From Michael JG Meathook: Sherlock finds himself stranded on an island, confronted by a hunter who tells the detective he has a 24-hour head start before he will be hunted like game.

A/N: Incredibly spicy, Michael JG, I'm in

"It is very simple, Mister Holmes." His teeth bared in a crocodile's grin. "You will have a full day to make your preparations. And then, I will use everything in my arsenal to track you down."

His future prey sat before him, looking ganglier for the great blankets and towels encasing him. Holmes, by his guess a hapless Englishman, simply blinked back in confusion. He had been soaked to the bone and freezing when he had washed up on the private island. The hunter supposed while not as challenging a target as he wished, this would be amusing.

"And if I don't wish to participate?"

He laughed. "Then when the twenty-four hours are up, I will come after you anyway."

"That's murder!"

"Not on my island." The hunter relaxed back into his armchair. Orange light from the fireplace bathed him and the room in a sinister glow. "I would call it trespassing and then self defense. That is, if anyone ever found out."

"I should swim to safety then."

"In this cold? You would die before you made it to shore. We are some four miles from land as the crow flies, and mine is the only boat you will find."

The dripping gentleman frowned at him. "Twenty-four hours from when? Now? If it's a day from when I landed or even when I awoke that's hardly sporting."

Again the hunter regarded his mixed luck. What an entertaining fellow this fool Holmes was. With a smirk he set the terms. "Twenty-four hours from when we have finished our conversation here. In the interest of your 'sporting' concerns, I will let you ask me anything you wish. Then we will part ways, and your time will begin."

His prey was quiet a long moment. His brows furrowed, and he adopted the most peculiar expression. He seemed to be thinking very intently. The hunter was nothing if not a patient man.

"Very well." Holmes said at last. "I accept. Though on your honor as a sportsman I shall have no interference from you for the entire time I am allotted. Furthermore, I should like to stay in your guest rooms as it is dashed cold out there and I want my wits about me."

The hunter suspected he would need them. "Naturally, Mister Holmes. You will be as safe here as in your own home, and should fear for nothing until your time is up."

This seemed to satisfy him. "Very good, very good. And am I allowed your kitchens, sir? I should hardly think to start a thing like this on an empty stomach." Before the hunter could answer he carried on. "And a spare set of clothes, I should think. You may be after me, sir, but I am hardly a wild animal. Perhaps a decent pair of boots. I went on a hunt once with my uncles in the country, you know. Nothing for traipsing about in the muck and the cold but a sturdy pair of boots. Oh! Of course, one must be able to get a fire going on jaunts like this. I'll need to collect myself some matches, and perhaps a newspaper or two to get things started-"

"Everything-" the hunter interjected, "-that you could possibly want will be at your disposal." Anything to get him to stop talking would be acceptable. The man was an idiot, and starting to look less and less like an amusing one. "Now, are you finished?"

Holmes searched the ceiling for any additional questions. "Do you have anyone to draw up a bath or shall I muddle through that one myself?"

"Yourself, sir."

"Very good!" Holmes said again and surged to his feet, still damp. "Then begin your little countdown or what have you! I shall have myself off this island and show you just what the Holmes stock is made of!"

The hunter watched him march away in full spirits. Whoever this Holmes character was, he seemed to have a fair amount of misplaced confidence. It also occurred to him that, while not particularly inventive, Holmes might make unexpected moves. He could conceivably stumble across the boathouse and make for land. The man did not look like a sailor, but he would win if he got far out enough in the boat.

Somewhat irritated that he would have to spend these first few hours on guard, the hunter refilled his coffee cup and made his way down to check on the boat. As he passed through the halls, he could hear sloshing water from the guest bath. Holmes was no doubt making a mess, but if he exhausted himself on the bath so much the better.

He passed the kennel on his way to the dock. The dogs looked healthy as ever, in fine fighting form. Perhaps, he thought, a night on guard would provide additional challenge. His prey got a full night's sleep perhaps, and he made sure the playing field was restricted to the island. It seemed like an even trade. If he was off his game for the coming hunt, so be it. They might drag the chase on for a whole hour.

The hunter waited in his chair by the door to the boathouse. He watched the moon reflecting off the water and gazed into the distance. The supply boat had come two days ago, and would not be due until next month. Privacy was necessary and this arrangement could not suit him better. And while he supposed that something significant- such as a passenger on a steamship going overboard- could incite a search, few people knew where the island was. The ship would have to tell the town, who would have to alert the ships docked there. It would be a while before anyone searched here. By then, it would be too late for Mister Holmes.

On the off chance that this castaway had more wit than he imagined, the hunter kept his ears focused and his hand on his hunting knife. No more would be needed against that lanky, hypothermic fop. Only once in the night was there any sign of him. The hunter heard his dogs raise the alarm. Before he could stand, there was a cry and the sound of a hasty retreat. The kennel calmed, and the hunter returned to his vigil.

The sun glowed in the morning fog. Of the sounds out on the island, the loudest by far was the lap of the waves against the dock and the shore. The hunter sheathed his knife, stretched, and headed back up to the house. All was dark inside, but there were signs of his guest everywhere. A handful of books were left out on the library table, and the kitchen was much worse for wear. It was obvious he had made his attempt on the pantry the night before. Bits of potato, bread, and some kind of jelly were littered across the cutting board. Jars had been opened, drawers upended, and cabinets ransacked, but none of the utensils were missing. Holmes had simply made his breakfast and gone.

Puzzled, the hunter began to do another check of the house. The door to his room was locked, as were all of his weapon cases. There was a fine layer of dust on the spare key in the hall. Holmes had been there, evidenced by the jam on the floor, but had not been interested in exploring the house beyond a browsing tour. The vigil by the boathouse had kept him from escaping, sure. But what would his next move be? Did even he know?

