Prompt: Pirates, from SheWhoScrawls

A/N: So this kind of turned into a casefic, which I wasn't really expecting. I sort of went a different route with the pirates prompt too.

By the spring of 1896, my friend Sherlock Holmes's fame was unmatched, thanks to the news of his return from what all had believed to be his grave and his victory over Professor Moriarty, as well as some extremely high-profile cases that had been chronicled in newspapers in the two years since. There were times he and I could hardly walk through a park without his being recognized by an admirer. While always polite to those who approached, I knew he considered this a breach of his privacy, and I was well aware that in his profession, such a breach could be dangerous. After the relative success of my first two novels, I had, in fact, only published serialized stories of my friend's adventures during the time I believed him dead for this very reason, and stopped immediately upon learning the truth. I promised him I would not begin again until I had his permission. For his part, he assured me I should have it as soon as it could not affect either his clients or our own safety.

For all Holmes's fame, however, fewer recognized or even noticed myself as the author, which was as I had intended it. Aside from my necessary presence in each story as the narrator, I had in each case minimized my already small role so that my friend should be the center. I had not expected any real literary accolades, for I knew that my abilities as a writer could not compare with those great names whose works I frequently found myself engrossed in. I was content to hear that people knew of and admired Holmes thanks to reading my stories, for it meant I had achieved my goal.

So it was with no small amount of shock that I happened to pass by a newsstand one day after my rounds and saw my friend's name in the headline. Thinking that perhaps he had finished some investigation, or worse, that something terrible had befallen him, I picked it up and began to read.

NEW SHERLOCK HOLMES STORY

THE CASE OF THE CAREENING BALLOONIST

I realized with growing anger that some unscrupulous fellow must have taken advantage of my absence from the Strand to write and sell his own false story of Holmes! I took in the story, some nonsense about an evil scientist stealing a hot-air balloon which ended with Holmes and the villain engaged in a fencing match a mile off the ground. Preposterous! Furthermore, it was poorly written with grammatical errors and Holmes was not at all like I had painstakingly written his character. I believe I hurried back to Baker Street without even paying for the rag it was published in - some new magazine I had never heard of before, which no doubt had not asked many questions about why they, and not the Strand, were the recipient of the first new Holmes story in three years.

As I walked, I continued to fume at the as yet unnamed criminal who had done this. What if Holmes had seen or heard of it? He would think I had gone back on my promise to him, and this upset me more than knowing that someone had impersonated me to make some smalI amount of money off of Holmes's fame. Worse, what of the public? They would believe that this caricature was Sherlock Holmes, and he would become a laughingstock across England. I entered Baker Street in a storm of fury, taking the stairs two at a time. "Watson?" Holmes asked from where he was seated on the floor with what appeared to be the entire contents of his directory in front of him. "What is the matter? You look very distressed."

"I cannot believe it," I said. "Someone is pirating my stories!" I threw the magazine on the floor in front of him, where he examined it closely and began to read. I watched him anxiously. "I am telling you, Holmes, I did not write that. I would never go back on my word to you."

"Of course you would not, Watson," Holmes said, calmly folding up the magazine when he had finished with it. "I can hardly imagine anyone would believe you had written that. It is utterly preposterous and badly written besides."

I was about to answer when I stopped and looked at him in some surprise. He had done little else but disparage the stories I had written of him, which was one of the reasons I had stopped publishing them until I believed him dead. He smiled at my surprise. "Come, Watson, my dislike of those adventures you publish have nothing to do with your writing, but with the nature and style of the tale to begin with. Certainly you are a decent writer, or else no one should be interested in these little problems you write up in the first place. Had this fellow been my biographer, I daresay no one would be reading them and I should be as poor as a church mouse."

My anger disappeared with what I believed was the first compliment he had ever paid my writing. "I must contact the Strand," I said. "They will think I reneged on our agreement. They are to have first refusal of any new stories I write." The problem seemed to grow in my mind until it seemed almost insurmountable, though I had seen and even been involved in thornier cases in my time with Holmes. They were not so personal. "I wish I knew who had done this," I said. "I hardly expected any pirates to seek to profit off of my stories."

"There are precious few laws about this sort of theft," Holmes said. "Very few of these literary pirates serve any time in prison for it either. It would seem to me that the loss of a man's livelihood should be treated similarly, if not as seriously, as the loss of a man's life." He sprang to his feet and put on his coat. "Well, come on, Watson, if we are to find out who has done this we shall have to get started." He pointed to the address of the publisher of the magazine. "We shall start there."

I followed him, beginning to hope that we might find an answer. Surely Holmes would figure out who had done this, though even I associated him with crimes more grotesque and dangerous than with those of paper and money. Still, simply because he didn't usually solve crimes of this nature did not mean that he couldn't. He hailed a cab and after arriving we went into the building that housed the magazine's offices. "Good afternoon, gentlemen, how may I assist you?" a young man seated at a desk near the door greeted us.

