And so begins the meat of the story! As I have said before, updates will occur once a week, every week, and always on Thursday. Enjoy!
Idiocy is often what brings a country to its knees—be it the idiocy of the small groups of power or the idiocy of the masses. In some cases, it could even be the idiocy of an individual.
Idiocy is by far the safest word for trust; such is the musing of Captain John Watson, interrupted before it could evolve by a harsh knock on the door. The captain's head jerks up from its position, downturned at the maps scattered across his imperial desk, neck cracking as it does so. He winces and rubs at it—he must have been studying these charts for longer than he had originally thought—then calls for the knocker to enter.
The Watsons' meek-looking servant boy pokes his head in, eyes glued to his feet. "Sir," he stutters, his red-blond curls trembling with the rest of his pale frame. "Letter for you." His freckled hand pokes through the gap and holds out a cream envelope.
John stands carefully from his chair, wary of his injured leg, and gently takes the letter from the boy's shaky hand. "Thank you, William." He smiles down at the servant kindly.
William's blue eyes rise to meet the careful gaze of the captain and he returns the smile nervously. "You're welcome, sir." He ducks out of the room quickly, closing the door hard. John hears him scramble down the stairs, likely to avoid an unwelcome confrontation with John's sister, Harriet.
The captain sighs at the thought. He has long since known Harriet's drunken habits, but poor William was new to them. They had hired the boy from the orphanage as an act of compassion not two weeks ago, and he's not completely used to the idea of tending to an inebriated Harry—then again, nobody is.
John turns his attention from his thoughts and to the letter in his hands. The yellow-white envelope is crisp and clean and stiff, and without looking at the address he knows who it's from. The red wax seal on the flap is ornate and cracks loudly as John breaks its hold on the paper and slides out the letter. As he had thought, it is from Commodore Gregory Lestrade with deference from the higher ranking members of the government and Naval hierarchy, with whom John is not well acquainted.
It is the first time since his injury that he has been called to any duty, and John is itching to return to the sea, although he cannot expect that much so soon. However, as he skims the letter, he begins to grin.
"Harry!" John shouts, pulling on his coat and grabbing his oak cane from the side of the desk. "I have to meet the commodore. I'll be back soon enough!"
John limps out of his office and down the stairs, ignoring the scrambling of William to prepare some sort of parting decorum for his rushed master. The boy reaches the front door just before the Captain does and pulls it open for him, his passing attempt at performing his assigned duties. Watson gives a curt but grateful "thank you" to the servant before hobbling out onto the sidewalk in front of his home.
The grander home of the commodore is more ornate, more intimidating, and more decorated than the Watsons', and the Captain feels mildly out of place in the large plush chair by Lestrade's crackling fireplace. John checks his pocket watch. He had been seen into the parlor nearly fifteen minutes ago, assured by the young maid that the commodore would be down shortly to receive him.
"Captain Watson," comes a deep voice from the entry way. John turns in his chair to see the familiar form of Gregory Lestrade standing in the light of a window, smiling tensely.
"Commodore Lestrade." Watson pushes himself up from his chair to greet his host fully. They shake hands with each other before John returns to his seat and Gregory takes the armchair opposite him.
"Do you want a drink?" John's host asks, "I'm sure the trip was hard, considering…" Lestrade vaguely gestures to John's leg.
"Oh, no," John returns, "I'm fine. It's good that our homes are so close, though, or I shouldn't have made a successful trip here."
The two sit in silence for a time, staring intently at the flickering of the fire. It clings to the log, then disconnects, then clings once more, performing an over-complicated dance of chemical reactions that result in an odd orange-yellow-red plasma that radiates heat.
"That fire," the commodore says suddenly, "is incredibly important for our life."
John blinks at the sudden prose. "Sorry?"
"Without fire, we'd have no heat," Gregory explains, "and therefore no life." The official leans forward in his chair and looks into John's eyes earnestly. "Trust me, I'm going somewhere with this."
John gives a nervous laugh. "Good. I was worried that you were just…" He waves his hand, trailing off.
His host leans back in his chair once more and returns his gaze to the fire, orange light flickering off his face and lighting up his sullen eyes. His face looks older than it really is in the lighting, and John can see stress in his expression.
"We've gotten ourselves into a bit of a situation," Lestrade says, eyes not leaving the fire, "involving someone on whom we depend quite heavily." He shuts his eyes and furrows his brow for a moment, rubbing circles into his temples.
"This matter is rather…" the commodore trails off for a moment, searching for the right word, "delicate. It involves certain persons whom the government ought not associate with, and certain items which ought not be lost but have been." He sighs and puts his palms over his eyes. "You know why I chose to come to you with this, yes?"
