"Cap'n! Cap'n, you've got to see this! It's Phillip!"

The sun was just beginning to peak out over the horizon. Marty was calling the captain, sounding panicked. The rest of the crew got up and ran to see what was going on. Bill took one look and puked over the side of the ship. Sherlock followed them and squeezed his way through to get a look.

The scene was gruesome. Phillip had a large fishing hook stabbed through his mouth, poking out through the back of his head.

"What's goin' on 'ere?" Carlisle demanded as he entered the scene. He took a look at the body and grimaced. He then looked up at Marty and asked, "Are ye responsible for this?"

"No! No I swear. We were supposed to be mindin' the ship, but we fell asleep. I didn't hear 'im scream or nothin', I found him like this! You've gotta believe me!"

"Lock him in the brig. I don't know if he be tellin' the truth or not, but until we know he stays in the cage," Carlisle ordered.

"No! Not with the red-headed devil! I'm innocent, I tell ya! There's a murderer on this ship, and it ain't me!"

George and Hector dragged Marty down below deck, ignoring his pleas of innocence.

"Throw the Frenchman overboard," said Carlisle.

"Wait!" said Sherlock as Anna Maria and Bill lifted the body. "You can't just dump the body like that! That's destruction of evidence. If you remove all the evidence, we won't be able to figure out if Marty really did it or not."

"I won't 'ave a rotting carcass stinkin' up my ship," said Carlisle dismissively. Anna Maria and Bill heaved the body over the side of the ship and released it into the water.

Sherlock kicked the mast in frustration. This might be the dark ages of medicine and criminal justice, but surely these people couldn't be this stupid.

If only he'd stayed awake last night. Of course the night he chooses to sleep is the night a murder takes place.

He inspected the area where Phillip had lain, but there was nothing there except a drying pool of blood.

He was made to scrub the floor again, even though, other than the bloody spot, it didn't really need it. He didn't protest though, so he could watch the crew to see if he could deduce any clues from them. He looked for small things, like bloody clothes or signs of fatigue from lack of sleep. He became so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the heat of the sun or the soreness in his hands and knees.

When twilight fell and he was relieved from duty, he went back below deck to the Doctor. He was sitting on one side of the tiny cell, while Marty sat at the other, leaning against the bars. The Doctor was trying to make conversation, but to no avail.

"Are you sure you don't want to hear about the time I went to Davy Jones' locker? I watched thousands of crabs literally carry a ship into the ocean. Very trippy."

"Shut up, demon," he grumbled.

Sherlock took his empty bucket in hand and smashed it against Marty's face, knocking him out.

"Sherlock! That wasn't necessary, he would have fallen asleep eventually."

"I don't have time to wait for that. We need to talk."

"About the murder? Hector mentioned it when he brought Marty below. Actually, he spat on me, called me a word I won't repeat in front of a little pitcher, and accused me of being behind it and threatened to feed me to a shark, but that's neither here nor there. Have you figured out who did it yet?"

"Not yet. I need to talk out loud so I can sort my thoughts."

The Doctor reached through the bars to put a finger to Sherlock's lips. "Let me try to guess first!"

The Doctor put a hand to his chin thoughtfully, then said, "Let's see. It really was Marty, because he's been arrested. Since everyone already suspects him, no one can really suspect him because he's the most obvious culprit. Because it can't be him, he's the least likely culprit, and since the murderer is always the last person you suspect, it must be Marty!"

Sherlock looked at him with an expression that clearly read Are you serious? "You really are rubbish at deductions, aren't you?"

"I can't be best at everything! I'd like to see you take on Daleks and Cybermen and come out in one piece," grumbled the Doctor. "And if it wasn't Marty, then who was it?"

"I first considered George. He's big and strong, murder would be no problem for him. The problem with him though is that he's too sensitive to be a murder. He keeps his fingernails clean, and his teeth are whiter than anyone else's on this ship. What kind of pirate worries about personal hygiene? Also, I keep noticing him keeping an eye on everyone, like some kind of papa bear. He cares about the people on this ship, so he's not the killer.

