Rated M for non-graphic violence and swearing.
(I apologize for errors. Having no beta, I gratefully rely on readers to point out my mistakes, which I promise to fix.) :D
The Rest of the Story Chapter 3
Holmes kicked desperately but the water's oily black surface remained just out of reach, and the heavy weight clinging to his waist dragged him down, down, down.
The buccaneer fought against his reflexes, which screamed at him, demanding that he free himself from his burden. They demanded that he save himself, shove the helpless doctor off, leaving Watson to his watery fate.
No! Instincts be damned. Holmes would rather die than lose this burden. So he kicked and stroked. And just as he felt as though his lungs would explode, he broached the surface.
Air, blessed air filled his lungs as he choked and gulped it down in great draughts.
Watson's tight hold around his waist began to slacken. That was not allowed.
"No!" He gasped into the dark.
'No! He promised. He promised never to let go.'
'Idiot,' replied a mind-palace Mycroft, sitting in judgment under his pretentious powdered wig. 'You're a fool. Of course he's letting go; he is drowning.'
Captain Holmes reached for slack arms, which began to fight him weakly.
"Idiot!" gasped the pirate.
The captain ripped his arms free from Watson's faltering grasp. He found the doctor's unfashionably short wet hair, gripped it, and pulled his doctor's head up out of the water. Watson's haggard face surfaced, reflecting the moons pallid glow. For a terrifying moment, the blond didn't move or breathe, his lips looked a ghastly purple in the dim moonlight.
"John! John Watson!" gasped Holmes, shaking the almost limp man.
Then the doctor was coughing and gasping and ineffectually punching his rescuer.
"Watson? Stop it man!" the captain whispered sharply, holding his best, most loyal and rather violent friend by his hair with one hand, while blocking the doctor's blows with his other arm, all this while trying to keep them both above water with his frog-like kicks.
He finally gave his gasping, thrashing catch another firm shake to still him, while shouting. "Hold still!"
Watson's fists stopped flying about and went to his head where Holmes's hand still held tight to the too-short hair.
"Leave go…my hair...you bloody…pragmatical…"
"Shhh!" hissed Holmes.
Watson choked and gulped air and a few mouthfuls of the noisome harbor water, "ya...bloody arse! Le' go o' my hair," at least the doctor was almost whispering too now. "Why the hell… couldn't you warn me? Y'great bloody ...bloody hell!"
"Watson, calm down..."
"You calm down...ya bloody prick!" gasped the furious physician, who still thrashed too much. "And let go o' m,m hair! Bloody hell, Sher…C,cap'n. Bloody hell, no warning. Y'gave me no warning...again! You couldn't say...say...somethin' like..a,ahoy there m,mmatey...avast the b, bilge and scupper the c, cats. And be ready for k,keelhauling."
"No I could not," hissed the buccaneer, "no sailor worth his salt would say any of that." Holmes was elated that his doctor had survived and frustrated that the stubborn man was still struggling in his grasp and worried because the former soldier was shivering, and he was much, much too weak.
"Y,you p,p,prick," repeated Watson, somewhat less vehemently as he grew calmer, 'or weaker' supplied mind palace Mycroft smugly. Mycroft said almost everything smugly.
"John Watson," growled the buccaneer. "Stop fighting me. I am trying to help."
"Then let go of ...m,me!"
"Don't be ridiculous. You can't swim," said the captain.
"Yes I c,c,can. You t,taught me last m,month."
"Bah! You could barely paddle."
"N, no, I can swim," insisted Watson.
"Curse you for a stubborn fool," snarled Holmes.
"C,curse you f,f,for a,a,arrogant p,prick," sputtered the doctor.
The Scourge of the West Indies wanted to scream. If they were safely on The Hound, he probably would have. Instead he whispered. "Dammit, Watson, shut up and stop fighting me. And since we are clearly at sea, consider that an order."
Watson froze in mid-thrash, choked again and then went almost limp, overwhelmed by Holmes's strength, superior logic and the power of maritime law.
