When John arrived on the deck he was greeted by the raucous shouts of the pirate crew. He was dragged up roughly and shoved to his knees before the rowdy group.
"Kill 'im!"
"Slit 'is throat!"
"Make 'im walk the plank!"
John swallowed hard, that was about as much fear as he allowed himself to show, but on the inside he was utterly terrified. His older sister Harriet had always told him terrifying stories of pirates when he was a kid, how they ruthlessly slaughtered their enemies, how they would throw still-living men into the ocean to slowly grow too tired to swim and drown, their bodies never recovered.
"SILENCE!" The pirate captain, Sherlock, called and the crew immediately obeyed.
"We're going to let him live." Sherlock stated and a murmur of disappointment passed through the crowd.
"For now." The cheering returned as a smirk crept onto the captain's face.
"There's treasure on this ship!" He shouted over the loud crew and their mouths shut rapidly with an audible snap.
"It's hidden but this man knows where it is." Sherlock said, grabbing John roughly by his collar and hoisting him up. John caught sight of some of the bodies of his crew then and it felt like a punch to the gut. All dead, not a single one of his friends had been spared.
"He doesn't want to tell us, but we'll make him." John tried not to think about the kind of torture the captain had in store for him. Yet despite his efforts, horrifying images of being skinned like an orange popped into his mind. The crew's hollers of "Brand him!" "Cut him!" and "Chop his fingers off!" weren't exactly subduing John's fears.
Sherlock raised his hand and the crew grew quiet once more.
"We'll hang him off the side; see how he likes hanging upside-down for a while." John looked out to the crowd and saw them frown; even by his standards the punishment was mild. He could think of dozens of tortures that would've been infinitely more excruciating and definitely more effective.
Sherlock didn't seemed phased by the lack of enthusiasm in his crew and began to drag John over to the side of the deck, he held his hand out for a coil of rope which was placed in his hand by the grizzled pirate first mate. He made quick work of tying up John's ankles and securing him to the ship's main mast, John didn't even struggle much when he was shoved over to the edge, he didn't want to be sentenced to a worse fate. With a rough shove from the captain John lost all sense of location as his world spun and twisted in a whirling dance before it was abruptly halted by John's shoulder crashing into the side of the ship.
Maybe this was going to be bad after all.
John could barely hear the sounds of the crew cheering as all the blood in his body came rushing to his head, muffling any sounds. His shoulder began to bleed at an increasing rate and his ankles were yanked painfully by the ropes.
"Brilliant…" John muttered under his breath as he bounced against the side of ship again…
And again…
And again…
This was going to be a long day.
Sherlock already knew where the treasure was, it hadn't taken him more than a moment to figure out the secret room that contained the ship's cargo, it had been easy really.
First off, no self-respecting medical officer would've stayed below deck as his shipmates were being slaughtered by pirates.
Second: the rifle left below deck, the ship was minimally populated and was easily overpowered by Sherlock and his fellow pirates. A bit of extra firepower was something they had desperately needed, so the rifle left behind made no sense.
Third: the water on the floor below decks had barely reached Sherlock's toes near the edges, if the room was really as large as it appeared the water should have been higher at its corners, naturally raised by the rocking of the boat. The presence of water at all made a third level to the boat impossible, therefore, there had to be a hidden room for cargo.
So why had Sherlock let Dr. John Watson live? Because it presented an opportunity to secure the loyalty of his crew. "Torturing" a man to gain access to treasure would prove not only his ruthlessness, but also his intelligence, his resourcefulness, and most importantly, his ability to get his crew gold.
Gold was almost as important to a pirate as fresh water (mixed with rum of course) and Sherlock was fairly certain he'd be getting them some of that as well.
Of course if Sherlock was completely honest with himself, which he rarely was, he was keeping John around for another reason. John intrigued him somehow, Sherlock had known nearly everything about the man with a single glance and yet he had managed to contradict half of it within the first few moments of interaction with Sherlock.
John had chosen not to kill Anderson (darn) or Stamford, yet he had gone all out in trying to gut Sherlock.
He had dutifully stayed below decks, perhaps also motivated by fear. Yet in his battle with Sherlock he had depicted such rage and bravery his previous actions seemed almost illogical.
He had shown the signs that every navy officer does, the hardened look of one who has seen too much, the haunted glaze of the eyes, the deterioration of intelligence, the complete disregard of pain that can only come from years of having to deal with a similar pain day in and day out. Yet Sherlock had seen John's mask slip away to reveal a deep pain when he saw the bodies of his fellow officers. He had witnessed John display intelligence far beyond the average sailor.
Most people adhered to one state of being, one constant way of life, John didn't. He contradicted.
Sherlock liked him.
That's why he had allowed him to live; there weren't many opportunities for decent conversation out here on the high seas surrounded by blade-wielding simpletons and barely/somewhat/mostly tolerable individuals such as Lestrade. There were so few people on par with Sherlock he had lost hope of ever meeting someone who he could actually converse with without reverting to the English he learned when he was four.
John had indicated he might just be able to keep up with the quick-minded pirate, and Sherlock wasn't about to send that walking off the plank just yet.
Sherlock had John outside his window, quite literally in fact. John was dangling just outside the porthole of the captain's chambers on the ship Sherlock had just taken as his own. This positioning was far from accidental; Sherlock was going to speak with the good doctor.