"I then considered Hector and Bill. Neither of them are intimidating on their own, but together they could do some damage. But Hector has an injured arm, and Bill is squeamish around blood. He threw up when he saw the body. Therefore, neither of them are the killer.

"I considered Gwendolyn-"

"You think Gwendolyn did it? I don't think that poor girl could kill a fly."

"Every possibility must be weighed and tested. She might have done it. I don't believe it, but as a detective I at least have to treat it as though it were a likely conclusion. I wouldn't be a good detective if I ignored a probability just because it was unlikely."

"Okay, I see. Go on."

"Are you going to interrupt again?"

"Only if I feel like it."

"As I was saying, I don't see any reason for her to have killed him. From what I observed yesterday, they seemed to be on even terms. And if I were her, I would try to stay out of trouble. Most of the crew thinks it's unlucky to have her aboard, since she's a woman. She's keeping her head down, and murder wouldn't really help with that. Gwendolyn is innocent.

"By the way, what were the captain and Gwendolyn doing down here after I left?"

"I couldn't tell, they went over to the other end of the ship and Carlisle kept his voice quiet. But I did see him give her something in a small vial for her to drink. I was thinking it might be some kind of tonic for her health, she is so feeble. What are your thoughts? Do you think Carlisle might be behind all this? Or maybe he knows something he's not telling us."

"I considered him already and came up with a theory which I immediately ruled out. Perhaps he had a secret that Phillip discovered and he was afraid he would tell everyone. But Philip doesn't speak any English, and so the odds of him discovering a secret are low, and the odds of him being able to communicate it to anyone are even lower. The captain is not the killer.

"Last is Anna Maria. She doesn't really get along with anyone on this ship. I also saw her polishing the hooks yesterday. I think she's our killer."

"But why? What did she have to gain?" asked the Doctor. "It seems like this will just mean extra work for everyone else."

"I think she might be planning mutiny. She'd make an excellent captain, and she's probably tired of working under another person, especially when that person is a male. Maybe she was going to kill the captain, but Phillip found out somehow and tried to stop her, and so she killed him instead."

"That seems like a reasonable explanation. What are you going to do about it?"

"Tell the captain, of course. He's such an idiot though, he probably won't listen."

"Don't be too surprised if he doesn't. You are a kid after all."

Sherlock shot him a dirty look.

"Don't get offended, that's the way most adults are. But even if no adult ever listens to you, just remember that I listen to you, and I'm older than all of them."

That was true. He went to the steps, but as he did he passed a pool of blood like the one on deck. Someone had attempted to clean it with a dirty blanket, but had done a poor job of it.

How could there be that much blood down here? Philip had been on deck the whole time, or had he? Had he gone below deck at some point, and was he killed there? But then, why were there no drops of blood leading up the stairs to where Philip had been found?

He would investigate later. For now, he had to see Carlisle. He went up the steps and passed by the crew eating their lunch and knocked on the captain's door.

"Enter," was the reply.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. Carlisle's quarters weren't very fancy, but it was nicer than the rest of the ship. Carlisle was intently studying a map and didn't look up to see who it was. Sherlock strode up to his desk and cleared his throat.

Carlisle finally looked up and sighed, "To what do I owe this most joyous pleasure?"

"I think I may know who really killed Phillip. Anna Maria."

"Anna Maria is loyal to me. She may be a loose cannon at times, but she knows her place and wouldn't kill nobody for no reason."

"It's anybody. And aren't you at all interested in why I think she's the killer?"

"As far as I'm concerned, we 'ave our killer. Marty's locked up good and tight, and so I don't expect we'll be 'avin' any more trouble. Unless you plan to cause more?"

"Screw you, sir."

"What in bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Don't worry, it's a complement. You have a nice day, Captain Carlisle."