"Aye C,captain," Watson stuttered resentfully, as the captain loosened the smaller man's hair and wrapped an arm around the doctor's chest. "But we're not f,f,finished with th,this, C,cap'n," muttered the doctor ominously. "N,no…n,not f,finished... not b,b,by a long shot."
Sherlock Holmes ignored the dark, stuttered threats from his best, most loyal and certainly most stubborn friend. He concentrated on swimming towards the single-masted dinghy, which the buccaneer had targeted before leaping into the water.
As he approached the small boat, Holmes slowed, treading water, while ensuring that his friend could still breathe and curse as necessary. Watson at least had the presence-of-mind to curse in a quiet undertone that probably wouldn't carry over the water.
'Unless he is becoming quiet, simply because he is finally succumbing his wounds and drowning', offered his ever helpful mind-palace brother.
The buccaneer held his obstinate doctor close and took another moment to scan his surroundings for imminent danger.
The harbor was quiet. He could hear water lapping at the boat and distant, dull clanging from a buoy.
The frigates seemed to be sleeping, which was possibly a ruse. Surely they hadn't lowered their guard so soon after that bombardment; then again, he knew both of the arrogant, over confidant captains, so perhaps the crews had stood down already.
Glancing back to the town, there was no sign of pursuit. The small fire in front of Moffat's Victualing House was nearly out. A small crowd of soldiers and onlookers had gathered, hindering the efforts of the men fighting the fire.
Watson remained quiet but shivering in the buccaneer's grasp, and he glared between his captain and the star strewn sky with dark glittering eyes.
'Maybe Mycroft was right, a quiet Watson might be a bad sign,' thought Holmes.
Then it seemed he heard Mycroft's irritating drawl yet again 'Perhaps it would be best to get the good doctor out of the water...before he succumbs to the cold and the damp.'
'Which in fact, is a sound suggestion,' agreed the buccaneer silently. He hated agreeing with his brother, especially an imaginary one.
"Let's get you out of the water, doctor,' he murmured into Watson's ear.
The doctor spared him a scowl before glaring again at the heavens. The pirate grasped the side of the boat, and plucked his half-drowned surgeon part way out of the water.
"Hold on to the gunwale*!" he whispered harshly.
"The, the whale? W,wat ? Hold the w,what? Where?" stuttered the confused, shivering doctor.
"Just…just hang on to the boat, Watson," commanded Holmes, with just a hint of pleading in his hushed baritone.
Watson shook his head and hung grimly on to the side of the boat, looking dreadfully pale and as angry as a wet cat.
Holmes grinned at the sight but then promised, "We'll have you out momentarily, my dear doctor."
The nefarious Scourge of the West Indies, grasped the gunwale with both hands, and heaved himself into the boat.
The captain looked around and smiled again, pleased with his prize. The boat was old but sound, well founded and yet inconspicuous. He scrambled to a stand, supporting himself against the single spar*; he felt that their escape was all but ensured.
His elation was cut short, when a fierce dark man tackled him and began throttling him.
Before his assailant's rough, calloused hands got a firm grip, Holmes brought both of his fists down on the back of the man's neck, stunning him. The pirate slipped out from under his attacker. He heard Watson calling for him in a harsh whisper, but couldn't answer with more than grunted reassurance, as he grappled with the boat's owner.
'Of course, the man may not be the owner. He might be the watchman,' thought the pirate captain.
'Which hardly matters, right now,' spat the phantom Mycroft. 'Don't be a fool, Sherlock, take that man down, at once!'
While Sherlock hated taking orders from his fat brother, Mycroft's demands were sound. The captain redoubled his efforts.
The owner (or watchman) cursed the buccaneer in a patois of French, English, plus an African dialect, which Holmes did not recognize. The boat rolled as they wrestled and as Watson tried, in vain, to board. The rocking boat caused Holmes's assailant to loose his balance. The older man flailed, cursed, and the lanky pirate threw the older man back against the gunwale.
Suddenly the dark skinned sailor cried out, raising his hands to his head.
Captain Holmes gasped and gaped in confusion at the groaning fisherman who lay draped over the gunwale.
