Again, another important note at the end. Sorry guys, but I have to change my schedule once more due to unforeseen circumstances.


It is the sound of shouting outside of the cabin that wakes John for the second time. Light streams through the window and into his tired eyes, momentarily blinding him. He flinches at it and presses his palms over his eyes.

John sits up stiffly, eyes clenched shut. They blink open to rake the room for signs of… Signs of….

John's eyes shoot fully open. Sherlock Holmes! Right. He pushes himself off of the bed, rubbing at his red wrists. Someone must have unbound him while he slept.

In the light, the previously indecipherable cabin shines. Charts are splayed across the desk, hiding the deep chestnut of the surface. Cups and baubles litter it in a similar fashion, sparse protrusions from a paper topsoil. There are countless gouges on one corner where the wood had been mauled by a dagger. The shelves that line the wall overflow with texts and errant papers without any rhyme or reason. Thankfully, the clutter refrains from consuming the floor.

A dagger, presumably the one that had so mercilessly attacked the desk, digs into the wood of the door, holding up a note. "Don't get any ideas. –SH" is all that it reads, but John knows what it means—don't try to escape. He tugs the paper down and crumples it before removing the knife from its perch. He stabs it into the already abused desk where it sticks with a satisfying thuk before moving to the door.

The deck is flooded with the bright morning light and the sheer whiteness of it all momentarily blinds John's sleepy eyes. When the pain subsides, John is surprised to find a deck bustling with people cleaning. John recognizes a few of the men, but they avoid eye contact with their ex-captain in favor of scrubbing the black floor boards into oblivion. John straightens his back confrontationally, then realizes that his deserters are, in fact, above him now, due to his captive position.

In a huff of mild frustration, John frowns and turns his head towards the edge of the ship. In the distance, a ship bobs just above the horizon but approaching fast. Perhaps that ship is the source of all the commotion?

"I'm glad to see that you're about once more," a voice from behind says.

"Well, somebody slit my bonds, so I assume that I'm doing what I was supposed to," John replies without turning around, "you left me the note, after all."

John can practically hear the smirk on Sherlock's face. "It surprises me, though. That you're walking about so easily, that is."

The blond sighs and turns to face the captain. "And why's that?"

"You left something rather important in your cabin." Smugness radiates from the pirate in waves that John cannot avoid. They wash over his head and push him under, tumbling him about in the after wake, leaving only a sense of prickling annoyance tingling in his skull.

"What?" is John's terse reply.

"Your cane."

John's eyes widen and he stares down at his injured leg in astonishment. "How-?"

"Your limp was in your head; I knew that from the first moments I met you." Sherlock smiles slightly. "You never needed the cane, not really. You may have been wounded during your service—how was America, by the way?—but it certainly was not your leg that was wounded."

"What- no- but-" John stutters. Sherlock just continues his smirk.

With a shout, one of The Skull's men bounds up to Holmes. "The Brook is coming, sir," he pants.

"Excellent." The pirate captain presses his fingers together in front of his lips and strides to the wall of the ship. He leans his jacketed arms on the rail and crosses his legs, staring intently out at the approaching ship.

"The Brooks?" John questions.

"Yes," Sherlock replies, "it is another pirate ship. Quite a dangerous one, in fact."

"Why haven't I heard of it, then?" John challenges.

Holmes turns his head to look at the captive in his periphery. "Because he didn't want to be heard of. This man effectively controls every ocean and every ship on every ocean—or he could. He controls what is said and thought of him, much like an artist controls what is blatant in his work. He's even more powerful than my brother." The captain smirks at his own joke, which fell rather flat on the rest of the crew.

"Who?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock responds, "my brother occupies a minor position in the British government, and occasionally is the British government."

"I meant who- wait, Mycroft?" John blinks with disbelief. "As in the 'I-give-the-Navy-their-orders' Mycroft?"

Sherlock smirks bitterly. "Not just the Navy. Everyone else, too. As I said, he is the British government."