Sherlock left the cabin and muttered under his breath, "I really hate that man."

A loud cry suddenly sounded from the other end of the ship. The crew left their food and went to see what had happened.

"I was goin' to take a leak, when I found her like this!" said Bill.

Gwendolyn lay dead on the floor, a cord wrapped around her neck. Her face was blue, and she wasn't breathing. Her eyes were open in frozen terror. Sherlock noted that she no longer looked emaciated. He stored all this information in his mind palace for him to study later. Since they would be dumping her body within minutes, he needed to catalogue every detail before they destroyed all the evidence.

"The captain's not going to be happy about this," said Hector as he shook his head.

The captain was called out, and he knelt by his daughter and stroked her thin, blonde curls.

"So it wasn't Marty after all," he said in a quiet, deadly voice. "Throw 'er overboard, and then I'll be seein' every one of you lot in my quarters, one at a time. I'll smoke out the guilty one, mark my words."

Gwendolyn was thrown overboard, and then Captain Carlisle took Anna Maria into his quarters to question her. The fact that he'd taken her first suggested he hadn't been completely ignoring Sherlock after all.

One by one, every member of the crew was interrogated, but they got nowhere. No one confessed, and no one had any information to offer. Since they didn't have any real suspects and since Bill was the one who found Gwendolyn, he was made to take Marty's place in the brig. Marty was very relieved to be freed, and to be away from the demonic child.

That night, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the ship, facing the full moon and its silver reflection on the water. No one told him to get down from such a dangerous place, and it made him feel very adult. Instead of holding on for safety, he had his fingers clasped under his chin, pondering on all he'd seen and the clues he'd discovered, and the ones he hadn't discovered yet.

"You, boy! Come here!" Hector called.

The sudden, harsh intrusion to his thoughts startled him and nearly made him fall into the water, but he managed to regain his balance in time. He turned to see what the man wanted.

He saw the pirates sitting in a circle by the mast, where they had been eating their dinner. They now each had a wooden cup.

"Come join us," said George.

Sherlock considered ignoring them, but decided to join them. At least this way he might find more clues.

Hector handed him a cup of what he assumed was rum. "We're havin' a toast to Phillip and Gwendolyn, and it's only right that we all participate."

"What about the captain?"

"The captain will grieve in his own way, in private. Now, everyone, raise your cup."

They all raised their cups into the air.

"To Phillip, the most annoying man we've ever known, but a good friend nonetheless. Here's to ya, Frenchie."

"Here, here," they all said in unison.

They all tipped their drinks, including Sherlock. There was no way he was going to pass this up, rum was part of being a pirate, after all.

Just a few sips was enough to send him hacking. The rum was strong and tasted like urine, but he liked the buzz it gave him.

Hector refilled their cups, and they raised them again. "To Gwendolyn, a sweet lass who was taken too soon. Here's to all the words you never got the chance to speak."

"Here, here."

Sherlock downed his cup, and this time it went down slightly easier and didn't taste quite as bad. He felt like he was floating on air, and though his thoughts still buzzed inside his head, the rum took the edge off of them, like turning down the volume on the telly.

They kept refilling his drink to see how much he could handle. After his fourth or fifth cup, the other crew members had warmed up to him, and they laughed at how tipsy he got. He opened up and talked more than he ever had to anyone, saying things he normally wouldn't have even thought. He was also very giggly, it was a feeling he wasn't used to but liked nonetheless. In that brief period, he felt like these people were the best friends he'd ever had.

With every sip, it became harder and harder to keep his eyes open. The alcohol was too much for his tiny and underfed body, and so he passed out in the circle.


Sherlock awoke the next morning with a migraine. He was used to headaches, but this one was accompanied by nausea and dizziness. He ran to the boat's edge and vomited into the water.

"Can't hold your rum, eh?" laughed Hector as he patted him on the back, which made the nausea worse, and he threw up again. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it eventually."