The captain saw that two white hands had curled themselves into dreadlocks of the fisherman. The hands slowly tried to drag the hapless man backwards toward the sea, while an ersatz merman, cursed and sputtered.
"Don't t even th,think of moving, you b,bloody son of a p,p, pox-filled whore. If you sc,scream I'll g,gut ya!" threatened Watson, "D,don't even th, think about t,touchin my c,c,captain. You sodding godforsaken p,pig shite..."
"Save your breath, doctor," advised Holmes, with a gasp. "I'll have you out in a trice..."
"Oh, oh, oh a t,trice. And what the h, hell is a t,trice anyway?" growled the doctor angrily, before uttering more threats against the dinghy's owner.
Captain Holmes quickly stuffed a rag into the dark-skinned sailor's mouth. The buccaneer found some rope, binding the man's hands behind him. All the while Watson continued to hold the fisherman still by pulling on his dreadlocks.
"Let loose his hair, Watson," commanded Holmes.
As soon as the doctor let go the man's hair, the fisherman grunted and savagely kicked at his captor.
Holmes shoved the still kicking fisherman towards the bow of the little boat, and then dumped out a tackle-filled bucket, searching for a convincing weapon.
The buccaneer found a fillet-knife and immediately convinced the owner to subside into a sullen but motionless huddle in the bow.
'The doughty fisherman is, almost certainly not a simple watchman but in fact the owner,' thought Holmes, 'given his determination to protect this not very valuable vessel.'
Before mind palace Mycroft could utter a word, the buccaneer bent to haul his doctor on board.
The Captain held his dear friend close for only a moment, almost resting his head against the blond hair, which was plastered flat on John's Holmes said, "We mustn't lose a moment…"
The captain's utterance was cut off short, when the doctor seized the knife from him, and scuttled like a crab towards the prisoner.
The soggy doctor had apparently nominated himself acting Marine Sergeant in Charge of Prisoners, despite his shivering and evident pain.
"Well, are you g,going to s,sail this miserable garbage sc,scow out of here or not," snapped Doctor Watson. "Lower the halliards and snap the sheets!" ordered the doctor, who would never be sailor, try as he might.
Holmes began to smile, until he noticed the prisoner's dark face crinkle under his gag…almost as if he were laughing at Watson's lubberly jargon. Holmes could laugh at his friend and frequently did so. Strangers, however, did not have leave to laugh at John Watson. The buccaneer sent a warning glare towards the prisoner, who once more sank into passivity.
'What?" demanded the doctor glaring first at the fisherman and then at the pirate.
"Nothing. Nothing at all," murmured Captain Holmes. "I shall make sail, at once, so stay out of the way."
Watson's glare deepened, 'Offended, no doubt', thought Holmes. The thought of offending John Watson, or even worse hurting his feelings, was surprisingly unsettling.
"And," the pirate quickly added, "perhaps you would be good enough to stand guard, Doctor, just in case our hostage chooses to cause trouble."
'There, now John will feel useful...' thought the pirate.
Watson narrowed his eyes suspiciously, no doubt suspecting that his captain was manipulating him-again, 'which I am,' thought Holmes.
Then the doctor's suspicious glance fell on the prisoner, The injured blond turned back to the fisherman, issuing dire warnings not to move or make a noise or even breathe wrong, and because he was a doctor, he would know right away if the prisoner tried to breathe even a little funny. Watson muttered these admonitions in English interspersed with some very questionable and mostly unintelligible French. He punctuated his statements with his knife.
The hostage nodded as he watched the doctor's knife warily.
'Probably understands English quite well. Might even be speak it. In any case, John's meaning is obvious."
The buccaneer smirked in the thin moonlight; clearly his ploy was a success. Watson would be occupied guarding the bound hostage (who was no threat at all); Watson would remaining safely out of the way, venting his ire (borne of pain and fear and stress) at the prisoner and not the pirate.
With the hostage and the doctor thus entertained, the buccaneer lost no more time preparing to sail. He checked the lines and mainsail. Glanced at the tide and the moon. He noted the fine steady off shore breeze; all was ready.
