Sherlock groans. What happened? The memories creep back slowly, painfully, a second at a time. Soon he remembers it all. Moriarty. The battle. The gunshot. The man.

The man. Where is the man who had dragged him out of there? He has to find him, to talk to him and find out what had happened. He needs Lestrade.

Then, the pain returns in an explosion of knives in his shoulder.

Sherlock moans again and reaches his right hand up to gingerly touch the wounded flesh. His fingers are met by soft bandaging, and Sherlock finally flutters his eyes open. He is met by darkness, but his eyes soon adjust to see a candle burning at his bedside table. Sherlock stares at the table a moment before it clicks. He is in his cabin, in his bed. And he isn't alone.

A hand, rough yet gentle to the touch, envelopes the one over Sherlock's chest. The captain's mercury eyes flicker over to meet concerned, dark blue ones. The light dances off them with the flame of the candle. Sherlock can only stare cautiously into these eyes as the hand snakes its way over to his wrist and checks his pulse.

"How are you feeling, Captain?" The man has a soothing voice; it is strangely familiar. Sherlock blinks hard and takes a deep breath in an attempt at clearing his head. He needs to shake this slowness.

"What happened?" Sherlock winces at how weak he sounds. A glass of water is placed in his hand, and the kind eyes disappear into the darkness. Sherlock misses them, then frowns and fights the urge to slap himself. What is he thinking?

"Captain Moriarty shot you," the man answers from some ways away. Sherlock turns his head, eyes scanning the inky blackness in an attempt to follow the voice and the shuffling footsteps. "Then some bloke tripped over you; you've been unconscious all evening." A light flares, causing Sherlock to blink rapidly, as the man lights a few oil lamps to place around the room. "I operated and got the bullet out of your shoulder. You should heal nicely with a few days' rest."

"Rest?" Sherlock scoffs at the idea. "I hardly think so."

Now Sherlock can see the man in the dim light; he takes his face in hungrily and recognizes him immediately. He is of average height and build, with scruffy blonde hair pulled back into a short ponytail. His face is slightly rounded and aches with kindness and concern. It's a face one can trust. He is the ship's physician, Dr. John Watson.

The doctor frowns as he approaches the bed again. Sherlock doesn't miss the slight limp in his right leg. "Yes, rest," he says firmly. "You're injured, and you need time to heal properly. You're not to leave that bed for at least a day."

Sherlock's face crumples into what can only be interpreted as a pout. "I am fine."

Dr. Watson sighs and absently scratches the back of his neck. "Of course you are. Now, just try to sleep and I'll be back in the morning to see if you are still as fine as you think you are." He turns to leave, but Sherlock calls him back.

"Doctor."

He pauses at the door and looks back over his shoulder at his fallen captain. "Sir?"

Sherlock hesitates, and then swallows thickly. "Send for Lestrade."

Dr. Watson studies him for a moment before nodding curtly. He picks up the candle and blows it out, setting the lamp where it had been and the extinguished candle beside it. "Of course. Then get some rest; doctor's orders." Then he's gone, and Sherlock relaxes into the pillows with a long sigh. He finds that he can't remember the last time he took a breath.

There is a light knock at the door, and Sherlock pries his eyes open tiredly. He hadn't realized he had fallen asleep, and mutters something unintelligible. The anxious face of his first mate appears as Lestrade enters the room carrying a lamp. He looks worn, and the smile he gives Sherlock isn't genuine in the slightest. The captain doesn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Did he get it?"

Lestrade's face abruptly turns grim, and Sherlock's head falls back against his feather pillow with a groan. His eyes slide shut as the sound of a chair being dragged over to Sherlock's bed reaches him. It is silent for a moment while the wounded captain allows himself to be lulled by the soft rocking of the ship. The quiet is only punctured by the creaking of wood around them and the relaxed breathing of Lestrade. Sherlock is holding his again.

"It's my fault," Sherlock mutters, breaking the calm.

Lestrade is obviously taken aback. "Sorry?"

"You heard me; don't make me repeat myself." After a second of continued confusion, Sherlock grudgingly elaborates. "Honestly, it's not that hard. The map is gone because of me. The blame is mine."

Lestrade gapes at him as if he had suddenly sprouted wings and a tail. "Are you admitting a mistake? Sherlock Holmes? Saying that he was wrong?"

"I do believe there should be a 'Captain' in there somewhere." Sherlock's eyes have closed.

"Apologies," Lestrade murmurs, as if on command.

