Chapter Three
Explanations
A/N:
I will be posting a chapter every two weeks to a month. I'm just really busy and I don't have a lot of time on my side. I hope you all understand.
Also, the next chapter, I guarantee, will finally begin the adventure.
Darkness settled among the land and seas. The only thing that was bright and illuminating was the crescent moon. With darkness, there came the unforgiving wind, howling out its gushes of air at anyone who comes near it.
And yet, in the midst of all of this, there was John, slowly creeping his way to the poop deck. He cursed silently every time the traitorous floorboards dared to make a creak. He had to do it. There was no way out of this. He was going to get caught once more. It was now or never. John closed his eyes as he grasped the edge of the deck, sitting on the railings. He glanced down at the ocean below, his breath hitching in his throat. He didn't have it in him to do this. He was too weak. But, if he didn't do it, he'd never be free. He'll always be a tool.
He was doing it. He was going to do it. John braced himself, gripping the railing tightly, causing his knuckles to whitened. He was cold to the bone, but John didn't care. He was going to be colder once he entered the ocean. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes, before he began to loosen his grip on the railing.
"What are you doing?" said a voice.
John's eyes snapped open immediately, quickly glancing behind him before looking towards the direction of the voice. It was none other than Sherlock Holmes. How did John miss hearing him? He was so sure he had been silent as well.
"Stay right there!" he warned, raising his voice only slightly.
Sherlock shook his head, rolling his eyes at John. "I'm not here to stop you," Sherlock began. "By all means, go on ahead and jump. I couldn't care less. I would love to see the drowning effects on the body. But, what I want to know is why?" Sherlock finished, glancing at John.
John looked back at Sherlock, huffing irritably. "That is none of your concern!" he snapped back angrily.
"Come on," Sherlock said, taking a few steps on the stairs. "Sure, today was a bit rough for you after losing your fiancé and home, but it couldn't have been that bad!"
"Stop! I mean it," John murmured, facing the ocean below. He hesitated before he continued, "I'll do it."
Sherlock raised his hands in the air, as if that would help with the ordeal. "See? Is that better for you?" he asked, resisting the urge to continue his pace.
John said nothing, glancing back at Sherlock silently. His heavy panting was the only thing that could be heard besides the waves below. John could see his breath from the cold. He met Sherlock's eyes, which were now a deep shade of sapphire.
"What?" John remarked, after a moment of pause. "What do you want from me?"
Sherlock crossed his arms at John, rolling his eyes at him. He groaned irritably as if he was just asked a ridiculous question. "I already said what I wanted. I want an explanation of why you're going to kill yourself. Surely, it's not because you're here. It's more than just that, so don't you dare use that as an excuse," Sherlock explained quickly.
He waited for John to say something, staring him down. John exhaled bitterly, looking away from his penetrating eyes. He didn't have to listen to Sherlock. He could let go and fall into the ocean. Yet, he couldn't. Sherlock was the only thing holding him back.
"She's not going to stop," he mustered.
Sherlock stared intently at John, kitting his brows at his response. "What? Whom?" he inquired.
"Queen Ebony, who else?" John snapped back angrily. "She's going to – to find you eventually. And when she does, she's going to kill everyone in this ship!"
"Your point?" Sherlock questioned, gesturing John to continue.
"She's going to take me back. And when she does, I'll never be able to leave. I won't be able to do anything," John explained, voice hoarse. "I'll just be her bloody toy!"
"Ah, now, I see," Sherlock said, crossing his arms again. A small smirk formed on his lips, obviously looking smug. "You wanted to escape. So when you saw the opportunity to escape, you grasped it. Now, the question is why? You told me earlier that you weren't able to leave as far as the Palace. So, the reason could be that you wanted to explore the world. I'm your only chance of escaping her. Am I correct?" he finished.
John said nothing, mouth agape from the announcement. He shook his head silently, causing Sherlock's smirk to vanish instantly. "What? Then what is it?" Sherlock questioned, standing on the surface now.
"Stop moving!" John warned, gripping the railing tightly.
"No! I will continue to proceed until you tell me why!" Sherlock retorted, taking his chances and proceeding to move.
"Okay, okay!" John exclaimed. "You were partially correct, but that's not even half of the reason of why I'm doing this. You wouldn't understand. You don't know who she is. You don't know her like I do.