Captain Holmes cut the anchor line, which the hostage disliked. However, doctor's glare and his knife kept the fisherman quiet.
Holmes used a long, hand-carved paddle to quietly propel the boat out into the harbor, his arm and chest muscles straining under his damp shirt. And still no one seemed aware of their escape. He flashed a victorious grin at his doctor, but was dismayed to see the blond hunched and trembling in the bow, although still brandishing the knife, whenever the fisherman breathed funny.
"My dear Doctor, this will never do," said Holmes, He tried to sound lightly unconcerned, as he paddled. "I fear you will come down with a fever, Watson. We must find you a blanket..."
"I'm…f,fine," lied the physician. Even the fisherman rolled his eyes at this blatant falsehood. Then, the prisoner ignored his hostile guard with his fillet knife and pointed with his chin towards the heap of nets.
The prisoner waggled his brows at the pirate captain, and nodded again at the nets.
"K,keep still, you scurvy d,d,dog," ordered Watson.
"Leave him be, Watson," said Holmes. "I believe he's trying to help."
"Trying to help? Leave him b,be?" exclaimed the doctor. "When he t,tried to k,kill you!".
"Silence on deck, doctor!" ordered Holmes, in a whisper. Watson's eyes widened and then narrowed in resentment, but his mouth stayed firmly shut.
Holmes gave thanks to the Codes of Maritime Law, as he dropped the paddle to begin digging amongst the nets.
"We've not escaped yet, doctor," said the buccaneer, 'so you must remain very quiet. You've no idea how very well sound travels over water." The pirate captain soon found an old, tattered coat under the nets. It was large and shapeless and would undoubtedly dwarf the short surgeon. Under the coat was a bundle of cloth, which might once have been a blanket. Both smelled disagreeably of fish, but were in fact nearly dry.
There was no time for another argument; the captain immediately utilized maritime law to his advantage, ordering the injured doctor to wear both the coat and the blanket until further notice.
Watson obeyed but muttered peevishly (yet quietly) against perfidious pirates who connived with strange fisherman, pirates who misconstrued Maritime law to their own advantage, pirates who liked to give orders for the sake of giving orders-mere martinets, dictators and so on.
Nonetheless, Watson re-did the prisoners gag, so that the man would be able to breathe more easily, belying his fearsome threats. Finally the doctor settled down in the scuppers wearing the both the ratty coat and the torn blanket, his injured leg stuck straight out in front of him. He kept the knife visible and ready… just in case.
The buccaneer had rowed the dinghy until it was clear of the fishing boats riding at anchor. Now he dropped the main sail and almost at once, the canvass caught the wind, driving the dinghy toward the harbor mouth.
After casting a weather eye on the slumbering frigates, Captain Holmes turned his attention toward their hostage. Speaking the patois like a native, Holmes offered the owner of the boat a generous reward for the use of his boat, payable only after they rendezvoused with The Hound, (naturellement)*. His voice dripping with apology, the pirate also pointed that neither bullets nor cannon balls could discriminate between pirates and their prisoners pirate, (désolé), so it would be in the best interests of the fisherman, to avoid exciting the interest of the frigates. (Oui?)
The dinghy's owner, not one to miss an opportunity for reward-especially when he had no choice, nodded vigorously.
Sherlock Holmes checked the sail again. He checked the frigates. He sighed, their escape was almost assured, and without further bloodshed (hopefully). Watson seemed more comfortable; at least he wasn't shivering as hard. Indeed he appeared to be trying to communicate with the older, dark-skinned sailor using the doctor's broken French.
Things were going along swimmingly; then came the dreaded words from the nearest frigate, "Ahoy the boat."
They had been spotted.
Watson and the prisoner froze, staring at each other with wide eyes.
But the tall ships were not lined with marines bearing guns, so the escapees had not been identified (probably). The British look-out leaned negligently over the side, indicating that this was a routine query.
They could brazen this out…(again, hopefully).
Replying fluently in the local patois, Holmes claimed to be a poor fisherman seeking his livelihood on the uncertain seas.
The British tar muttered about, "eathens who couldn't speak a civ'lized tongue", he clearly understood nothing that the buccaneer said.
