When John stirs and begins to regain his consciousness, there are chickens brooding over him calling him to the conscious world with their feeble quacks, little colourful creatures painted in the colours of Port Royal like it used to be before the pirates turned it into a mass of wreckage and tears with their merciless massacre.

He opens one eye against the glare of the late-morning sun and props up on one elbow. He gives a real start upon hearing a sickening crack.

The hens start quacking louder, some approaching to attack John with their blunt, hard beaks when they discover he has broken one of their newly-laid eggs. He groans as his stiff joints crack one by one and massages his head upon feeling sharp pain burst in his scalp—the little clot formed over the place when the pirate had struck him.

Pirates, he starts, they had taken Mary away. Kidnapped her. He gets up to his feet in an instant and first rushed towards his little house to check whether his brother is alright.

"Harry? HARRY?!" He yells, his throat raw. There are still kindling, straws aflame in the street, people are groaning over their losses, working to retrieve them and save whatever there is left of their houses or poultry. Men are pushing carts with bodies—dead piled up with the gravely injured—towards the town hospital. Women are sobbing relentlessly, and the unmarried ones gathering food, washing their houses, helping as much as they can.

John bursts into his house. Harry is nowhere to be seen. Panic clots in him. He's got patients to attend to, people he must sew up and treat after this butchering, but he has to find his brother as well.

And Mary. He owes his life, his reunion with his brother, to her.

He shakes his head; his duty first, or the people he loves? He eyes his doctor's coat, and his brother's forge, the swords, the rum. The little handkerchief which he has saved for the past three months, which still has Mary's scent on it. She had always wondered where she had lost it. His brother was too drunk to notice its presence.

John gives himself a mental shake. Not helping.

Harry first, he decides. There is another doctor at the hospital, and after all, it would take him only two minutes to reach the tavern. Because Harry is at the tavern. Yes he is. Of course he is. This is his usual practice. Stay drunk till noon.

Nevertheless, John grabs a boarding axe and a sword, in case any pirates still remained.

He goes out, looking far away towards the street opening towards the harbour. He takes in the devastation of Port Royal: the harbour is dotted with burning and sunken ships; buildings are razed and still smoulder. The clouds obscured by thick, billowing black smoke, the beautiful morning doing nothing to bring in a slight cheer. Company sergeants are patrolling the streets on white and chestnut horses.

The aftermath of hell on earth.

The grim and morbid feeling which John had always learnt to associate with death draws upon him. John gulps.

The tavern is right in front of their house, only a shed away. The building is broken down crumbling to its last bricks. Men bemoan the loss of their mates, about the rum gone. Of course, John shakes his head. In the event of a bombing, how would a tavern of all buildings survive? It would be the first to burn down.

John stares with horror at the pile of half-burnt, mangled bodies piled up near the inn. Most of the men are roughly of Harry Watson's height and rotund figure. Without a care, he looks from one dead man to the next, examining their necks for his dog tags. The third man he examines has them around his neck.

His jaw slackens. It can't be, no. He had searched for his brother yesterday, he wasn't in the tavern. He wasn't. It can't be.

With trembling but resolute fingers, he works open the jaw, checks for the pattern and the anatomy of his teeth, the cut around his jaw, the calloused fingers, his burnt pinkie, the stitch around his lower abdomen. Harry's face is dreamy. Surreal.

He gathers himself, standing up and letting Harry's limp body lie among his mates. A single tear gathers the soot on his face and falls down on the dirty ground like black ink. There's no point in shedding tears, he tells himself. Pity the living, not the dead.

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson!" comes a shrill cry at his left elbow, begging to be delivered from the pain, "help us, save us."

John staggers backwards at the beseeching young girl and makes his way away. Feet have never made him go faster, of course with his limp. Strange place, the world. Over one night, he had been healed of his malady while the rest of the people were cursed with it.

The living. Mary. The Governor.

John turns, and runs for the Governor's Mansion as the rest of the world passes him in inconsequential blurs. Races past the smashed doors, into the foyer. Calls out:

Miss Morstan! Mary!"

A terrible silence answers him. He spots an overturned chair, fallen bookshelf—he had been here the previous morning, preening himself up to present himself to the Governor. Everything so normal, so serene. The grand velvet dress on Mary.

Horrified at the sudden turn of events, he turns and runs away. There's starting to be so many things to run from, but this time not away, but towards.

Towards the Commodore's office in Fort Charles. They probably didn't know what had happened to Mary. They needed to know. Send the Royal Navy after her. She was precious. They needed her back. He needed her back, safe and smiling.