"Ebony is a ruthless person. She'll stop at nothing to get what she desires. And what she's desired for the past twenty-two years is me! I don't know why she chose to inaugural me on my twenty-second birthday, but it can't be good, Sherlock. You have to keep me away from her. Please, don't send me back to her! I can't – I – I – please, I'm begging you!" John explained, voice hoarse and on the brink of tears.
Sherlock had uncrossed his arms at his explanation, staring at John expressionless. He grimaced moments later, glancing at the ground. He didn't realize he had his fists clenched until he felt something trickling down his palm. He unclenched his fists, looking down at his – now – bleeding palms.
After a brief debate, Sherlock muttered, "I'm not going to make any promises, but… I'll see what I can do. Now, get off of there. You're going to catch a cold, and the last thing I need, is everyone on my ship dying."
John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. He hesitated before he slowly moved away from the rail, wobbling as he did so. He stood on the surface, almost exhaling as he landed safely. He turned his attention to Sherlock, noticing he wasn't smiling nor frowning.
"Come on, let's go to my room," he murmured.
He turned around, back facing John, and stalked across the floorboards. In a few swift movements, he was by the door. His hand was clasped around the doorknob before he looked back at John. John was nearing the door silently, but with obvious hesitation. Sherlock opened the door and crossed inside the building.
John closed the door behind him, instantly feeling the blazing fire from the fireplace. His cold body began to warm, and he sighed in relief.
"Sit by the fireplace," Sherlock instructed, staring intently at John.
John didn't even hesitate. He moved to the available chair and sat by the fire, feeling his fingers thaw.
"So, tell me, John," Sherlock said, walking to a table and picking up a glass, "what exactly does Ebony want from you?" Sherlock poured rum in the glass he was holding, placing the bottle down. "Want some?"
John stared at him before he shook his head silently. "No, thank you. I've seen Harry drink before and – well – let's say I don't ever want to drink," he answered.
Sherlock shrugged silently as he sipped his glass. He made his way over to John, sitting in the seat opposite him. "So…tell me."
"Sherlock, let's just say I have, or rather, possess, something she wants," John answered.
"Which is?" Sherlock questioned, clearly interested.
"I'm sorry, you wouldn't believe me even if I told you," John replied.
"Try me," Sherlock said. "I've seen and experienced things that aren't exactly normal or considered real."
John smiled faintly, shaking his head. "I can't, Sherlock –"
"You can't or you won't?" Sherlock interrupted.
"Both, I suppose," John answered bitterly. "Please, I'd rather not say. I'm not exactly proud of it. Let's just leave at that, please?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, rolling his eyes. He said nothing in return, but he drained his glass. His eyes searched John, trying to discover what exactly he was hiding. But when he found nothing, he huffed in irritation.
"I'm curious now, is it because of what you possess that she adopted you?" he questioned.
"I'm not entirely sure about that myself," John confessed, eyes glancing at the carpet. "All I remember about that night was…lying…against my dead mother. I don't know how she died. I've asked Harry multiple times but she – she doesn't remember either! I just –"
"Earlier," Sherlock interrupted, placing the glass on the table between them, "you were going to ask me something. What were you going to ask me?"
John realized he had his mouth agape and closed it, licking his lips. Why was he changing the subject? John wasn't going to press him on it. He was relieved that he had done so. "I – err – I was…just going to ask if you built this ship?" John murmured silently.
Why? Why was he showing mercy to him? He was the enemy, wasn't he? Yet, Sherlock couldn't help but feel sympathy for John. He hadn't asked for this. And yet, he had to endure this ordeal with a smile. Nevertheless, Sherlock tried to mask away his true feelings, nodding occasionally at John. Upon hearing the question, Sherlock groaned.
"Oh," he managed. "Well, I built everything except for the ship."
"Oh?" John questioned.
"I conquered and defeated the people who originally owned this ship," he continued.
"Which were?" John asked, clearly interested in the matter.
"Captains John and Mathew Bluebeard," Sherlock said.
"Oh, I've heard of them!" John exclaimed. "Mike would always read me stories of the Bluebeard Brothers whenever I was bored."
"Stories?" Sherlock questioned, knitting his brows.
"Yes, stories. They have stories of all the pirates and their adventures and crimes. They even wrote about you," John said.
A small smirk appeared on Sherlock's lips, clearly pleased by what John had said. "Oh, really? And…what do they say about me?"