Holmes continued his act while the fisherman grinned behind his gag and while Watson rolled his eyes, both men showing how impressed they were...in very different ways. The pirate-turned-humble-fisherman complained that the earlier exchange of gunfire had probably chased all the best fish away. And now? What should he do now? What should he do with his nagging wife and his hungry children and no fish? So of course they had to leave the harbor early. Of course they had to go out to find the few fish remaining to them after the cannons had made so much noise and scared his livelihood away. Then too his partner had a new baby, a baby named Peter and what should he do…"
"Carry on! Carry on," shouted the frigate*, "And fer God's sake, shut yer gob, yer ignant forin'er!"
The dinghy sailed past the nearest frigate, Watson and Holmes waved earnestly, as Sherlock called out, 'God Bless' in the local version of French.
Muttering under his breath, Watson quietly commended the sailor to the water depths of Davy Jones's locker and that included his crewmates, captain, the governor and the governors friends-especially the governors friends.
Within minutes that seemed like an hour, the frigate's stern light began to shrink, yet not fast enough for the pirate captain. They were still much too close to the murderous long guns*.
The buccaneer tried to urge his boat to greater speed, attempting to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the dangerous frigates.
Time dragged on.
Six bells sounded from the farther ship, each bell echoed moments later from the nearer frigate. Six bells in the middle watch.
Watsons face, pale and drawn in the moonlight, scrunched as he tried to make out the time. The doctor still got confused with shipboard timekeeping.
"It is the middle watch," sighed Holmes softly, brushing the damp hair off his brow. "It is three in the morning, doctor."
"Ah, yes... I almost had it figured out m'self," lied Watson, "but...thank you." Holmes noticed that Watson's shivering was all but gone.
The Scourge of the West Indies relaxed infinitesimally. He turned to the where the swells sparkled in the moonlight, wishing that they were already out of the harbor's trap.
Soon.
He also wished that he knew who had betrayed him. He wished that he had his doctor safely aboard the Hound. He wished that his doctor had never been hurt. He reconsidered his rejection of religion and considered praying that his doctor would recover quickly and not…die. Because people did die of such wounds. People bled too much sometimes. And all too often such wounds became infected, or people developed fevers or…
"Almost out of the harbor," said the buccaneer, mostly to reassure himself. "Then it'll be only a matter of hours before we reach the Hound." He looked over at their hostage. "Once we're in the open water, we can remove your gag, Alphonse. And we can discuss your payment."
The fisherman nodded resignedly. He might even have ventured another smile behind that gag at the mention of payment. Everyone responded to a good bribe, thought the cynical pirate...everyone except Doctor John Watson, of course.
His doctor who had not and would not betray him, no matter what.
The old boat began to jump and pitch as she left the harbor. He held the tiller steady and she responded to his touch well. She was very fast, for her kind. She was truly a joy to sail, especially after spending the last week ashore.
The cool sea breeze rejuvenated the buccaneer, blowing away some of his fears and frustrations. His disappointments, the mission had failed and he hated failure. He heard once more the siren's song in the water running under the keel. He could nearly hear an answering song, composing in his mind; he would have to try to write it down, when they got back to the ship.
The spray hit his face, and he smiled at the kiss from his lady mistress, the Sea. He smiled at her salty benediction and reveled in the joy at his homecoming. He was back on the water where he belonged.
He shared his grin with his doctor and shipmate. Watson gamely smiled back, even as his fists knotted in the ragged blanket. The knife lay at the doctor's side, forgotten.
Oh. This is not good. The doctor had laid down his weapon? This is bad. Watson must be in a very bad way, if he laid down his knife. Sherlock wished yet again that they were back on his ship, where John could be treated and cared for.
Watson's smile had been forced. His eyes were pinched, he slumped rather than sat against the gunwale, he trembled intermittently. Clearly he suffered and clearly he was determined not to make complaint.
Sherlock's watery mistress and his violin compostion were instantly forgotten in his concern for the man, who in the past year had become the captain's guiding light.
The sea was as nothing, without his best and most faithful companion at his side.