John gives a facetious smile and raises his eyebrows. "Because I'm wounded and easy to remove if need be?"
Gregory's head snaps up and he gives the captain an exasperated look. "Now is not the time for jokes, John."
"Sorry." John purses his lips. "This is a serious problem, then? To have to bring me back?"
"Yes," Lestrade says, "a very serious problem." He takes a deep breath.
"For a long time now," he begins, "we've been having trouble with some of the other countries and the renegades. We couldn't keep the violence under control, and-" the commodore struggles with his words for a moment, "-well, we finally got it under our control, with some of the government agents on our side for once. One in particular—you remember Mycroft, right?—recommended to us a young person of interest who might be able to help us with one of our conquests. This person doesn't matter, but regardless to say they helped.
"We were able to get a map of sorts—not the normal kind of map, but a special one. It looks like a normal map, but there's all sorts of writing over it. Riddles, to be exact. It's rumored to," he pauses and once again stumbles about for the right phrase, "to lead to a… fictional treasure. Well, to the Fountain of Youth." He sighs and pushes his hands against his forehead.
John chuckles. "The Fountain of Youth? The British government is looking for the Fountain of Youth?"
"No," Lestrade drawls, "not looking for it. We just wanted to get the map and get it away from the other countries—there's no way that the Fountain actually exists." He raises his gaze to meet John's. "But there has to be a reason for the map. There has to be something there.
"The point of the matter is," he continues, "the map was taken from us.
"A few days ago, the HMS Anne, led by Captain Donovan, was attacked by a band of pirates-very dangerous pirates—and they killed Donovan and took the map. Poor Sandra is devastated by the loss of her husband." Gregory runs a hand down his stressed cheek. "You probably know what pirates I'm talking about, though—The Skull."
John nods. "Yeah, the ship with the genius captain without a first mate or something, right?" His eyebrows draw together. "I thought that was just a story."
"No, it's very real," Lestrade sighs, "I've met the crew and their captain. He's insufferable, which explains the first-mate thing."
"Sorry," John interjects, "you've met him?"
"I'd rather not go into it."
Watson begins carefully after a pause. "So, you want me to go after an infamous band of pirates—one led by a genius who doesn't need a first mate—to get a map?"
"When you put it that way," Gregory says, "it sounds insane, doesn't it?"
John blinks disbelievingly. "Yeah, it does."
"Please, John," Gregory begs, "we need you to do this. I need you to do this. You'll be provided with a ship to rival The Skull and a crew to match it. We even know where they are."
John stands and looks down at the pleading commodore. "Thanks for the offer," he says, "I'll think about it."
Lestrade stands as well with a grateful smile. "Thank you." He shakes Watson's hand firmly. "Please let me know as soon as you can."
John gives a terse smile and nods in confirmation. "I will."
When John limps through his front door, he already knows what he is going to tell Lestrade; no. He craves the sea again, there's no doubt about that, but not enough to go gallivanting off in search of a mythical pirate and the map to the Fountain of Youth—not to mention Harry would go into a depression if he wasn't home.
A crash sounds from upstairs, followed by feminine giggles and boyish chides.
"M-miss Harriet! Please be careful!" William calls, muffled through the floor between him and John. Harry's giggles shift to cackles as she yells "oopsie!" and laughs some more.
John sighs. She's picked the lock to his liquor cabinet. He pushes himself up the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane with every step.
He knocks on the door that the giggling is coming from. "Harry? William?" The giggling stops. Someone stomps towards the door and it is wrenched open from the inside to reveal a haggard and more-than-tipsy blonde, her hair pulled up in what used to be a dignified bun and her lilac dress stained with spilled alcohol.
"Hullo there," Harry slurs, rolling forward from the hips up, "Captain Watson." She wears an expression of utmost disgust with her younger brother, and makes no attempt to hide her disdain as she gestures about with a half-empty bottle. "You were gone for a looooong time!" She stumbles, and William lurches forward to keep her from falling on John.
"Harry," John says, "what in God's name do you think you're doing?"
She collapses sideways onto a nearby armchair, hanging her stockinged feet over the arm and one arm over the back. "Drowning my sorrows." The straw-blonde tips her head back and takes a swig from the quickly draining bottle. "What does it look like?"
"You're going to drown more than your sorrows if you keep drinking like that," John banters, giving her a disapproving look. "You know this isn't healthy." Harriet moves to take another gulp from the bottle, but John snatches it from her drunken grasp. She continues with the motion anyways, and it takes her a dazed moment to realize that she's no longer holding the container. When she realizes it, however, she's livid.