"Well, they refer to you as the man who's plagued the seas and lands for twenty-three years," John murmured.
"Now, they're just exaggerating," Sherlock answered. "I'm not even twenty-three years old."
John narrowed his eyes, knitting his brows together. "Then how old are you?"
"Just how old do I look to you, John?" Sherlock questioned.
John stared at Sherlock. The first thing that captivated his attention were his eyes, which were now appearing red and orange from the fire. His eyes trailed to Sherlock's face. He was pale despite the fact of sitting next to the fire. He couldn't spot a wrinkle or any age marks on him. So…he was young.
"I'm not sure," John murmured, palm on his cheek. "How old are you?"
"I'll be twenty-one in January," Sherlock replied.
"Twenty-one?" John exclaimed. "Wow, I can't say I'm not impressed. Just…how long have you been…doing this…thing?" John asked.
"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed silently. "Oh, I've been 'pirating' ever since I was thirteen years old."
"Thirteen?" John questioned in disbelief. "Thirteen?"
Sherlock nodded his head slowly. "Problem?"
"When I was thirteen, I was learning how to fence. While you were thirteen, you decided to become a pirate. Unbelievable. And you expect me to believe that you defeated the Bluebeard Brothers?"
"It's the truth. Whether you choose to believe it or not is your choice. I know it sounds far-fetched but it's the truth. I've always been a brilliant child growing up. John, when I was five, I had the intellect of a young adult," Sherlock explained.
"Well, Queen Ebony did say you were bright and deceitful," John whispered. "Just…how did you defeat the Bluebeard Brothers?" John asked.
"That, John, will be a story for another day to tell," Sherlock replied. He rose to his feet, grasping his glass.
"We've got all night!" John exclaimed. "I really want to know."
Sherlock turned, narrowing his eyes whilst tilting his head, to face John. He was strange, Sherlock concluded. However, he couldn't help but smile. He even considered telling John the story, but he had work to do.
"Sure, we do have all night. But we won't have any morning if Ebony knows where we're going," Sherlock explained.
John's face faltered, frowning slightly. "You're right," he whispered, looking down at his hands. "Sorry, go on ahead."
Sherlock bit his bottom lip. He hadn't intended that outcome. He repressed the urge to groan. "How about I make you a deal, John?"
John glanced back at Sherlock, puzzled. "Yes?"
"If you go to sleep right now, I'll tell you about the Bluebeard Brothers," he replied.
John smiled faintly, nodding. "Sure, I wouldn't mind that."
"Okay, sleep then," Sherlock answered, grabbing his coat.
"Here?" John questioned.
"Yes, here," Sherlock replied. "Sleep anywhere you'd like. I'm not tired and I've got better things to attend to at the moment."
Without giving John a chance to reply, Sherlock opened the door and left the room, leaving John alone. Sherlock exhaled as he crossed the ship to the wheel. What was he doing? All the years he had trained himself to bury and forget his emotions. And what use was that? He became undone instantly the moment he comes on board and starts talking about his sob story of a life.
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, conflicted. But, John wasn't just a sob story. There was more to him that he's keeping from him. What he's hiding? Sherlock was determined to find out. But he knew he had to be wary of John at the same moment. John could use his undoing against him. And for all Sherlock could imagine, John could have made the whole thing up. Yet, he sounded sincere.
John had fallen asleep on Sherlock's bed. At first, he detested the idea of sleeping on the bed and wanted to go to his room. But then, he knew he barely had Sherlock on his side. If he disobeyed his orders, he'd be vulnerable.
When John woke in the morning, he found his left hand handcuffed to the bedpost. He tried to force his arm out of it, but after a few tugs, he gave up. He attempted to sit in a sitting position, facing the bedpost. He groaned angrily, trying to free himself but realized he was unable.
"Sherlock!" he screamed angrily.
In the midst of his struggle, the door opened. It was Anderson, who looked clearly worried until he spotted John.
"What the hell?" he questioned, approaching the bed.
John froze, staring at Anderson in horror. He clamped his mouth shut but continued to try and free his wrist.
"Why are you in his room handcuffed?" Anderson questioned.
"Does that bother you?" a voice said, approaching.
Anderson turned around, face red. "C-cap-captain!" he stammered.