"There's been another murder!" yelled Anna Maria suddenly.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his stomach and forced himself to follow the others to the body. Although he would have much preferred to lie down and not get up again for a week, the prospect of another murder was too much for him to resist.

Anna Maria was pointing up at the mast, where Marty and George were both hanging.

"How'd the killer pull that one off?" Hector wondered aloud.

"The sails were up last night," said Sherlock, his voice still a bit slurred. "Whoever did it tied them to the ropes used to control the sail, and when they unfurled the sails, it pulled the ropes and hanged them."

They all looked at Sherlock curiously, as though he'd just poofed there out of thin air.

As they set to work cutting the two men down, Sherlock went to see the Doctor.

The Doctor was lying on his stomach on the floor of his cage, tracing circles in the dirt on the floor and quietly singing to himself, "Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me. We extort and pilfer, we filch and sack. Drink up me hearties, yo ho. Maraud and embezzle and even highjack. Drink up me hearties, yo ho. Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me."

Sherlock walked over to the brig and knocked on one of the bars to get his attention. The Doctor froze mid-song, then leapt to his feet, his eyes wide.

"There you are! Where have you been?"

"What are you talking about?"

"See for yourself! Notice anything wrong about my cell?"

In his foggy mind, Sherlock looked but didn't see anything wrong with it. Nothing more than the usual stuff, anyway.

"You got me."

"It's missing a prisoner! Bill was taken last night! I was trying to sleep when someone opened the cage and took him out, but it was too dark for me to see their face. I yelled for someone to do something, but no one came. I tried yelling your name, but you didn't come either! What was going on up there? Did you get in a fight with the Lost Boys, or was it the Kraken?"

"Wait a minute," said the Doctor as he sniffed the air. "Is that rum I smell? Oh Sherlock, don't tell me you were up drinking all night. Did you steal a bottle, or did they give it to you? Bloody pirates. And now you're hungover, wonderful. So that's why no one was there to save Bill, you were all throwing a party!"

The Doctor sounded angry, but mostly disappointed, which made Sherlock feel mildly guilty. But he wasn't about to apologize for it.

"It wasn't a party, quit overreacting."

"I am not overreacting. You're a little kid, you shouldn't be drinking!"

"I only had a few cups, hardly enough to ruin my liver. I didn't even get drunk."

"That's not the point!" shouted the Doctor, growing angrier by the second. He pulled at his hair with his hands. "I would never forgive myself if I had to explain to your mum that I let you get yourself hurt or killed."

"My mum wouldn't care, she'd be glad to be rid of me."

"You're so sure she hates you. Well Sherlock, I may not be the world's greatest detective, but I've deduced a thing or two about your family. If you died, your mother wouldn't cry. She wouldn't mourn you. But you would leave a hole in her heart, one that she would never admit existed. And she would feel regret, regret for not being a good enough mother. Try looking at things from her point of view for once. She's trying to take care of you, even if she doesn't always do a stellar job. Raising a genius is no walk in the park, Sherlock, especially when, A) You're not a genius yourself, B) You have more than one, and C) The kid does everything he can to drive you mad. Your mother doesn't like you, Sherlock, and she probably never will. But she does love you, why else do you think she hasn't left?"

"Sure, take her side," said Sherlock as he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not taking sides, I'm Switzerland. Or no, let's call it Doctor-land, where I am neutral to both parties. I'm just calling it as I see it, and I think you need to lighten up on your mother and on Mycroft. They should lighten up on you, too, but when you want to change things, the best place to start is yourself. It might not work, but at least then you can say you tried."

"Oh sure, and while we're at it we can all talk about our feelings and braid each other's hair. Maybe Mummy will let Mycroft and I try on her makeup while we're at it."