John stares down for a stunned moment, eyebrow quirked. He scoffs. "Well, this is an interesting twist."

Sherlock straightens with a distracted look. "Indeed it is," he murmurs, paying no attention to what he's saying. He sets off towards the helm slowly at first, eyes still fixated on the horizon, increasing speed gradually until he's sprinting up the stairs and leaning over the rail, staring into the distance.

"What are you—?" John shakes his head, then dashes after the captain. "What are you looking at?"

Without turning to John, Sherlock replies: "The Brooks."

"Why'd you run off like that, though?" the blond chides, "It was rude."

The pirate ignores the minor insult on his personality in favor of the ship. "She's different." Sherlock frowns. "This may be a problem." He turns to the deck with a blank expression. "Prepare to be boarded!" He shouts to his crew, and a murmur of confusion rustles through them. "Peaceably boarded, most likely, but prepare nonetheless."

Sherlock plants both hands on the rail overlooking the deck and vaults himself over it, landing gracefully on the deck. He disappears into his cabin as John gapes.

"He does that," one of the navigators says, pulling John out of his astonishment. "He's vain and pompous and annoying as all Hell, but he's a good captain, and a brilliant one too." The navigator presses his lips together thoughtfully. "If you're walking about free right now, he must have seen something that the rest of us didn't."

"Really?" John quirks his head. "What might that be?"

The navigator shrugs. "Haven't the foggiest. But he trusts you, and that's not something many people can say."

"Hm." John frowns. "Odd, that is."

A door slamming below sends vibrations shuttering through the helm. With it, Sherlock strides into view, dressed in a long, clean coat. Hints of silver buttons shimmer in the light against a black waistcoat and royal purple shirt underneath. His outfit presents a formidably well-dressed image—certainly to impress.

John catches a glimpse of an exposed portion of Sherlock's white chest underneath his shirt. For a pirate, Sherlock is shockingly pale. However, something else catches his eye: a string of navy blue beads. They disappear beneath violet fabric before John can get a better look, and the blond makes a mental note to ask Sherlock about it later.

A shout comes from John's right, and his head whips around to look. The Brooks is lazily closing the already small gap between the two ships as Sherlock watches intently.

The figurehead makes its way into focus first—a coy mermaid skirting the waves. Her soft face holds the kind of comeliness one would expect from such an enthralling creature, marred only by indistinct grains of wood. Her hands grasp the ship and her eyes are upward with a sad sort of expression, and it is only when John registers the expression that he realizes that she is bound to the ship with wood-carved rope.

The Brooks thrusts the mermaid figure forward through the ocean until she is alongside the bow of The Skull. The men on the other ship hustle in near silence to drop anchor and create a walkway between the two ships.

The wooden plank connects the ships with a sharp crack as is makes contact with the dark deck of The Skull. The long minute of nothing that follows sends nervousness prickling through John. Who are these people?

Then suddenly, a door slides demurely open on the Brooks—the cabin door. Confident footsteps, heel toe, heel toe, click out across the damp brown deck of the other ship. Black trouser legs tucked into brown boots swish against one another. A black-red vest brushes carefully against the leather of a belt and the white of a shirt. Brunette hair lies flat beneath a beaten hat—a captain's hat. When the hat-wearer turns to his captive audience aboard The Skull, he smiles gently, brown eyes wrinkling at the edges.

"Hello there, dear," He drawls in a high voice, and John immediately dislikes the man. He seems too soft to be a pirate, too kind.

Too good to be true.

"Have you missed me?" The too-soft-looking captain of the Brooks smiles dreamily at Sherlock, who has just stepped into the meeting.

"I should think not." Holmes clicks the "t" in "not." He stares at the other captain intently for a long moment. "Why are you here, Moriarty?"

Moriarty grins wolfishly. "You're not the only one that gets bored, you know."

"But why did you come to me?" Sherlock tilts his head up slightly, straightening his back and shoulders—a subtle but assertive movement.

