to wince. People were crowded in corners laughing and singing loudly, at the top of their voices. In another corner there was someone at a piano, and another beside him ona fiddle, the joviality and happiness spreading throughout the room infectiously, causing everyone to smile and laugh along noisily. It was hateful.

"Alright, Freak?"

Sherlock looked over towards the bar where Sally Donovan, the Inn's owner grinned back at him, cleaning a tankard of something with a grubby looking rag.

"Sally." He said simply, inclining his head slightly by way of greeting. He slinked over to the bar and placed himself on a stool in front of it. "Tell him I'm here will you? I'm going to find somewhere quiet. He'll know where to find me. He always does."

Sally gave a laboured sigh. "Fine. Anything I could actually trouble you to drink while you're here? This is an inn, after all."

Sherlock scowled and looked irritated. "Water." He decided, before skulking off to the quietest corner the room to read over the maps again.

He thought he might have been making actual progress when a lofty voice distracted him again.

"I was told you needed me."

Sherlock sighed and forced a smile at the man before him. "Mycroft."

"Sherlock. Now what is it you need? I don't have all day. Or night, come to mention it."

"Yes, I don't doubt you do. Ignoring your diet must require an extremely full time commitment."

Mycroft looked tiredly at him, more than used to the diet related quips. "I mean it Sherlock. If you don't need me I can just as easily go."

Reluctantly Sherlock pushed the maps, diagrams and reports towards Mycroft, and explained what he had already worked out.

"It's in its infant stages yet, but I need to put a crew together if I'm going to find him at all, and I don't have time to do the adequate research at the same time. You're the only person who I'd feel comfortable with filling in the gaps for me while I find a suitable crew."

Mycroft nodded slowly at the complement and looked over what he was given.

"Certainly. When do you plan to set sail?"

"As soon as possible, naturally."

"Fine. I'll let you know as soon as I get more information. I'd give it a night or two."

Sherlock stated his thanks and rose from the table, handing Sally the money for his drink as he left. He was halfway to home when a hand grabbed him, and pushed him up against a nearby wall.

"I knew it. I knew you were up to something dodgy as soon as you said you "sailed" for a living, but not with the navy. This is illegal you know. I could have you killed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he saw the face of his attacker. "Oh, dull, John. I really thought I might have a fight on my hands for a moment." He pushed away the arm that held him against the wall and began to stride away back the house.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" John yelled after him, his anger getting the better of him. "Pirate!"

Sherlock stopped abruptly at this and turned around, a smirk on his face.

"What was that?" He asked, walking back towards John slowly.

"I, um, I said…I said you were a pirate." He coughed slightly at the end, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes as Sherlock backed him into the wall.

"Pirate…" Sherlock said, as though trying out the word for the first time, seeing how it sounded, rolling it around in his mind.

John swallowed nervously, Sherlock's face inches from his, the height difference suddenly very obvious.

"Tempting as that is, I'm afraid you're very much wrong, Doctor." He smirked again, and leaned a little closer before pulling away quickly spinning around and continuing his walk back to the house.

John breathed out heavily, as though Sherlock's mere presence had created a vacuum. "Well what are you then?" he yelled after him, deciding to follow him back to the lodgings.

"I'm a bounty hunter," He called back over his shoulder. "When the Navy are out their depth, which is almost always, they come to me. I find the pirate they're looking for and they continue doing whatever it is Navy's are actually supposed to do. Fight wars I suppose."

John jogged to his side, and looked up at him questioningly. "What and they just take all the glory? Doesn't sound fair."

"I don't do it for the fame. I do it for the chase- the adventure." Sherlock turned the corner and paused outside the house. "I assume you'll stop following me now that you know what I do? I'm guessing that's why you followed me to the inn in the first place?" Sherlock smiled devilishly before heading into the house and back up the stairs. "I suggest you get some sleep Dr Watson. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"We?" John asked, helplessly, as Sherlock disappeared into his room. He stuck his head back around the door again moments later and gave a calculating grin.

"Of course. We have a crew to assemble, do we not?" His eyes lit up as he finished speaking, and his head retreated back round the door.

John still didn't know why he'd come to the Caribbean.

But now he knew he certainly had reason to stay.