The Doctor ignored his sarcasm and continued. "It doesn't matter how young I may appear, I am still the adult in this situation, and therefore I am responsible for everything you do. You're different from my other companions; you're a child, and so I have to take extra care of you. I have to make sure you don't get eaten, or trip and fall into a supernova, or get drunk as a skunk, apparently. I have to keep you safe, and I don't want you getting yourself hooked on alcohol before your ninth birthday! God, Sherlock, for a kid with such an intelligent brain, you make pretty stupid choices."

"So that's what you consider yourself, my babysitter?" asked Sherlock, hurt and angry. "I'm just a burden on you, aren't I? So sorry I've inconvenienced you. Well, I'll have you know that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, so you can quit worrying. I can do whatever I like and you can't stop me."

"You're right, I can't stop you. But I can dump your sorry tail back at your house and never take you anywhere in my Tardis again."

This made Sherlock stop and listen. "You wouldn't."

"I would, and I will, if that's what it takes. I'm not your babysitter, I'm your friend. I don't set many rules for you because I expect you to have some level of common sense, but now I'm going to lay down a few. You'll do what I ask, even if it seems unfair, or stupid, or nonsensical. You won't do anything that will harm your body, which includes drinking, smoking, drugs, or anything else you might be thinking about. I can tell by the guilty look on your face that there are other things you've been doing that you know you shouldn't. I won't ask you to elaborate on them, but as long as you're with me, you will cease those behaviors. Am I understood?"

"I guess," said Sherlock, his eyes on the floor.

"Good. I can't believe we just had this discussion, you shouldn't even be thinking about those things at your age. But here's a tip, next time you're entertaining thoughts of substance abuse, gorge yourself on chocolate instead. It tastes better, at any rate. Now, please don't make me go into disciplinarian mode again, I don't enjoy it at all."

"The feeling is very mutual."

"And you are not a burden on me, no child is. Children have the brightest minds in the entire universe, it's only when they stop believing that that they lose it and become dull. But let's get back to the case. Have they found Bill's body?"

"No, but they did find George and Marty hanging from the mast this morning. If they don't find him soon, it may mean he was thrown overboard. I heard someone mention before that he can't swim. That means we're down four crew members, plus Gwendolyn."

"I don't think it's mutiny anymore," said the Doctor. "If it was mutiny, you'd keep the crew alive so you could sail the ship. The captain should have been the only target, but everyone else is getting picked off instead. What do you make of this, Sherlock?"

"I think I've got it figured out, but I need to check out a few things first."

"Will you tell me?"

"Not yet."

"You know, this is like one of those mystery trains from the movies. I love those."

"I'll come back later. I'm not going to the captain this time, I'm going to the crew."

"And don't come back until you stop smelling like a distillery!"

He went back up the steps and confronted what remained of the crew, which now consisted of only Hector and Anna Maria. They were speaking with the captain.

"Listen Cap'n, I spotted land due west, not far off," said Hector. "Maybe we should make port until the killer is caught. I mean, we don't even have enough men left to crew the ship!"

"I say we keep going," said Anna Maria. "We've got a buyer waitin' for us who's willin' to pay a pretty price, no one else we'll give us as much as 'im. If the Navy catches us with it, they'll confiscate all our loot and have us hanged."

The captain opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"I know who the killer is. It's-"

"Quiet, boy! You make a fool of yourself," said Hector.

Sherlock decided he'd had enough of them not taking him seriously just because of his age. He would prove to them that what he had to say was well worth their time.

"Hector has been stealing from all of you. The money you keep below deck? He's been pilfering one gold coin from it every day, only one coin to keep anyone from noticing. It might not seem like much, but after months at sea, it does add up. He keeps it hidden in a hole under the floorboards below deck. Not even Bill knew he was doing it.

"Anna Maria has been planning mutiny for a long time. She was planning to challenge you the night after Phillip died, but in light of all the murders, she decided to postpone it until you've scrounged up a new crew."