The hunter made himself another pot of coffee. It had been bitterly cold on the dock with only his overcoat to keep him warm, but the house was a great comfort. Perhaps Holmes was not completely foolish in wishing to spend his last night indoors. Indeed, it was some hours later when the man himself came downstairs. He stopped abruptly upon seeing the hunter, but shrugged and went about his tasks as usual.

"You won't intimidate me, sir. No, no, I have your game figured out and I will fall for none of your tricks." He examined the coffee pot, sniffed the still-open bag of grounds, and nodded to the hunter. "I doubt a man would poison his own brew. And not, certainly, a sportsman." Holmes poured himself a cup of coffee and began puttering around the kitchen again. True to their agreement, the hunter paid him no mind. He went off to the sitting room to read an account of big game hunting in Africa. It was not his sort of pastime, but his 'peers' occasionally came up with an inventive new trick.

Holmes continued to be a nuisance but in a way the hunter could ignore. He spent the better part of the morning fiddling in the kitchen. Then, he was up and down the stairs, presumably packing supplies for his journey. The hunter did not deign to mention it would be shorter than he imagined. After that Holmes set about tearing up the library again. Only once did the hunter peek in there out of concern for his books, but found Holmes studying an encyclopedia on plants. He did not concern himself with any more of the man's antics.

The afternoon passed slowly, but Holmes had not yet taken flight. Did he mean to wait out the entire twenty-four hours and then make a break for it just before the end? It would be funny. Funny, but a little tedious. At least it would be a break from the norm.

Finally, with only an hour and a half to go, Holmes made an appearance in the sitting room. He had dried his own clothes and was wearing them now, looking much sharper than he had before while still no more prepared to be hunted.

"Well well, if it isn't my host, lounging away while I have been hard at work." Holmes peered at him curiously. "Do you really think me so trivial an opponent as to not prepare yourself?"

The hunter folded his paper with a sigh. "Truly, Mister Holmes, I have never encountered prey quite like yourself."

There was a twinkle in Holmes' eye and he took a seat in the chair on the other side of the fireplace. There was something different about him this morning. For the first time since meeting his new target, the hunter felt as if he was missing something.

"I doubt you have." Holmes said simply. "While I am quite intrigued by your little game, I do have business to attend to." He glanced at the fire. "I have several matters that require my immediate attention. So, while I have seen to all I can in preparation for your game, I would like to ask why you have done so little yourself?"

The hunter stared. Was Holmes really concerned so little about his ability? He had to have seen the trophies mounted on the walls. There were photographs, diaries, weapons, curios… The entire house spoke to his experience. What then? Surely Holmes couldn't be so confident that he would win?

Holmes breathed a sort of laugh and continued. "I would say preparedness is essential. One does not stalk prey that he does not know. You may have hunted men before, but you have never hunted me."

There was a coldness to his eyes that the hunter hadn't seen before. As the sun cast its last rays over the island, he realized he had made a mistake. But with his expertise, it would not prove a fatal one.

"Where will you run, Holmes, that I will not find you? I could sink my boat before you left. It will be another month before my supply boat arrives, but I doubt you could survive that long. I have my house full of weapons, my dogs, my whole career as a killer of beasts and a killer of men to my advantage."

"And what if those advantages were stripped away?" He asked calmly, "What would you do then?"

The hunter snorted, but Holmes was not done. "What should you do if your knives were unbladed or dulled, tossed into the ocean or carelessly blunted by a hapless cook?" His lip quirked in a half-smile."What if your guns were without ammunition, your powder and shot and bullets and pistols submerged in a bath? Your dogs given drugged meat overnight?"

Now Holmes had taken on an entirely different appearance. He was the same English gentleman on the outside, but now he revealed the dangerous predator within. "And what if someone had learned every detail of your life? What if they had been given hours to roam your house, study your psychology, achievements, arsenal, capabilities… The list goes on, sir, but this charade does not. By your own admission, we are four miles from shore with only one boat, and I had twenty-four hours mostly unattended. I stole your keys and blew new dust over them. I destroyed your weapons unhindered. You made the mistake of letting another hunter into your home, sir. One with far less left to him to lose."

At some unspoken cue, both men stood. The clock on the mantle was near enough to striking. The hunter, for once, considered abandoning sportsmanship. This was no longer a hunt. This was a fight between equals. This was a fight for survival.

A knock at the door froze both men to the floor. The hunter supposed it may be the supply boat captain. There had been a missing crate in the last delivery, minor things. Holmes might try to escape. The hunter knew his time was limited. Could he silence Holmes and convince the captain of his innocence in the affair? Would he have a second man to hunt before the night was through?

An unfamiliar voice reached his ears. "Hello? Is anyone there? I mean no trespass, but I have been marooned-"

Before the hunter had time to move, Holmes was on him. It was a savage, quick, and decisive fight, ferociously one-sided. Holmes stood from the unconscious body of his so-called host. He crossed the sitting room to the hallway and quickly opened the front door.

"Ah, Watson! Do come in. My apologies for the delay, my dear friend, but I had no idea you had gone overboard as well. Quickly- let's get you seated by the fire. You were in the water and the cold far longer by the look of you. If I, the stronger swimmer of us, washed ashore exhausted, I can only imagine what you have been through. Oh ignore our host, Watson. He was most inhospitable and offered to murder me within minutes of my arrival. Don't laugh, Watson- that smug look does not become you. I will fetch you some towels and perhaps coffee…? Yes old fellow, plenty of sugar, I remember."

A/N: had to google the Most Dangerous Game since i haven't read it since middle school... much less of a research ask than like the last 3 prompts, as I know nothing about Scottish medicinal herbs, poetry, or WWI. All equally fun and challenging to write, as i do like research and i am a glutton for punishment in that respect