AN: And here we are with chapter two! Now we're starting to get more into the story and in the next chp I'll introduce The Watson! Thanks to everyone who has favorited and followed the story and a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Nobody does, he's a pirate.
Sherlock continues down the back alleyways until he comes upon an unsavory and raucous pub not to far from the port. His knowledge of sailing is limited to his position. The basic mechanics of the ship and its parts, steering, and how the wind and tide affected course are almost second nature to him.
However more practical skills, such as the physical labour behind the adjustments, aren't something he has any experience in. And he knows that if he wants to be successful in having his own ship and eventually crew, then he needs some hands-on experience. The pub ought to be a good place to find himself a position on a vessel where he can refine his skills.
Now Sherlock's no pirate of course, and he doesn't have any desire to fall in league with the cold-hearted pillagers. However, he suspects that the pub will also attract underground traders, who are hardly a step above pirates, but slightly more agreeable.
He ducks into it, through a heavy mahogany door and is met with a foul combination of heavy smoke, ale and unwashed bodies. The intensity causes him to cough as he wades his way through the sea of drunkards and smoky air. He scans the faces of the patrons, quickly and easily categorizing them.
The two curvaceous women are the bartender's daughters who help to bring in extra customers and earning with their favors.
The obnoxious group of younger men seated around a table in the center are just back from a whaling trip.
The four men lined at the bar are regulars, hopeless outcasts of society. One, the balding red-head, had come from Ireland and made his way over to escape the battles and seek his fortune. The one to his left, a gangly bearded man, had attempted and failed to become a writer and squandered the little money he had, that came from his father.
The rest consisted of weatherworn sailors, young lads seeking their newest adventure and women who found a drunken oblivion more pleasing than their husbands and home.
And – Oh! There, off to one side, tucked behind the table of the whale-hunters, is a group of fairly mild-mannered men with a piece of parchment set in front of them. He can see several of them attempting to call out over the din, but it's lost amongst the haze.
Opium traders. Independent ones, at that. Unusual, the East India Trading Company is the main seller and they despise independent parties treading on their territory. It will take him to China, which is fair distance enough to learn what he needs, and perhaps he'll stay when they arrive until he finds his own ship. Yes, this will work perfectly, he decides and approaches them.
He makes his way over to stand in front of the old table with several sea-worn mean seated around and behind it. "Looking for crew?" he inquires, already knowing the answer.
"We are." Answers a short, heavyset man with an air of authority about him that places him as first-mate. "'ave any experience?" he inquires, surveying Sherlock doubtfully.
"Aboard an opium trading ship? No." he answers, relishing the look of surprise on their faces.
"And how do you know what sort of ship we sail?" countered the first-mate.
Sherlock lets out a soft sigh at his density. "It's rather obvious. You've all got yellowed fingers that come from scratching the seed pods." He answers with a dismissive gesture of his hand.
The crewmen cast unnerved glances at one-another as they survey their fingers.
The first-mate lets out a short bark of laughter "So we do. Well then son, you're right clever I'll give you that. But can you sail?"
Sherlock hesitates for a half-second debating on how to answer. At the mention of the word "navy" the entire pub would scatter, so how does he claim his experience?
"Yes. My father was a captain and I grew up by his side." He answers, which is not entirely untrue.
His father was a Captain aboard a merchant ship, but when he married Sherlock's mother and they had children he left the sea for a job on land. Still he'd grown up with stories of the sea and ships.
The first-mate eyes him suspiciously, seeming to suspect that he is leaving out important information, but he lets it drop. Pushing the parchment forward he said "We sail in the morning. Be at the far western dock by sunrise."
Sherlock grins and signs his name.
The next six months Sherlock spends aboard the opium trading ship. He learns quickly and soon enough he has a sound knowledge base of how to do everything that could possibly need to be done.
He's learned to properly stack and store cargo, how to work the sails, tie off the ship when coming into port, simple maintenance, haggle over prices and even how to extract and collect the opium.
He is treated with a sort of reluctant respect aboard the ship. He's clever and abrasive which often places him on the receiving end of a fist or sword.
But he can use a sword just as agilely as his tongue and with a more damaging effect. He's also discovered a natural talent for boxing which helps to keep his shipmates in-line.
The Captain is surprisingly taken with him and finds endless amusement in his sharp jabs and unfailingly accurate deductions.
Sherlock can hardly stand the boisterous old man and never minces words about it, but the Captain simply chuckles it off as though Sherlock means it to be a joke. Then again he is nipping bits of their cargo, so it's no wonder he's mellow.
Everyone is curious about him as well. He has an unmistakably elegant bearing and is so well-spoken that the general consensus is that he must have noble blood.
Rumors fly about the ship as they all try to discover his origins. The mildest explanation is that he's the illegitimate son of nobleman or woman. The most fanciful and therefore most popular explanation is that he's the son of a mermaid and a human king.
Mind you, there is some evidence to support this outlandish theory. At least the crew see's it as evidence. You see mermaids are said to be creatures of rare beauty, with fine, pale and elegant features which essentially describes Sherlock.
His skin is still almost porcelain, even after several months at sea. He has high-angular cheekbone contrasted with wild chocolate curls lends him an elven look. And the fact that his eyes seems permanently undecided as to what colour they should be supports their superstitions.
He allows them to think what they like, finding it amusing that they equate his natural born cleverness and deductive reasoning to magical powers, granted to him by his mother.
Early one evening, just as the first stars start to shine he spots what appears to be a naval ship in the distance. He nicks a looking-glass off one of his fellow crewmen and directs it toward the ship.
He finds it too be a dilapidated looking vessel, obviously in need of repair. It reminded him of the ship he'd sailed as an officer, only with more character.
He'd never understood when men talked of their ships having spirit; how can an inanimate object built of wood and metal have spirit? But now he understands. He knows with a sudden, startling certainty that the ship will be, must be, his.
He directs the looking-glass on the deck of the ship, scanning the crew. Only five men are aboard. They too look rather bedraggled and in need of care.
He reasons that they must've been caught in a tropical storm that took the remainder of the crew and bits of the ship with it. Sailing in to port for repairs no doubt.
The ship won't be hard to take. He just needs a plan and some time.
Later that night as the crewmen are settling into their bunks they hear a distinctive splash. However when the watchman raises no alarm they assume it to be unimportant and return to their beds.
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KP