"And you, Captain Carlisle, perhaps have been keeping the biggest secret of all. Gwendolyn was not your daughter, she was your slave. You kidnapped her and cut out her tongue to keep her quiet, and then you passed her off as your own flesh and blood. You were always careful, but a few months ago you accidentally got her pregnant. She wasn't emaciated, she was beginning to show. You realized what was going on and made her take poison, not enough to kill her, but enough to induce an abortion and kill the baby. That's what the blood downstairs was from. Philip wasn't the first person murdered on this ship.

"In light of all these things, any one of you could be the killer. But I know the truth, and if you'll listen, I'll tell you."

All three of them looked shocked and enraged.

"How can he know these things?" asked Hector. "It's not possible!"

Carlisle grabbed him roughly by the arm and said, "He doesn't 'ave a single ginger hair on his head, but I think he might be the real devil 'ere."

"The murders didn't start happenin' until he and the other boy showed themselves," Anna Maria pointed out.

"It's settled then. Sherlock and the red boy will both be executed tonight, for the murders committed on my ship," said Carlisle. "Go fetch the other one. Anna Maria, bring me two pistols, and remove all the bullets but one in each."

Hector went below deck and returned with the Doctor in tow.

"Have you finally realized that there is nothing evil about redheads?" he asked. One look at the pirates glaring at him told him that was not the case.

Anna Maria returned with the guns and handed them to Carlisle, who gave one to Sherlock and one to the Doctor.

"You will take turns firing at each other until one of you drops dead. The winner will then take the loser's pistol and fire at his own head until he finds the bullet."

"And if we refuse?" asked the Doctor.

Carlisle pulled out his own gun and aimed it at his head.

"I see."

Sherlock and the Doctor stood facing each other, with about ten feet between them.

"You go first," said the Doctor.

"If you're trying to be a martyr and sacrifice yourself, just remember that I can't fly the Tardis."

The Doctor cracked a smile. "I'm sure a brain like yours could figure it out eventually."

"One of you shoot or I'll do it for you!" Carlisle barked.

Sherlock cocked his pistol, and the Doctor braced himself for the shot. Slowly, he pulled the trigger, but it only clicked. He and the Doctor both sighed in relief.

"Your turn now," said Carlisle to the Doctor.

The Doctor pointed his gun at Sherlock. "Suddenly our conversation from before has become very ironic."

"No small talk, just do it," Sherlock ordered him.

The Doctor pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

"I guess lady luck is on our side today," commented the Doctor.

"What about this situation makes you think we're lucky?"

"I always try to be an optimist, especially when I'm traveling with a pessimist."

"Fire again!" shouted Carlisle.

Sherlock fired at the Doctor, and again nothing happened. It was only a matter of time, though, before something did happen.

The Doctor aimed his gun at Sherlock, but just before he pulled the trigger, he turned and shot Carlisle in the leg. He fell to the ground, clutching his leg in agony, and dropped the gun. The Doctor quickly picked it up, but handed it to Sherlock.

"Do what you have to do. I'm not shooting anyone else."

Sherlock pointed the gun as he and the Doctor backed away from the others.

"If any of you come near us, I'll shoot! Don't think I won't!"

Truth be told, he was irked at the Doctor for giving him this responsibility. He had never used a gun before now, and he wasn't sure he could shoot any of them even if they did attack. His hands shook, he couldn't aim properly.

"How did you know you had the bullet when you shot Carlisle?" he whispered.

"I can feel the earth spinning beneath our feet. Even on this ship in the middle of the ocean, I can still feel the world moving. So of course I could feel it when the bullet came into place."

A loud bang sounded, and Hector fell to the ground. For a moment, Sherlock thought he'd pulled the trigger without realizing it, but it wasn't him.

Another shot went off, this time hitting Anna Maria in the neck. She too collapsed, and now it was just them, Carlisle, and the killer.

"Show yourself!" the captain screamed. He tried to hide it, but he was terrified. His entire crew had been picked off one by one, and now it was his turn.

"Would you like me to divulge who the killer is? Or shall I let you see for yourself?" asked Sherlock.