"Anderson, what have I said about entering my room?" Sherlock asked in a grave tone.
Anderson shook his head vigorously, slowly inching his way to the door. "I-I heard a scream, and I thought someone was in pain," he explained. Once he was near the door, Anderson grabbed the knob, closing it behind him.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, approaching John.
"Why did you handcuff me to the bed?" John questioned, clearly angry.
Sherlock ignored him, sitting beside John. He reached his hand forward but John had moved away. "Don't think yourself so special," Sherlock said, grasping John's hand and placing the key in the hole.
John fumed, flushing brightly. "I wasn't –"
"Right," Sherlock replied, a smirk tugging on his lips.
John hopped off the bed, rubbing his wrist. "Don't you ever handcuff me to the bed again!" he warned.
"Or what?" Sherlock questioned.
"You'll find yourself a grave man," he replied.
Sherlock's smirk widened. "Get in line, John," he answered. "Now, come out and help."
"With what?" John questioned.
"I need to stash the loot. I can't carry the loot with me everywhere. It'll slow down the ship. Come on, let's go. You're not made of glass," he replied.
John rolled his eyes, pushing his way past Sherlock. He opened the door, closing his eyes as he felt the sun shine brightly at him. Once adjusted, John opened his mouth in amazement, beaming. "Unbelievable," John whispered.
"Like it?" Sherlock asked, stopping beside him.
"What is this? Where is it?" he questioned, walking towards the side of the ship.
"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Sherlock answered. "Now, do what everyone's doing and follow them." He pushed John forward.
"What're you going to do?" John asked.
"Prepare the ship," Sherlock replied.
"You're not as brilliant as they said," John said.
"Not as old either," Sherlock answered, smiling. "Now, go!"
John shook his head before he walked away.
Sherlock eyed him until he disappeared from sight. He fumbled in his pockets, looking at the ruby gem. He knew he should stash it away along with the rest of the loot, but something compelled him in doing otherwise. He observed the tiny gem until he heard footsteps, quickly placing it in his pockets and looking up expectantly.
"Lestrade!" Sherlock said happily.
"John told me you handcuffed him to the bed. Why?" Lestrade questioned, striding towards Sherlock.
Sherlock scoffed. "I also told him he shouldn't think of it in any special way. I simply didn't want him wandering off while I was sorting things out at night," Sherlock replied.
"Wander off?" Lestrade asked.
"Nothing to worry about, of course," Sherlock answered. "He was just trying to escape."
"You should've let him," Lestrade said.
Sherlock glared at Lestrade. "Lestrade, you are under my rules. You must follow them whether you like it or not. I did you a favor already, don't think I'll do it again," Sherlock replied. "I already have more than enough mouths to feed, now I have another."
"Is that all I am to you?" John questioned angrily. He was standing by the stairs, crossing his arms.
Lestrade and Sherlock both turned in John's direction. Lestrade's face whitened at the sight of him, knowing they were caught. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked calm and relaxed.
"Of course," he replied simply.
John chuckled bitterly. "And I – I thought you –"
"What? You honestly thought I cared about you?" Sherlock mocked.
"No, I thought you were different. But I was wrong, clearly mistaken. I don't know who's worse, you or Ebony. But I guess you take the prize," John answered, clenching his fists.
"Ebony?" Lestrade questioned, staring at the both of them.
But he received no answer. Sherlock stared at John intently, narrowing his eyes. He exhaled bitterly, glancing away from John, biting his lower lip.
"If I'm such a waste of space to you, then leave me here. I'll wait to see if Ebony comes for me like you mentioned," John continued.
Sherlock returned his gaze at John, puzzled. "Yesterday, you said –"
"Better try my chances with her than with you," John spat.
That shouldn't have hurt as much as it had sounded. A comment like that would've made Sherlock laugh heartily. Even so, something inside Sherlock snapped. He pulled out his sword, pointing it at John.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed.
But Sherlock had grasped the blade, turning it so that it was facing him. The hilt was facing John's direction now.
"Take it and prove your worth to me," Sherlock muttered.
"What?" John questioned.
"I don't think I stuttered," Sherlock snapped back coldly.
John grasped the sword firmly, dangling it near his side.
Lestrade groaned, covering his face with his hand and shaking his head.
John had diverted his attention from Sherlock, glancing at Lestrade. But as he returned his attention, he noticed a blade in his direction. In a flash, John moved aside, pulling the sword upwards.