"How dare you!" she screams, clumsily attempting to lift herself from the chair. She tries to move her arm correctly and fails, but settles for sitting lopsidedly in the plush chair with one arm slung over the back. "You know that stealing from a woman is punishable by prison!"
John gestures to the near-empty bottle in his left hand. "And stealing from a captain is punishable by hanging."
Harry unhooks her arm from the top of the chair and lies back across it as she had been, crowing her arms and pouting. "I hate it when you're here, y'know that? You always ruin my fun."
John stiffens and his expression hardens. He turns his back on the inebriated woman and busies himself with fixing up the liquor cabinet. "I don't ruin any fun; I protect you from yourself," he murmurs, barely loud enough for her to hear.
"That's the point!" Harriet admonishes, flinging out her arms carelessly. "Things were so much nicer when you were always gone on one boat or another, and then you had to go and get yourself shot! How stupid can you get?" She flings her legs over the chair's arm and stands quickly, tipping slightly as she does so. She points an accusatory finger at John's back. "You were always the better one. Not so great now, huh? Little Johnny with the useless leg and the limp and the.. The…" Her eyes roll. "The everything! You always had all the attention and now you're nothing, just like me, and you still tell me what to do!" Harry waves her hand disappointedly.
"Just leave me alone." She hiccups drunkenly. "It was better when you were gone." She stumbles toward the door, and William jumps from his place in the corner to her aid. The servant helps her out and pulls the door shut to the best of his ability, affording the insulted captain an empty room.
John keeps his back to the door, trembling slightly as he hunches over the cabinet. He stares brokenly down at his injured leg, before something inside him snaps and he flings Harry's mostly-drained bottle at the wall. He pants, frustrated tears dripping down his face. He wipes them away rapidly with short, shaking fingers and stares at the spot the bottle shattered against. The liquid spread in a chrysanthemum-like pattern, painting the brown material of the wall with the sadly drooping figure. John gazes blankly at it, looking but not really seeing. He blinks back the water that rises insistently to his eyes and turns to the set of parchment and pens he keeps on the side table.
The captain snatches up the paper and pen and sits awkwardly in the chair that his sister had been hanging over just moments before. It takes him little time to scribble out a letter to Commodore Lestrade, and once it's finished John hastily shoves it into a nearby envelope. He pushes himself up with his cane and limps to his study, where he sets a candle to light and pulls out his stamp.
Once the letter is sealed, the captain goes to his sister's quarters. He pushes open the door to her room carefully, revealing Harriet collapsed and snoring on her pastel pink quilt. William sits on the floor nearby, leaning back on his palms with closed eyes, exhausted.
"William," John calls quietly, and the boy's eyes snap open and he jumps up, tired but ready to do his duty. He gives a furtive glance to the sleeping woman and tiptoes to the door.
"Do you know where Commodore Lestrade lives?" John asks.
The boy nods.
"Can you get there and back within the hour?"
He nods again.
The captain hands the servant the sealed envelope. "Get this to him as quickly as possible, please. I'll take care of Harriet."
"Yes, sir," William whispers. He dashes down the stairs and out the front door.
John leans against the frame of Harry's door, staring at his drunk, sleeping sister.
He shuts her door and walks away.
The next morning finds Captain John Watson in full Navy regalia standing on the docks, leaning all his weight on his cane. His leg twinges from nerves, but he forgets about it when Lestrade steps out of his carriage.
"Gregory," John greets, nodding his head lightly. Lestrade smiles and returns the greeting.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" The commodore asks, then hastily adds: "Not that I don't appreciate it. I really do. It's just last night you seemed…" He looks mildly confused. "Hesitant, to say the least."
John looks away from the greying man. "I wasn't too keen on it at first," he says, "but certain things changed my mind."
Lestrade nods. "Fair enough."
"So who exactly am I looking for?" John redirects, "A pirate, I know. But can you be more specific?"
Lestrade frowns. "I thought you knew about The Skull?"
"Vaguely," John confirms, "but only as much as anyone else."
Gregory sighs and leans forward very seriously. "Sherlock Holmes is a very dangerous man." He looks at John through a serious expression.
"Sorry." Watson shakes his head. "Who?"
"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade repeats, "feared captain of The Skull. He's a tall man, dark hair, long black coat, surprisingly well-kept for a pirate, really. He's incredibly smart." He frowns. "Too smart. He can see absolutely every part of you with one look. It's like he's a—"
"John!" A female voice calls out, and John sees his sister in a pastel blue gown, dashing down the walk towards him, not a hint of last night's drunkenness in her gait.
The captain glowers at her approaching figure, but his expression softens when her tear-streaked face comes into view.