From the mast, the killer climbed down to the deck and pointed a gun at Carlisle's head.

"No! It can't be!" said Carlisle in disbelief.

Gwendolyn stood before him, holding the gun.

"How can this be?" asked Carlisle as he cowered away from her. "Witchcraft!"

Gwendolyn opened her mouth but then shut it again in frustration, as though in her desperate rage she had momentarily forgotten she couldn't speak.

"I think Gwendolyn is trying to say something," said the Doctor. "Sherlock, care to lend her your voice?"

"You thought you'd broken Gwendolyn, but really you were making her into your own worst enemy. All these years you've pushed her more and more, until you pushed her over the edge by giving her a baby and then murdering it for your own convenience."

"But I saw her, she was dead! We threw her overboard!"

"She waited until someone would find her, then cut off the flow of oxygen to her brain. She stopped breathing long enough to make herself look dead, and after she was thrown overboard, she waited until it was safe to climb back up. No one checked to make sure she was actually dead, because you're all idiots. But she's clever, very clever."

This seemed to satisfy her. She motioned with the gun to something by the ship's edge: a cannonball and rope.

Carlisle knew what she wanted him to do. "Come Gwendolyn, see reason!"

She fired another shot through his hat, sending it flying. Carlisle got the message and crawled over to the edge. He tied the rope around his ankle and swung his leg over the side.

"We need to stop her," said the Doctor. "This has gone on long enough."

"She deserves her revenge after everything he did to her."

"It's not for us to decide who lives and who dies," said the Doctor, but he stayed put.

Gwendolyn pressed the pistol against his chest to make him jump. He jumped, but as he did he grabbed the front of her dress and pulled her down with him.

"No!" the Doctor cried as he ran to grab her, but he wasn't fast enough.

They heard the splash as the captain and Gwendolyn hit the water. The Doctor and Sherlock looked down the side of the ship at the ripples left behind.

"What will we do now?" asked Sherlock quietly after several minutes. "What will become of the ship?"

The Doctor looked hurt, like he could feel all of Gwendolyn's pain. "We'll leave the ship. Someone will find it eventually and take it as their own. They'll wonder what happened to the crew, but they won't ever know the truth. They'll tell ghost stories about it, it'll be famous amongst the pirates. That's how ghost stories are born, something mysterious happens and so people come up with stories stranger than the truth. Or, the ship may just sink. It could go either way. So much bloodshed on such a tiny vessel."

"Let's go," said Sherlock. He wondered why the Doctor was so worked up over this. It wasn't like he didn't care at all what had happened here, but mourning them wouldn't bring them back.

They went back to the Tardis. The Doctor flew them out while Sherlock sat on one of the steps, thinking.

After a while, the Doctor said, "You're taking this very well."

"People die all the time. It's a fact of life."

"You sound like you've been seeing them all your life, like you're used to it."

"You're just worried about it because I'm a kid. I can handle it, okay? It's no big deal."

"It doesn't matter how old you are, it's never a good thing. There are planets younger than I am, and I still haven't grown used to it."

"Haven't you seen death before?" asked Sherlock.

"The names of all those I've seen die could fill more books than any planet could hold," said the Doctor bitterly. "Yes, I've seen death."

"Then why aren't you used to it?"

"Because they all mattered, every single one. There's not a single soul in existence that doesn't have value. When I see them die, all I can think is that they had the rest of their lives to live, but the chance was stolen from them. I think of all they leave behind, the impact they made. The truth, Sherlock, is that I don't want to get used to it. I've taken so many lives because I had to, and I'm afraid that one day I won't care anymore. The day I stop caring is the day the universe falls.

"Promise me Sherlock, no matter what happens in your life, that you won't get used to it. That you won't get used to death."

"I don't like promises. They hardly ever are actually kept."

"All right then, don't promise. But at least remember what I tell you, for when you grow up. Can you do that for me at least?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"Then that's all I can really ask of you."