John staggered backwards as he desperately tried to divert Sherlock's attacks. He backed against the side of the boat, Sherlock's sword swinging towards him. John moved aside, causing the blade to pierce the wood. John found his chance. While Sherlock was trying to pull his sword out, John lunged. Sherlock noticed and let go of his sword, ducking, and kicking John's back.
John groaned as he felt the blow on his back. He noticed his sword fell to the ground and quickly swooped it up. Just in time as well because Sherlock had managed to release his sword, lunging towards John.
Their swords clashed, causing them to screech in agony. John's ears hurt from the noise, but he repressed the urge to cover them.
"What're you doing?" John exclaimed, struggling to keep his sword in sync with Sherlock's.
"If you don't want me to think of you as a waste of space, then prove it to me. Let me see just how skilled you are at fencing," Sherlock replied.
"But –"
John didn't have time to speak as the blade came charging back towards him. He jumped backwards to divert the blade. He had been deceived, falling onto the ground from one of Sherlock's swift kicks. On the ground, John rolled around, clutching onto the sword. Once he stopped rolling, he swung the sword in time to stop Sherlock's.
"Stop it!" he cried out angrily.
"Get up!" Sherlock snapped back, withdrawing his sword.
John hesitated before he rose to his feet. Quickly, he jabbed the sword near Sherlock's side. But Sherlock had anticipated it, dropping his own sword to grasp John's hand – twisting John's hand at the same moment – with one hand, and with the other, dug his fist into John's captured hand, near his elbow. John's eyes widened, howling in agony. He staggered backwards, clutching onto his, now, broken arm.
"You-you broke it!" John exclaimed.
"Correction: you caused yourself to break it," Sherlock answered dismissively. He picked up his sword, placing it in its holster. He began walking away.
John winced as he tried to move his hand. He groaned bitterly, picking up the sword from the ground with his available hand.
Lestrade noticed this, screaming "Sherlock!"
Sherlock turned round, eyes widening. He grabbed the sword with his hands, stopping John from charging forward. John slumped down on the ground, panting heavily. He noticed blood trickling down the blade. His eyes widened as he looked for the source. Sherlock? But of course, Sherlock had grasped the blade while he was still running. The blade must've cut through his skin.
Sherlock looked down at John, removing the sword from his hands. He stared down at John in disbelief. No one, not even Lestrade, had ever been skilled enough to cut him. No, this was pure luck, nothing more. Right? Sherlock looked at Lestrade, who crossed his arms. Lestrade was smiling and nodding his head slowly.
Sherlock shook his head, disproving of Lestrade's answer. He glanced down at John, who had his head low. "Stop it now, I'm not going to kill you," Sherlock replied, placing the remaining sword in his sheath.
He offered John his hand. "Come on, let's have Molly take a look at that wound," Sherlock said.
John hesitated before he took Sherlock hand. He unclasped his hand, seeing blood on his palm. "Y-you need to get yourself checked as well," John whispered.
Sherlock looked down at his palms, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "Quite right," he replied.
"Well," Molly said. "It's not broken, thankfully. But it is strained. I'll need to bandage that."
Molly released John's arm, smiling fondly at him. John was sitting on a metal table. He sighed in relief as he heard Molly's results.
Molly turned to look at Sherlock, shaking her head angrily at him. "You are not to order John around while he is resting his arm, got it?" she ordered. "What's wrong with you? We're not supposed to kill him."
"I wasn't going to kill him!" Sherlock retorted. Sherlock's hands were both covered in bandages, meaning Molly had already checked and treated him.
"Don't you start on me, captain!" Molly snapped back. "Have we got ourselves an understanding on this?"
Sherlock crossed his arms angrily, murmuring, "Yes."
Molly smiled brightly, before returning her attention to John. "You can put your shirt back on, John," Molly replied. She walked out the door, glancing at Sherlock and mouthing, "Help him."
John nodded silently, wincing as he tried to put his hand through the sleeve hole. Sherlock sighed remorsefully, uncrossing his arms.
"Let me help," he whispered.
"No!" John exclaimed, moving away from Sherlock. "I think you've done enough."
"John, I didn't –"
"Oh, don't give me that! Don't you dare! You had every intention in doing so," he snapped back.