Sherlock grunts softly in acceptance. It is quiet for a second; the ship moans in protest against the waves. It almost sounds as if it is willing Sherlock to keep talking, so he does. "How many casualties?" He says it so off-handedly, as if he is discussing the weather in a local pub back home. But he's not. He's lying in pain, injured on a pirate ship with the map stolen. And it hasn't even begun to sink in; he doesn't even acknowledge it as truth. The truth that Sherlock is helpless. That the treasure is lost. He has let his crew down. His brother. Mycroft. But he can't focus on that right now; he has to address the situation at hand, to know how much damage Moriarty inflicted whilst Sherlock had been down.

"We were lucky," the first mate assures his captain, "only lost six. Nearly everyone sustained some sort of injury, but Dr. Watson has a quick and steady hand."

Sherlock's eyes rove over his friend. "And you?"

He gives him a reassuring smile, but holds out his right arm. He pulls back the sleeve to reveal stark white bandaging on his forearm. "Nothing serious," he says calmly. "It's you who everyone has worried over."

The captain gazes at Lestrade's injury for a long moment. He feels irritation and confusion bubbling inside him. How the hell hadn't he noticed it? The bulge in the shirt, the stiffness of his hand, the gentleness and care with which he moves his arm so as not to cause himself more pain. It's all so obvious! Yet he, Sherlock Holmes, had missed it.

Lestrade recognizes Sherlock's distress and pulls his sleeve down again. "You're just tired, nothing to worry about. It's normal for you to be a bit…slow." He is picking his words carefully. "I'm sure you'll be back to top speed by the time Dr. Watson returns in the morning."

Sherlock nods and gently rubs his fingers over the bandaging on his chest again, reminded of the kind doctor and his concern; his firm words concerning Sherlock's lack of better judgment. Sherlock wants to ask Lestrade about the physician, to gain some information on him, but figures that would be just a bit not good. It would be taken as an odd question, and Sherlock is getting enough attention from the man as it is already. He doesn't need any more confused or anxious glances being thrown his way. So he bites his tongue and pushes the questions down, changing the subject. "What about the ship?"

"Minimal damage, nothing serious that won't be taken care of by morning." Lestrade gives Sherlock a knowing smile. He is well aware of the fact that the captain isn't one to settle down and have a family of his own, but it seems as though he has taken to the ship as his child. He loves her and cares if something happens while he's out – well, being Sherlock.

The young captain can't help his relieved smile. "Good, good. Are there men working on it right now?"

"Aye, but they should be finished soon. As I said, it was nothing huge."

The two men are silent for a moment, as if they are straining their ears to catch distant sounds of the repairs being done to Sherlock's ship. Of course, they can only hear the ocean lapping at the wood around them and the gentle moans as the great ship rocks in the water. Sherlock looks back at the first mate after a moment. "And I trust you have ordered pursuit?"

Lestrade nods. "I figured you wouldn't want to go down without a fight."

Sherlock chuckles at that, but it is soon cut off with a grimace when his shoulder twinges. He waits for the pain to die back down to a more bearable state before he lets out a long sigh and allows his eyes to slide shut. His fingers ghost over the doctor's handiwork one more time. "I'm quite exhausted; I think I'll go to sleep now, Lestrade," he mutters.

There is the hurried scraping of the chair being pushed back as the first mate stands. "Yes, of course, Captain. I'll send Dr. Watson in at daybreak to look after you." Sherlock smiles at Lestrade's clumsiness as the lamps are extinguished on his way out. The door closes with a bit of a bang as the ship lurches, and the resounding silence is almost deafening.

Sherlock scrunches his face up, suddenly lonely. Usually he leaps for joy (literally leaps, much like a small child at Christmas) at these moments of solitude and reflection. But this time, something feels off. He wants company, but from whom he can't quite place. It is extremely baffling to Sherlock, who rarely has heart or interest for anyone. He quickly forces these unwanted feelings back to where they had originated. He doesn't have time for sentiment. Now, he has to think; to plan. He refuses to accept defeat so easily. The battle may have been lost, but the war is just beginning. He has to beat Captain Moriarty at his own game.

Author's Note:

I apologize for the length and the little wait between updating; I've been a bit busy lately. I promise the next chapter will be longer, but for now I hope that this one will suffice.

I just wanted to say a quick thanks to all who have read, reviewed, favorited, and added this to their alerts already! Each one means a lot and leaves me overjoyed! I hope you'll continue to enjoy this in the chapters to come!

Thanks for reading, and happy writing!