The other captain returns the challenge with a puffed chest and tilted head. "A little birdy told me that you have something interesting to do." He crosses his left leg in front of his right, completely at home on Sherlock's ship.

Sherlock takes a haughty breath and tilts his head down slowly. "That little birdy seems to have been grievously misinformed."

"We both know that's not true, my dear," Moriarty smiles.

The two captains slip into silence, but their conversation is far from over. Moriarty's smile twitches into neutrality. Holmes's eyebrow quirks very slightly. Moriarty head turns a centimeter. Holmes's eyes narrow minimally. Moriarty's eyebrows rise. Holmes adjusts his coat.

Moriarty shrugs, smiling once more. His eyes turn predatory suddenly and they flick to John. "Who's your new pet?"

John blinks surprisedly.

Sherlock gives a skeptical glance at John. "Him? He's my prisoner, although I'm sure you're aware of that little fact."

Moriarty's gaze rakes down and up John's body, calculating. John sets his mouth into a frown and straightens his shoulders.

Moriarty chuckles. "You're trying to look all tough—how cute! Ordinary people are just a-dor-able." His ochre eyes flit back to Sherlock with a mischievous light in them. "I'd say I should get one of my own, but I already have one in addition to a whole crew." He turns his head to look at a grizzled blond man behind him. "Sebastian makes things so much more interesting." Moriarty turns back to Holmes with a relaxed air.

"I'm sure he does, considering what you two get up to." Sherlock tilts his head and smiles with closed lips.

Moriarty gives a silent laugh and shakes a finger at the other captain. "Oh that's clever, very clever; I almost forgot that you can read people almost as well as I can."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches imperceptibly but stays locked in the mocking smile.

"And I wouldn't pass judgment on me for that," Moriarty adds, "you never know what you may get up to in the future." He turns on his toes towards the plank bridging the gap between the ships.

John frowns in confusion. "Is… Is that it?" He mutters to himself.

"Yes it is," Moriarty answers, "I could continue, but everything I have to say has already crossed his mind."

"And my answer has crossed yours," Holmes agrees.

Moriarty gives Sherlock a look over his shoulder. "It's been lovely chatting with you, sweetheart, but Daddy has to be going now. I have other things that I need to be doing, after all." He redirects his head so it sits forwards once more before crossing the gap to his own ship, followed by the few members of his crew that had accompanied him.

Sherlock breathes in calmly and lets his head tilt down with his exhale. "Catch you later," he states, clearly enunciating every word.

"No, you won't!" Moriarty smiles and waves a hand to his crew, who jump to action.

A Brooks crewman pushes forward clumsily from the crowd on The Skull, dashing to re-board his ship. Sherlock catches him by the arm with a pointed look. The smaller man's eyebrows knit together and he frowns confusedly. Sherlock continues his intense look, and the man gives up the pretense and reaches into his coat, pulling out a small scroll—the map. Sherlock smirks triumphantly and, instead of taking to offered map, he tugs a second one out of the man's pocket. The smaller man's expression falls and he shoves the fake map into his pocket bitterly. Sherlock releases his arm in enough time for the straggler to dash across the plank connecting the two ships. It is pulled back onto the Brooks, and the ship glides into motion and away from The Skull.

Sherlock's coat flares out as he turns on his heel. He stalks back to his cabin. The door slams behind him.

The Skull remains silent as the Brooks pulls away. Only when their wake is indiscernible does an astonished murmur go through the crowd.

"Wait, are you saying that was James Moriarty?" A man to John's right gasps, "Why did he just leave?"

"Who knows what goes through his mind?" His companion replies, "But I can tell you this: there was much more to that conversation than speaking."

The crew disperses more and more as the Brooks disappears from sight. By the time she drops below the horizon, John is left alone to lean against the bulwark and observe the shimmering sea.

"You want to know who that was," Sherlock states, leaning back against the bulwark beside John.