"Good evening." Sherlock called through the open window.
"Is it?" John responded.
"Pardon?"
"Is it evening?" Sherlock walked up to window and saw that John's shirt had come loose from his belt and was now covering his face quite entirely.
With a 'oh' Sherlock reached through the window and awkwardly tucked John's shirt back in. He was only slightly reluctant to do so as John did have a rather nice torso.
From a scientific stand point, that is.
"Thanks." John said while trying to move himself to face Sherlock, it was a less than successful attempt and John gave up with a sigh.
"I know." Sherlock stated and John frowned in confusion.
"I know about the hidden room for the cargo." The pirate clarified. Despite John's position, all the blood drained from his face and his eyes widened. Sherlock could see his Adam's apple move as he swallowed hard and it was rather amusing.
"I suppose that's it for me then." John said, it wasn't a question, he knew he was going to die.
Except he wasn't, not if Sherlock could help it.
"I'm not going to kill you."
"You mean not yet." John said, his eyes turned down (or was it up?) in resignation.
"No, I mean not ever. I'm not going to kill you." The doctor looked up, a terrified kind of hope shining in his eyes. As though he was afraid to let himself believe there was even a chance of survival.
"What? Is this some kind of play on words? Are you going to have someone else kill me, is that it?" Sherlock smirked.
"No, you are going to be spared. Period."
There was a pause.
"ARE YOU BLOODY KIDDING ME!?" John exploded, his face grew even redder and the blood began to pump out of his shoulder at an increased rate. Sherlock had forgotten about the shoulder.
"YOU'RE GOING TO SPARE ME, BUT YOU KILLED EVERYONE ELSE!?"
"THEY WERE MY FRIENDS! MY FAMILY! WHY WOULD YOU LET ME LIVE AND TAKE AWAY FROM ME EVERYTHING I CARE ABOUT!?"
"YOU BASTARD! I WOULD RATHER DIE HANGING FROM MY ANKLES THAN BE ALLOWED TO LIVE BY THE MAN RESPONSIBLE FOR RUINING MY LIFE!"
John then proceeded to demonstrate just how in depth his knowledge was of a sailor's more explicit vocabulary in one, long sentence.
Sherlock was taken aback by this outburst, he had figured that John would be grateful, not enraged. John was thrashing about violently as he shouted but as Captain Sherlock stood gaping at him he gradually slowed and stopped. Sherlock let out a relieved puff of air, grateful not only that John had stopped, but also that no one onboard had heard his rant. But Sherlock's relief was short lived as he realized to what extent John had ceased his antics. He was completely limp and his eyes were glazed over.
"John?" Sherlock asked, concern creeping into his voice.
"John, are you alright?" The captain reached out of his window and prodded the doctor's body. There was no reaction.
Panicking, Sherlock leaned as far out of the window as he could and wrapped his arms around John's unconscious body, pulling him into the ship. His ankles were still being held by the rope so Sherlock removed the sword from his belt and severed them with a quick slice.
John's full weight suddenly came down and both the captain and the doctor fell backwards into the room, the doctor directly on top of Sherlock. He had to roughly shove John in order to free himself, but when he did he was greeted by an unwelcome sight.
John was as pale as ivory, his entire face ashen now that he wasn't upside-down. Sherlock scrambled over to his side and pressed his ear to John's chest. His heart was still beating but it was far too weak for Sherlock's taste, he needed that heart to be as strong as John's temper had been only moments ago. It was moments like these that Sherlock was grateful for his abilities (which he wasn't always) because he needed to only do a visual sweep of the room to know precisely where the medical supplies were.
He retrieved them and flew to John's side, tearing open the blood-soaked shirt to reveal the wound.
"Leave it to Anderson to hit." Sherlock muttered as he began to wrap the injury with linens, another doctor would have to remove the bullet as Sherlock possessed neither the knowledge nor the precision to do it himself.
Sherlock nearly leapt out of his skin as John stirred, letting out a sleepy moan. Well at least he's still intact mentally Sherlock thought as he washed away some of the blood that coated John's (no, Sherlock wasn't distracted by it) chest with his flask of whiskey.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Sherlock was on his back, a strong hand wrapped firmly around his throat and a pair of thick legs constraining his movements. John's face was inches from Sherlock's and he was breathing heavily so that every enraged breath brushed across the captain's cheeks and rustled his dark curls. Sherlock's mind went amazingly, frightfully, beautifully, blank as he stared into the multicolored eyes of John Watson. He waited for the doctor to do something, perhaps tighten his fingers and cut off Sherlock's breath, or smash his head into the hard wooden planks of the floor. But John just continued to hold Sherlock down and gaze harshly into his eyes.
"…John?" The man in question took a deep breath and released Sherlock from his grasp. He sat back with an exhausted look on his face and Sherlock sat up slowly, trying to gauge the doctor's emotions.
"Sorry." John muttered, running his hand over his face.
"Well, that's not exactly how I'd hoped the conversation would go, but it was rather entertaining." Sherlock said with a shrug as he got to his feet. Oddly enough, the doctor smiled gently at that.
Perhaps attempting to talk with a man hanging by his ankles over the side of a ship was not the best decision.