"You may tell us where you received this story from," Holmes said, in his most masterful manner, causing the young man to quail under his gaze. The rest of the office had gone silent.

"I-I'm afraid I cannot tell you that," the young man stammered.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself," Holmes said. "I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, and this," he threw the magazine onto the desk, "is not a true story of me. You have been advertising falsely and paying an impersonator. Now, who sent you this story?"

The young man now looked terrified, and I realized he truly had not realized they had a false story on their hands. "I didn't know it wasn't real, I swear! It was sent to us; it came in this envelope!" He searched through his drawer until he found what he was looking for. Holmes snatched it from his hands and showed it to me.

"The return address says 'Dr. John H. Watson, 221b Baker Street,'" I read aloud.

Holmes glared at the envelope. "Obviously my address is an easy one to use as a return, and your name is as well-known as mine, Watson." He studied the stamp, then crowed aloud in delight. "Look, Watson! It is stamped with the post office it was sent from. We shall have him yet." He hurried out of the office with the envelope still in his hand, leaving the young man at the desk dumbstruck.

"Obviously we shall recall all the issues with that story," the young man said to me. "I am so sorry, Dr. Watson."

I was not in a forgiving mood, yet it was obvious that the magazine had not had any idea they had been sent a false story and must have been delighted at their good fortune. They were, at least, doing the honorable thing by removing all the issues from print, no doubt at great cost to themselves. "Thank you," I said, before following Holmes outside, where he was waiting impatiently for me.

"Hurry, Watson, the post office will close soon," he said. The post office in question was only a few blocks away, and immediately upon entering Holmes marched straight up to the desk, ignoring the queue of people. He smiled in the charming way he had when he wanted to ingratiate himself, and after a conversation with the clerk that seemed to be mostly about the state of the roads, he turned to me, looking please. "The man who sent this was apparently complaining about some road work that was being done near his lodgings which had caused him to tear his trouser leg, and wore a dirty blue bowler hat. According to my friend there, he mentioned that he usually stops at an alehouse before returning home, and the only place I know of that is undergoing road repairs is Clancy Street. I wager that if we find an alehouse there, we shall find your pirate."

Naturally, we hurried in that direction, stopping only to send a telegram, and reached the alehouse just as men were beginning to enter as the workday ended. "Keep a lookout, Watson," Holmes said. "Remember, you are looking for a man in a blue bowler hat."

"He might be wearing a different hat," I said as I ordered us drinks, so that we might appear natural.

Holmes shook his head. "The clerk in the post office remarked on how dirty it was. No man wears a dirty hat if he has another. Ah, I believe that is our man." I turned to look at the table in the corner where a small man with a dirty blue bowler hat was scowling at his glass. I had barely looked over before Holmes was taking a seat opposite him. "Good evening," Holmes said.

It was obvious that the pirate recognized him, and that he knew why Holmes was there. His face was frozen with sudden fear, which only increased as I approached. "I-I only wanted the money," he whispered frantically. "I knew any magazine would pay well for a Holmes story!"

"So you decided to write one yourself," Holmes said. "Did you never think the true author would notice a published story he had not written and return to claim his rights?"

"I-" the man stammered, with another terrified glance at me.

"Or that the subject would object to being used as a character in a poorly written story without permission?" Holmes asked, his gaze growing darker.

"I-I am sorry!" the man said. "They say you're a gentleman, Mr. Holmes. Have mercy!"

"I leave you to the police," Holmes said, getting up exactly as Inspector Bradstreet entered with a couple of his men. "Ah, Bradstreet, there you are. I see you received my telegram."

"I did, and we'll be sure this fellow doesn't go around publishing anything else for years to come," the inspector said, pushing the pirate out in front of him.

Holmes sniffed. "Well, Watson, I imagine you shall have to be on the lookout for other pirates, now that you have made a name for yourself as an author. You know they say imitation is the highest form of flattery."

I decided that this was another example of my friend's rather strange sense of humor and accordingly ignored it. "Thank you, Holmes," I said. "I could not stand that anyone should think you and I were anything at all like what he had written." Then I grew more somber and said in embarrassment, "Though I am afraid, Holmes, that I cannot pay your your fee at this time." I was, to my shame, in the throes of financial necessity again, and my friend at this time in his career charged a princely sum in those cases where he did not waive it entirely.

Holmes merely looked at me, with the rare look of confusion upon his face. "Your fee as a private consultant, Holmes! I have engaged your services for a case," I said in some exasperation.

Holmes surprised me by laughing aloud. "For goodness sake, Watson," he said. "You shall never have to pay for the services of a detective. Rest assured I will always waive my fee for you."

"Oh," I said. "Well, thank you, Holmes. Let us hope, though, that this is the last time I shall have to take advantage of that offer."

A/N: This was partially inspired by an incident that happened to the Bronte sisters, when Anne Bronte's publisher tried to sell her second novel, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall as being by the author of Jane Eyre, essentially saying that Charlotte and Anne Bronte were the same person. That kind of morphed into a more straightforward case of stealing someone else's idea and work.