The blond gives him a sideways glance. "Of course I would want to know who that was," he snaps, "but I've already been filled in a bit."

"Oh?" Sherlock raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Well then, tell me who he is."

"James Moriarty," John begins, "pirate mastermind, not unlike you."

Sherlock smirks.

"You met him about a year ago when you were helping out Lestrade," John continues, "and that case was the only one you didn't succeed on—because of Moriarty, no doubt. It was something about a cab driver poisoning people, although I'm not quite sure what that would have to do with a pirate. But there you met Moriarty, and you lost the murderer."

"Is that all the information that you have?" Sherlock questions.

John blinks suprisedly. "Um, yes?"

Sherlock chuckles. "Then you know nothing."

"What more should I know, then?" John purses his lips in frustration.

"James Moriarty is more than an intelligent pirate," Sherlock corrects, "he is a criminal genius. He is a spider, the spider at the center of a web, a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances. He is a specialist. People come to him with their problems, 'dear James will you fix it for me?' and he does. That is why he got away—he has too many connections."

"Does Lestrade know about him?"

Sherlock sighs. "No, and nor should he. Knowledge is power, but in this case it's liability. Even knowing who Moriarty is could get you killed unless you know about him for the right reasons."

"That seems a bit overdramatic, doesn't it?" John smiles slightly, disbelievingly.

Sherlock keeps his face straight and flicks his once more acidic green eyes to meet John's blue ones. "It would be overdramatic only if it were false."

John swallows under the intensity of Sherlock's gaze (when did he become "Sherlock" instead of "Holmes?") and returns the look.

The two stare, evaluating one another, communicating without words. The two break off the gaze with an unspoken understanding, John returning his eyes to the bobbing water and Sherlock turning his evaluating glance skyward.

"What did he want?" John asks without looking.

"The map, obviously," Sherlock replies, "he sent one of his men to my cabin to retrieve it, but the man also had a fake map in the case that I stop him, which I did. He offered up the fake map, which you saw that I rejected in favor of the real one." Sherlock reaches into his jacket and procures the map in question and shakes it once. "Moriarty knows who I am. He shouldn't have thought that he was able to trick me."

"Are you sure that he didn't?" John questions.

Sherlock tilts his head and looks at John, confusion written across his face.

"You said that Moriarty is a genius," John clarifies, "and if he is he probably would have known that you would have seen through that. So maybe he told the man to offer you the real map, knowing that you would assume it's the fake?"

Sherlock stares across the ship blankly, calculating. Understanding and, if John is not mistaken, embarrassment flicker over the captain's features. "Oh, stupid, stupid!" Sherlock wrenches open the map frantically. His face falls into a sneer, and his lip twitches slightly. He tosses the map onto the ground and storms off into his cabin.

John sighs. He must have been right. He scoops up the paper from its place on the deck. "I told you that I had things that I needed to do. Thank you for the map, my dear. X"

"Get to action! We're sailing!" Sherlock bursts out of his cabin abruptly and yells to his crew.

A few of the men in question poke their heads up from below deck. "Now?" One asks.

Sherlock glares. "Now!" he barks, and the men there scramble onto the deck, followed swiftly by the others.

"Where are we going, sir?" a man asks Sherlock, and John recognizes him as the navigator he had spoken to earlier.

"Bakerstown," Sherlock replies simply and spins to face John, eyes fierce. "You are not to leave my cabin unless it is under my accompaniment." He states, then struts to the helm of the ship, where the navigator is hurriedly laying out reference charts, leaving John with the sudden reminder of his positions.

By the time the sails are unfurled the anchor has barely been lifted, and The Skull jumps into motion in the direction of Bakerstown.


I can't post again until May 31st, I'm sorry. There have been changes in my school schedule and I simply do not have enough time to worry about this.
If I make substantial progress between now and then through some miracle I'll post, but until then, I'm sorry.
Please enjoy what there is so far!