Alexander Hamilton stomped angrily through town. A group of bandits had ambushed him and stolen his horse, forcing him to walk all the way to the town himself. He rushed over to a fisherman and asked,"Excuse me, sir, but do you know when the last British ship left?"
The fisherman wiped a hand across his brow. "Aye, The Victory set sail yesterday afternoon. Word is, they captured one of the rebels."
"I see. Do you own a boat?"
He nodded at a modest boat bobbing up and down behind them.
"How much would it cost for you to take me to London?"
The fisherman laughed. "I don't take people places. But ask that guy over there," he pointed to a man walking along the pier.
"Alright, thank you!" Alex called and rushed over to the man.
"Can I help you?" the man asked.
"Can you take me to London?" Alex countered.
Hours later, he was sitting aboard a medium sized ship sailing for London. He knew the Redcoats kept prisoners in the Tower of London, so he'd be heading there to rescue John Watson. Watson was about ten or so years older than Alexander, but he liked him. He was nice. He'd taught Alexander how to gamble once. Alex thought about his other friend, John Laurens, who was in South Carolina, recruiting slaves for his military regiment. He, Laurens, and their other friend Lafayette were all very close friends. Normally, if a soldier was captured and halfway across the sea, they didn't bother. But Watson was one of Sholto's favorites, hence the rescue.
Alex shifted on the lumpy bed. He wondered if John had a bed aboard his horrible British ship.
He did not.
John was sleeping in his corner when Anderson entered his cell and slapped him to wake him up.
"Get up, you American trash. We're here."
John blinked, his cheek stinging and stood.
Anderson bound his hands behind his back, then roughly grabbed him by the arm and marched him off the ship.
John gazed at the somewhat familiar sight of London for a brief moment before he was roughly shoved into a carriage. He was still tired due to his sleep being interrupted earlier, and fell asleep.
When he awoke, he was in a cell in the Tower of London.
Sherlock entered his cell, with a plate of food a couple hours later.
"Look who's awake," he drawled.
"I'm surprised you let me sleep that long," John scoffed back and inspected the food.
"It's not drugged," Sherlock said, noticing his hesitation.
"I see." John replied, and dug in.
Sherlock lingered by the door.
"What do you want?" John asked.
Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm to take you to meet the general," he replied softly.
"Oh," John looked down, having finished his food, then stood and held his wrists behind his back, turning away from Sherlock, who rebound his hands and led him down the hall.
He stopped outside a door and turned to John.
"Go on."
Another guard grabbed John and stood him in front of Charles Cornwallis.
"Hello," John greeted dryly. "Lovely day, init?"
The other man sneered. "I am not here to discuss the weather, Mr. Watson. Now, you will tell me what you Americans-" he practically spat out the word-"are up to. Otherwise, we might have to try something else to make you talk."
John raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to talk, Charles."
Another guy joined Charles and glared menacingly.
John's heart began to pound a little faster, but he didn't let it show.
"Mr. Roberts, if you don't mind?" Charles gestured at John.
The other man grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed him so hard he fell and smacked his head on the stone.
John winced. Slight concussion.
"Now," Charles purred as the other man forced John to his knees in front of him.
"Tell me, what are your plans? Where is your base?"
John remained silent, angering Charles who whirled around and punched John in the gut.
John gasped, wheezing and fell onto all fours.
"Tell me!" Charles roared, raining blow after blow down on him.
Sherlock winced every time he heard Charles punch John.
Remember: caring is not an advantage, his brain reminded him. Lestrade came over, a big tub of water in his hands.
"What's that for-oh," Sherlock realized.
Greg nodded, and entered the room, setting the water before Charles and leaving.
John stared at the water.
Please don't be for what I think you're for.
John gasped, struggling against Charles' big hand pressing his face into the water. Water rushed into his lungs and he pushed upwards, finally getting his head out of the tub. Choking and coughing, he faced Charles, who smirked.
"Ready to spill the beans?"
"Never. I'll die before I betray my country," John rasped.
Charles shrugged. "That can be arranged," he said and pushed John's face back into the water.
Sherlock knew what the tub was for. He'd heard whispers that four different prisoners had died, drowned in the small tub. When the next guard arrived to take his place, he rushed away from the torture room and straight to his own quarters. He was scheduled to stand guard outside John's cell the next day. He flopped on his bed, and fell asleep.
Sherlock walked to John's cell, switching places with the previous officer. As soon as he was gone, he entered with John's breakfast, sucking in a breath when he saw him curled in his corner.
Bruises marred John's face and arms, his lip was split and blood dripped from his cheekbone. Sherlock hurriedly set the food down and knelt in front of John.
"Hey, Watson. You alright there?"
John groaned. "S-Sherlock?" he whispered.
"Yes, what happened to you?"
"Bloody Charles Cornwallis," he replied.
"What did he do to you?"
"Punched me, kicked me, gave me a slight concussion, and tried to drown me."
"Oh, God, Watson, I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what? You British...soldiers...are all…" he trailed off, and it took Sherlock a second to realize he'd blacked out.
He was partly out the door when he heard John whisper, "Please don't leave me alone."
Sherlock pretended he didn't hear, and left, locking the door.
Stop this, Sherlock. You can't be friends with a prisoner, it is simply unheard of.
Right?