"John Watson, I think we can leave Alphonse to his own devices," said the pirate captain.
"Who? No, how? How can you possibly know his name is Alphonse?" demanded the doctor, sitting up a bit. "I haven't heard him mention his name a single time, not even once."
"Doctor, the language Alphonse speaks is most assuredly not French, as attested to by the outrage now on his face. Clearly, as you earlier deduced, Alphonse does understand English, and so now he will understand me when I point out that while you do command a smattering of Latin…
"A smattering?" said Watson indignantly. "I was at the top of my class... "
"Yes, a class populated by the sons of farmers and tradesman…"
"You pretentious toff! Just because you went to Oxford…"
"Cambridge, actually," said Sherlock.
"Bloody hell, even if you attended both, it doesn't give you the right to swan about the oceans, thinking you're better than everyone else!" snapped the doctor, who shifted as the boat rolled on the swell. Watson gasped again, clutching at his leg and biting his lip and so ending his tirade.
Holmes almost forgot what they were talking about, as he bit his own lip. Then he remembered; he was trying to distract Watson (and himself) from this horrid situation.
"My intention Doctor, was to inform Alphonse that you meant no insult when you stated that he spoke French," said the somewhat subdued detective, "As to his name, surely you know my methods by now. I merely observed. I learned his name because it was writ plain for all to see!"
The doctor looked around the dinghy. The blond briefly locked eyes with the fisherman, who shrugged.
"Well, I don't see it!" said the exasperated doctor.
"As always, you see, but you do not observe."
"Well there's no writing here at all!" exclaimed the physician.
"True, try earlier…"
"Bah! You're speaking in riddles again, and I don't understand and I won't understand and I don't want to understand." John Watson crossed his hands over his breast and fumed in stubborn silence.
Holmes sat at the tiller, carefully keeping his face blank and his back straight. Watson didn't want to understand? But he always wanted to understand Holmes; he always wanted to hear his captain's deductions and observations. Always.
This rejection was a slap in the face
'And this is why I have always advised you not to form attachments, Sherlock," said the phantom Mycroft who haunted Sherlock's mind palace no matter how often the captain chased him out. 'Attachments lead to sentiments and sentiments lead to distractions and pain. Sentiment is found on the losing side.'
"Shut up, Mycroft," muttered the Scourge of the West Indies.
"What? What was that?" asked the doctor, briefly lifting his head, his eyes looked like dark holes in his pale, lined face.
"Nothing important. Nothing you'd want to understand," snapped Holmes.
"Fine," snapped John Watson, dropping his head back against the gunwale with a loud bang, which had to hurt.
Watson stared at the sky, yet didn't seem to be tracking the stars and constellations, as was his wont. He just lay there shuddering occasionally and gripping the tattered grey blanket, which he clutched to his chest, even though he had fought against its use…
'Ohhh…Stupid, I'm so stupid," thought Sherlock.
'Yes, well we both thought you were stupid," said the supercilious mind-palace Mycroft. 'Of course we learned otherwise when we met other children. Then we found out that the rest of the world was even stupider than you," mind-palace Mycroft looked surprised and even scandalized at the memory.
"I see it now," hissed Sherlock, inside the marble-lined main hall of his mind palace. 'It's obvious, John…'
'John? You call him, John?' asked Mycroft with an elegantly arched brow.
'This is my mind palace. I will call him whatever I choose to call him. Now, shut up, I'm thinking!' thought Sherlock.
"John is sick and injured and in pain, so much, so obvious. But this is also why he answers so sharply. This is why he is uninterested. It is a temporary condition which will resolve with proper treatment,' thought the captain, refusing to entertain any concept, other than the complete recovery of his friend. 'He needs his wound cleaned, he needs clean dry clothes, he needs rest and proper nursing and some laudanum*.…It is fortunate that I found his secret supply of laudanum hidden in his portable soup*. It will save time."
"In the meantime," muttered the captain. He pushed at the locks hanging over his forehead and tucked away the wisps of dark hair, which had escaped his plait, "We need to get you back to the ship," said the buccaneer out loud.