Sherlock huffed, looking away from John. He rubbed his shoulder silently, watching John as he tried to put his hand in the sleeve.
"Just!" Sherlock exclaimed, striding towards John. "Let me help you."
John groaned angrily, but submitting.
Sherlock grasped the sleeve and slid John's arm into it. He helped John with the other sleeve, even though John no longer needed the assistance. He buttoned John's shirt, eyeing John as he did so.
"Listen, John," Sherlock whispered, glancing down at his shoes. "I didn't – okay, well I did. But, nevertheless, I'm…sorry."
"You're what?" John said, furrowing his brows.
"John, please, don't make me repeat myself."
"No, I didn't hear you. What did you say?" John asked, showing no mercy.
"I'm sorry! Happy?" Sherlock replied, crossing his arms.
The floorboards beneath them rumbled, and they both shook unwillingly. Once the shaking stopped, Sherlock glanced at John.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, obviously worried.
John was surprised by his response, but nodded his head. "I am. What was that?"
Sherlock almost smacked himself for being so stupid. "Dimmock!" Sherlock growled. He grasped John's hand, tugging on it.
Having no choice, John followed along, clasping Sherlock's hand. Once they were near the surface, Sherlock realized what he had done. He quickly jerked his arm away from John's.
"Dimmock!" he said, trying to change his focus. "I thought I ordered Clara to steer this ship!" Sherlock exclaimed.
Dimmock's face reddened, obviously embarrassed. Head low, he let go of the wheel. He walked away from the wheel, going down the stairs. John moved aside as Dimmock made his way downstairs.
"Clara!" Sherlock shouted.
Instantly, Clara appeared, approaching Sherlock with caution. "Yes, captain?" she asked.
"Why weren't you at your post?" Sherlock ordered.
"Captain, I have a post already. Why would you assign me two posts? I'm only one person," Clara shot back.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All you're doing is looking."
"Exactly, and had it not been for me, yesterday's enemies would've successfully raided this ship," Clara retorted.
Sherlock growled angrily, crossing his arms. "Then who's going to control the ship if I'm not doing it?" Sherlock asked.
"You can have the prince do it," Clara suggested, looking towards John.
"Please, he's never been out his palace. He wouldn't know where to go," Sherlock replied.
"Hey!" John exclaimed. "I think you'd be surprised that I'm a lot more capable than I seem!"
Sherlock bit his lip, looking down at his palms. He clenched his fists before glancing back at John. "Quite right," he muttered.
"So?" John questioned.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"Am I going to steer this ship or not?" John replied.
"Depends," Sherlock said.
"On what?" John asked.
"You."
"Me? What about me?" John questioned, knitting his brows together.
"Do you want to do it?" Sherlock answered.
"Why should my opinion matter to you?" John shot back.
"Because, you git, Molly has given me strict orders to not bully you around," Sherlock said.
"I will if you'll stop handcuffing me to the bed," John answered.
"Again with this?" Sherlock questioned.
"You handcuffed him to the bed?" Clara asked, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. "Captain, I didn't think you were that type of person."
"That's because I'm not!" Sherlock retorted. "I've got no interest in anybody. And even if I did, I would never choose him!"
John scoffed. "Well, the same could be said to you!"
"Boys, can we calm down now. Just because you both got rejected, doesn't mean you have to behave in such a manner," Clara said, smirking.
"Stay out of this!" Sherlock and John both hissed.
Clara raised both of her hands in the air, walking away from them.
Sherlock and John were left alone in silence, both staring at the other intently. None dared to say a word as if the first to speak would lose. Finally, John huffed and murmured. "Are you going to teach me or what?" he questioned.
"Teach you what?" Sherlock snapped back.
"Steering and how you'd like for me to do it," John said.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Position yourself."
John faced the wheel, grasping it by the middle. Sherlock groaned, shaking his head. "No," Sherlock murmured. "Ten and three position," Sherlock said.
"Ten and what?" John questioned.
Sherlock huffed; He grasped John's right hand and placed it near the top right. "Like this," Sherlock said. "Now, if your left hand was working, you'd have to place it here," Sherlock explained, placing his left hand opposite of John.
"I don't understand, why does it matter?" John asked, turning to stare at Sherlock.
"It's just like driving a car, John. You don't place your hands on the middle but near the top. It'll help you steer better," Sherlock explained, staring into John's eyes, which looked darker compared to his. "D-do you understand?" he stammered.
