A/N Still can't quite believe how many wonderful reviews I am getting. I love each and every one and am working on getting back to everyone. Thanks for the critisisms as well I find it all helpful and am glad people have taken the time to try and help me as a writer.

Just another quick note, i am sorry to those of you who read this chapter before I noticed I had repeated a paragraph. I am such an nightmare, honestly.

Chapter 4

Blue Eyes.

He had planned on taking a few more samples that day but his subject had become agitated. Perhaps that wasn't quite the right word. Sherlock sighed and looked down at the collection of flesh and scales contained on the small silver tray. It hadn't been as easy as he had anticipated and now obvious animosity had blossomed between them which would only make more samples even harder to obtain. Sherlock picked up a slender silver knife and began scratching flakes away from the shimmering surface of a scale. Even now the colours were dim, without the light reflecting from the water. An uneasy weight had settled somewhere in the pit of his stomach and he was unwilling to think on it. Guilt was not something he was accustomed to and for it to invade him now seemed absurd. He had no emotions for human beings, let alone some half bred...He stopped himself. Freak. That was the word he had been about to use. The word that had been turned on him so many times. He frowned. The stone in his stomach twisted unpleasantly and he slammed a fist down onto the table; ink bottles and glass vials shaking from the force of it. John was a natural phenomenon, there to be studied and explored. He had done no worse than what would have become the creature if he had been found by any other human. The wound on his shoulder was a testament to that.

Sherlock's quest for knowledge had taken him all over the world. The freedom and constant adventures of piracy calling to him from a young age. He was unlike most of his crew members. He was not born into poverty or forced into a life of crime because he had no other options. His parents had wanted him to be a doctor, or a lawyer. Some well paid upperclass job that would have driven him insane in the end. So he had ran and found himself stowed away on a ship heading east to China it was easy from there. He knew his intelligence and cool manner frightened people but it made it incredibly easy to manipulate and work those around you to your advantage. He was eighteen by the time he had rounded up a crew, and obtained a vessel. It had been exactly what he had dreamed of, for a while at least. That was 6 years ago now, he thought solemnly and wondered for the first time in over half a decade if it had finally become stale.

Sherlock's eyes trailed wearily over his cabin, surveying the books and treasure he had collected up and hoarded. It was entirely possible that none of it meant - anything. What was it for. He had all of this knowledge, so many capabilities but still no real outlet for them. No use for them except to gather dust and rot away on his shelves. What was the point of having all of this? He had never been one for sharing, had never wanted to give what he had to anyone but he wanted something more than this. It would be more difficult now though. He knew he could never fall back into 'society' and he didn't want to. He looked back down at his collection of samples and slide them away into his desk draw in an attempted to ease whatever was laying so uncomfortably in his chest and sat back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin as he considered his next move.

Straight away he decided that little good would come of analysing the detestable 'feeling' that seemed to have deemed itself important enough to show up out of the blue. He dismissed it as best he could and went back to detailing the next pieces of his studies. There was no use in considering an alternative lifestyle or suddenly deciding he was unhappy with his lot. In the end happiness was irrelevant. His mind wandered to the current object of his study and the practicalities of keeping him alive ignoring the possible ulterior motive he may have for going back to the tank. He would of course need feeding and his wounds would need to be seen to. If it had been anything else he may have asked his crew but this required a more delicate touch, not to mention they were all terrified of the creature. Sherlock simply couldn't fathom why. He hadn't fought back. Even afterwards he had just slipped back into the sanctuary of the water and lay still until Sherlock had left. It could have shown as a sign of weakness or defeat but Sherlock was sure there was something more to it. It was useless to delay the necessity of it any longer. Infection would be an unnecessary obstacle and he had the means to prevent it. Sherlock jumped up and gathered a few supplies from the shelves before making his way out of the cabin and down to the ships kitchen pondering as he went if mermen ate fish or if that classed as cannibalism.

He had no intention of running around trying to find something suitable for the merman to consume so he grabbed what he could carry from the stores. A collection of fruit, bread and fish and carried them with him down to the ballast tank. Sherlock, although emotionally stunted at least had the understanding that John would probably be hostile so instead of leaping down the steps in his usual over excited manner he took them slowly. With each step the long shadow beneath the surface became more prominent. It was unmoving. Sherlock dropped down the items in his arms onto the lowest dry step and sat down on the damp one below. He yanked off his boots and threw them up a few steps, wincing as the crash reverberated around the tank - so much for creating a calm and quiet atmosphere. Sure enough the body beneath the water flinched and turned though still did not attempt to rise from the water. Sherlock sighed and eased his feet in gently only causing a few rippled to journey across the surface. The coolness was welcome and soothing to his skin and he flexed his toes watching carefully as the merman became more adjusted to the vibrations his movements were creating.

When Sherlock finally spoke he tried to keep his voice soft hoping a kinder tone may bring John out of the water.

"John, I have some food for you and I would like to take a look at your...wound." he cleared his throat. "I'm sure you must be hungry and I really would rather you didn't get an infection." Sherlock held his breath and kept as still as possible until finally the surface broken and two huge blue eyes stared back at him causing the pain in his chest to increase tenfold. Perhaps, he thought, this wouldn't be so easy to delete.