"Now what are you on about?" asked the querulous doctor.
"You're leg pains you greatly and already you begin to run a fever," deduced the observant buccaneer.
"No. I'm fine..."
"Oh, indeed? Your leg has been sliced open, you've lost a great deal of blood, and then you were dunked in the harbor, thus acquiring a chill. You are fine, forsooth!" said Captain Holmes. "Never mind, we both know that I'm right, but…"
He was interrupted by the faint sound of a drumbeat, carrying over the water.
"Ah," said Watson, reviving a bit with this new threat. "They are beating to quarters*."
The doctor struggled to stand on one leg, while holding onto the mast.
"Sit down, doctor!" snapped the pirate.
"No. I won't. I want to see," muttered Watson.
"You'll fall down or, even worse, fall into the water," said Holmes. "Or even overturn the boat. I insist that you sit down at once."
"They are lowering a boat…two boats," said John Watson, who was apparently feeling mutinous.
"I order you to sit down."
"Make me," muttered the doctor under his breath, in clear defiance of maritime law. Then he added, "It's difficult to make out…but I believe…yes, they are running out the guns. They have figured out who we are."
"Obviously," snapped the pirate. "You can stop with your pointless mutiny and sit here at the tiller in moderate comfort and still keep an eye on the frigates."
"Well, only I thought you might be concerned if fire cannon at us!" said the doctor.
"Bah!" scoffed the buccaneer. "Given that only hours ago, they couldn't hit a ship many times larger than us, a ship which signaled its location every time it fired, I doubt we are in much danger."
"But we are in some danger."
"Which you love, doctor. Don't deny it."
"I will deny it. Now I am not shy. I will not run from danger if I am needed, but I cannot say that I look forward to being the helpless target of a broad side."
"I doubt they will waste their powder and balls in a broadside against a dinghy."
"You and your doubts," muttered Watson. "I think they'll waste powder eagerly, it they think they can hit you."
"There are two boats in the water," announced the doctor. "And they begin to row."
"I can see this for myself..."
The unsteady doctor mis-stepped on the roll, and barely caught himself by clinging to the lines.
"Doctor Watson, I order you to sit down before you tangle the lines, strangle yourself or drop yourself into the ocean yet again."
There was a flash from the frigate. The retort of canon fire sounded.
"They are trying their range, and they are nowhere near us," murmured the captain. "I doubt that they even see us."
The doctor's brow furrowed in confused concern as he looked at the now distant frigate, which fired another shot and then at the puzzle of ropes leading up to the sail. He carefully released the lines and grasped the mast again.
"You know…" ventured the doctor, "you are the one who dropped us into the ocean this time, Holmes…"
"I was referring to the last time you fell out of a boat, off the coast of Puerto Rico, all because you stood up …"
"And that was your fault too, Holmes," argued Watson. Just then the boat rolled heavily, Watson stumbled, but was caught by the captain who had anticipated this event.
The small boat veered with no hand at the tiller. The prisoner complained loudly behind his gag. Sherlock Holmes dragged his best most loyal and stubborn friend over to the stern seat and shoved him down, none too gently.
Watson groaned in pain, gripping the edge of the seat, while Holmes grappled with the tiller setting the dinghy back on course.
"You will sit," bellowed the buccaneer. "And if you attempt to move from that seat, doctor, I will not hesitate to bind you with a rope."
The doctor, who had risen to better see the frigates and the two longboats, dropped back down next to the pirate captain. He bit his lip. He pursed his mouth and then rubbed at his lips. Another cannon fired. Then another and another in a rolling broadside that peppered the harbor mouth with chain.
Watson's lips pressed together, thinning his lips to mere lines. He decided not to argue, perhaps in deference to maritime law or the seriousness of their situation. "Those were not cannon balls."
"Brilliant observation, doctor," said Holmes with sarcasm. "They are firing chain, a better choice. A better chance to hit us. There is at least one officer aboard with half a brain."
"Their aim improves," observed Watson.
"They only have time for one more broadside, which will waste a deal of powder," said Holmes, "And then we shall have sailed round the headland, which will conceal us from view.