John quirked a brow by his stutters, but nodded his head. "And…how will I know when to steer in what direction?" John asked.
"I – errm – I'll tell you, John, okay?" he replied, glancing away from John's gaze.
"All right," John answered. "Anything else you need to tell me?"
Sherlock clamped his mouth shut when a thought occurred to him. He quickly shook his head.
"Okay," John said silently, glancing forward.
Sherlock realized he still had his hand on John's and quickly jerked away, face red. Geez, he felt like a complete idiot. What was going on with him? More importantly, what was John doing to him? All he knew, it couldn't have been good.
And then he heard it, his name being called out. He glanced back at John, who was staring at him. Why was he staring at him like that? No one's ever looked at him liked that. What did it mean? No, no, he was just over thinking it.
"Yes, John?" Sherlock questioned silently.
"Sherlock, tell me about the Bluebeard Brothers," John said.
Sherlock stared at John, a small smile forming on his lips. He nodded his head slowly. "Persistent aren't we?" he replied.
"I want to know how a bloody thirteen year old defeated two grown men," John replied.
"Well, they're still alive. Well, Mathew's still alive last I saw him," Sherlock answered.
"Tell me!" John chuckled.
"Fine," Sherlock replied.
"So, when I was thirteen, I had joined John's and Mathew's crew. I lied about my age and said I was sixteen. I had instantly regretted joining their crew because they were awful pirates. They were cruel to their crew and mistreated them daily. By the end of my first week, I had – in total – received a hundred and fifty nine lashes. I was scarred and bruised for weeks. Yet, they never stopped, the lashes.
"The punishment got so bad that I could barely get out of my own bed. Oh, my bed!" Sherlock exclaimed bitterly. "My bed was made of straw and I slept near some of the animals. I got sick really bad one time. And it was so bad that they locked me up in a cell. I nearly died had it not been for George. George would secretly go behind everyone's back and treat me with some medicine he would find. George was twice my age."
"Then, after six months of enduring that hellhole, I decided I was going to split from the crew. But upon finding out, thanks to Jacob, I was beaten and nearly killed – because you couldn't just 'leave' the crew, once you joined, you never left – had it not been for George. It was there where we both rose up from the crew and captains and overthrew them. George and I were the best sword fighters there was, despite my young age. We easily killed the crew.
"But trying to kill or overpower the two Bluebeards was a challenge. Unintentionally, I had killed John, who was going to jab George. As for Mathew, George and I managed to wound him everywhere, but the cowered jumped overboard. We thought he was dead until we met up with him a few years later, but we managed to escape.
"But since everyone was dead and the remaining captain had openly abandoned his ship, the ship was ours. George was the captain. He made the orders and I was his crew and secondhand man," Sherlock explained, looking at John as he finished.
John was silent, horrified by the events. "A hundred and fifty-nine lashes?" John questioned, voice hoarse. "Does – does it still hurt, after all these years?"
Sherlock shook his head. "It stopped hurting five years ago," Sherlock answered.
"And George, what happened to him? If he was the captain, then why are you captain? Did he quit being a pirate?" John asked.
Sherlock chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "George's dead. He's been dead for the past three years," Sherlock said. "By default, I became captain. Though, it could've easily been Lestrade."
"Lestrade?" John questioned.
"George always liked Lestrade best. He liked him more than me," Sherlock replied.
"What do you mean?" John asked, clearly puzzled.
"John, let's just say that we both had different feelings towards the other," Sherlock answered.
"I don't understand," John said.
"Then, it's better that you don't," Sherlock replied bitterly, frowning slightly.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John whispered. "I didn't mean to bring back bad memories."
Sherlock shook his head quickly. "Why should I care?" Sherlock questioned. "It's past, it doesn't matter anymore."
"Don't say that," John replied. "My mum's been dead for nearly sixteen years, and it still hurts me. It still matters to me, Sherlock. So, I know it still matters to you even if three years have past," John explained.
Sherlock was silent for a few moments, unable to meet John's eyes. When he did, he gingerly patted John's back, saying, "In five minutes, I want you to steer left. Only half way and, still keeping the wheel that way, keep you hands on ten and three. Got it?"
John exhaled silently but managed to nod. "I understand."
Sherlock nodded. "Good," he said, walking away from him.