"When Lestrade told me you were leaving so soon I just- I couldn't-" The woman breaks down into a fresh wave of tears. "Why are you leaving me?"
"I'm not leaving you." John is overcome with a wave of guilt. He is leaving her. She's the reason he changed his mind and decided to go on this godforsaken voyage. "You've known how I want to return to the sea. It's my home."
She turns her bloodshot eyes up at her brother. "But what about our home?"
John shakes his head. "Don't worry, Harry, dear." He embraces her briefly. "You'll be in good hands. Commodore Lestrade has arranged for you to have some wholesome female company. He's sending his most trustworthy maid, Clara, to live in our house with you to make sure you're alright."
Harriet nods through her sadness, wiping at her eyes with her now ruined gloves. "When will you be back?"
John glances back at Lestrade, who shakes his head. "I'm not sure, Harry. However long it takes."
The hysterical woman nods understandingly and takes a step back. She steels herself, and gives a stronger nod to her brother, who returns it with a smile.
"I love you, Harry," he says, "I'll miss you." He gives her one last hug, and she clings tightly to his shoulders. "I'll send you letters as often as possible."
She laughs sadly. "No you won't, you great sod." She releases his arms from her death grip and lightly hits him on the shoulder. "Just don't get yourself killed, alright?"
John smiles widely. "No guarantees."
With that, he turns to Lestrade and the two stride down the dock until they are confronted with a regal, blue-green ship. She is well-shined and cared for, with new, crisp sails and clean windows. Along the side she reads "HMS Hudson" in big, gold letters, and the figurehead is of a kindly woman, unlike the dramatic ones seen on many other ships, and she smiles gently at the sky. The Hudson herself doesn't seem like a warship, but telltale squares along the ship's sides hide dozens of gunports, their threats surely able to be fulfilled.
The captain smiles up at his new command. "I take it she's new?"
Lestrade beams proudly at the Hudson. "Just finished. She's the fastest ever made—more than a match for the fearsome speed of The Skull. I even handpicked her crew." Gregory looks as chuffed as possible, and John feels he should throw the man a bone.
"She's beautiful," he says, "and I'm proud to be her captain."
"As you should be." The commodore beams at his friend. "Wait until you meet your crew. You would not believe who happened to surface when we searched for a suitable second to you—and he still wants to venture out despite you being captain!"
The two men make their way onto the ship, and in the midst of the setting-off activities John spots a familiar face. "Michael! Michael Stamford!"
A broad man turns around and catches sight of John. "Watson, my friend!" The two grin at one another.
"I told you that you wouldn't believe it." Lestrade smiles at the pair. "Captain Stamford was our second choice for command, but when you confirmed he still wanted to be a part of the voyage. I hope you don't mind having two captains aboard, John."
"Not at all!" He remarks, still amazed at the appearance of his old friend. "I trust that we'll be made all the safer by it, in fact."
"Then by all means, be off." Lestrade nods and weaves his way through the crew members and off the ship.
With raised eyebrows, Stamford notices the crutch that Watson is fiddling with and comments on it. "That's a fine cane, that is. I hope you don't need it for anything—do you?"
John feels himself go slightly red about the ears. "I'm sad to say that I do." He shifts his weight. "I was wounded a few months back and I can't walk right anymore." He gives a relieved chuckle. "I'm just glad they let me back on any ship with it. I was getting restless."
His friend nods understandingly. "I'm glad they did as well."
A man in his early twenties approaches the pair. "Sorry to interrupt, sirs, but the ship is ready to cast off."
"What's your name, lad?" John asks. The younger but taller man stutters.
"I-I'm Godfrey Norton, sir," he stumbles over his words, clearly unused to being asked for anything other than a task.
"Thank you, Norton," John says, and Norton turns tentatively and leaves the two captains' company.
Watson and Stamford make their way to the helm of the ship, where a few young navigators are pouring over maps. As soon as they notice the captains' presence, they snap to attention.
"Where to, sir?" The eldest one inquires.
John glances down at the maps. It takes him mere moments to find the exact city he wants to go to and point to it. The navigator sputters.
"Are you sure?" He questions, not understanding of why the Hudson would be going to such a place.
The captain frowns and gives the navigator a pointed look. The other man simply nods, and goes about shouting orders at the other working men.
A short time later, the ship is pulling away from the dock. Harriet and Lestrade stand at the end waving "good bye," Lestrade amiably and Harry through tears. It isn't long before the two become indistinguishable from the rest of the rapidly shrinking land.
"So," Stamford begins, "where are we off to?"
John smiles. "Bakerstown."
If anyone wanted to know, the kid's full name is actually William Wilhelm Fitzwilliam. If you wanted to know.