"The rowboats…erm, the longboats will follow us."
"They will never catch La fille d'Alphonse without they have sails," said the buccaneer, watching the sky flash white followed by the thunder of another broadside. The spray of the nearest fall was still a distance away.
Then the frigates and the town were lost from view as La fille d'Alphonse rounded the headland, heading up the coast toward their rendezvous with the hound.
"The boat, the boat is La fille d'Alphonse," said Watson, grinning his usual I-am-so-impressed-with-your-skills-Captain grin. "That's how you know his name."
"Hold the tiller Watson," said Captain Holmes, who was secretly pleased with John's admiration, "while I remove the gag from Alphonse. Do not stray from our course by so much as an inch; there are reefs in these waters you know."
Watson clung grimly to the tiller, probably recalling the last time Holmes allowed him to pilot. It had not ended well.
Having released the prisoner's gag, Holmes returned to the stern, bringing with him the grimy blanket, which he settle over his doctor's lap.
"Well done, doctor. You held our course…"
"I only held the tiller for four minutes," scoffed Watson. "Just because I have a little scratch on my leg, doesn't mean you need to patronize me nor mother hen me nor…"
"You will make me your entire family, Watson."
The blond blinked in confusion.
"Patronize, eh? And mother hen?" suggested the smug pirate.
"That's ridiculous," complained the doctor, whose face struggled not to smile.
They sailed in silence for several minutes, before the doctor said, "And are you not worried that the frigates will give chase?"
"I do not think that they will, unless the governor, or who ever pulls the governor's strings, has some control over the ships captains," said Holmes. "After all their orders come from the Admiralty, not the wretched governor, nor yet a one of the governor's advisors...not even a certain blond, American adventuress."
The doctor hummed his response. They were all silent once more, aside from the hostage who wished to know if he would still be receiving a reward. The captain assured Alphonse that he would indeed receive twelve pieces of gold and thirty of silver. Alphonse subsided content.
"I do not think that the recent near catastrophe is the fault of Morstan. At least not solely her fault. I fear that there is someone new in these waters, so to speak," said Holmes eventually. "Someone who was able to predict my actions, probably by watching you court that Morstan woman. It would seem that you are known to be a member of my crew; you shall have to be more careful in port, Doctor. I surmise that this person controls much of the criminal activity in this part of the Caribbean. He is someone who, to change metaphors, is like a spider, pulling strings and controlling the activities of many government officials and criminal kingpins. It is someone new, which makes it interesting. Someone who seems to be challenging me personally, which is exciting," Holmes's voice fell. "Nonetheless, he…or she made a mistake when they targeted you, my closest and most loyal friend, whose faithfulness has never once been questioned. What do you say to that, doctor?"
Watson snored softly in response.
"You will be fine, doctor," murmured the buccaneer, reassuring himself again. "We shall have you back on board the Hound by daybreak. You shall be fine; you must be fine. I can tolerate no other outcome."
Holmes moved, holding the tiller with his right hand, and sliding his left arm around the his sleeping doctor.
John Watson slumped against the shoulder of his captain and friend, and La fille d'Alphonse sailed into the dark in search of a Hound.
A/N I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. I keep getting distracted by my other stories such as Many Firsts, which is now done and no longer distracting me. Sort of.
I thank everyone who read, followed or reviewed this work. THANK YOU! :D :D :D
*Certain Nautical Terms
gunwale-the side of the boat
spar- any length of wood including the masts and the beams which carried sails
shouted the frigate -meaning the spokesman (or look-out on deck)
long guns=cannon
laudanum-a liquid medication made with liquor and opium, used for pain relief. Like morphine, it gave a person feelings of euphoria. It was highly addictive, which is why Watson chose to hide it in the portable soup
portable soup-dehydated beef broth, akin to bouillon cubes. And used the same way to make broth for soups. The doctor would have some stored for his patients.
beating to quarters-the call to battle stations. A drummer (often a marine) would drum to the beat of Heart of Oak. All sailors would rush to their stations, most of them manning the cannon.
Ritual Disclaimer- I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK, or the characters created by that show.