He sprints in through the doors, his eyes tracking the stone parapets damaged in the firing. Company soldiers and sailors were everywhere, tending to injured. John has to control himself, control the urge to take the opposite road and set down to treat them. For once, the Hippocratic Oath had to rest. For Mary. Anything for Mary.

Several wounded sailors, still in their uniform—red jackets and white knee breeches spilling crimson blood—are being pulled away in carts. John has seen similar visions before—in Kandahar and Agra and Meerut—flocks of Indians rebels killed by Company soldiers at gunfire, and of his own mates in the Army.

But here, where he lives, it's still reminiscent of his worst nightmares. Governor Morstan, Sholto, and Small among other soldiers are gathered around a map. The map is so ridiculously large it drapes over the Governor's desk, the far end supported by a chair. Governor Morstan is looking someplace else, not able to resist the sunshine.

"They've taken her! They've taken Mary!" John bursts into the office abruptly into their nautical planning session. Without lifting his head from the map, Sholto announces as he plots points on a chart with a drawing compass.

"Mr. Murtogg, remove this man at once."

One of the sailors who had accosted the Sherlock pirate, John remembers, comes to drag him away, but John shakes him off. The sailor looks comically miffed at his negative response.

"We have to hunt them down—and save her!" says he, brandishing his boarding axe viciously, ready for action.

"We're aware of the situation," Sholto replies drily. When John sees that he's getting nowhere he turns to the Governor, hoping some sympathy from him

"The pirates—they took Miss Morstan—" he begins, but the Governor's worry has made him short tempered. He turns towards John, looking terrible and gaunt in his anxiety, his wig improperly secured and his cuffs and frills undone.

"And where do you propose we start? If you have any information that concerns my daughter, then share it!" His voice trembles at the last note, "If anyone does, tell me!"

When John is silent at his unbecoming passionate outburst, as passionate as he can be, he subdues himself to looking back at the now-clear skies, "Leave, Dr. Watson. You have patients to attend to. The Commodore will do what he can, you do what you have to do."

As everyone tries their best not to loom apprehensive, the sailor called Murtogg remembers something. He ventures it warily.

"That Hector Altamont. . ." he utters, and the attention of the entire gathering is at him, "He—he talked about the Black Pearl—" but his companion overrides him.

"Mentioned it, is more what he did," he says with a pointed glare. Murtogg cowers helplessly.

"Still. . ."

John feels like he has struck a goldmine, but when he sees the sailors quite nonchalant about that particular bit, he insists, "We can ask him where it is—maybe he can lead us to it!"

Governor Morstan scoffs, "Don't be ridiculous, Dr. Watson. That pirate tried to kill my daughter. We could never trust a word he said!"

John looks down. Morstan is right, albeit in a wrong way. Altamont had only threatened her, not tried to kill. He looks up imploringly, "We could strike a bargain—!" Since that's what pirates understood. Their language.

But before John can finish his sentence, the Commodore overrides him unaffectedly with a stern rejection, "No. The pirates who invaded this fort left Altamont locked in his cell. Ergo, they are not his allies, and therefore of no value."

John grits his teeth angrily. Did they forget that he was a soldier in the artillery, sent back home only because he was shot and had contracted a peculiar Eastern illness? He was no less than the incompetent, obese sailors like Murtogg and Mullroy. Yes, he wasn't as good a shot with his stiff left arm, but even with that, he was still better.

Through with John, Sholto turns to the Governor, and John feels a sharp spike of jealousy lick up his spine at that, the way the Governor trusts James Sholto with Mary's rescue instead of him, even though he had always been Mary's unofficial bodyguard, back when they were children. James Sholto was nowhere near back then, busy civilising Port Royal.

"We will determine their most likely course, and launch a search mission that sails with the tide—"

John slams the boarding axe into the desk, through the map, as if anger could travel all the way from his veins and through the axe and into the earth.

"That's not good enough. This is Mary's life!"
The jump in Sholto's jaw is immediate as he sees the insubordinate boarding axe fixed into the map. Always the one to loathe indiscipline, he plucks it free from the table and smiled falsely, tight-lipped at him.

"John Watson, you were a soldier invalided home, you're now only a medical man. Neither are you fit, nor do you have the skills of a sailor."

John glances furtively at Mullroy and Murtogg, pride of the British Navy. Quick to react, Sholto grabs John by the arm and drags him roughly to the door.

"This is not the time for rash actions. Do not make the mistake of thinking you are the only man here who loves Mary," he looks challengingly into John's eyes and John stares back defiantly. He might be invalided, God help him, but no one could challenge his competence and his fitness, much less the Commodore.

Sholto opens the door, and then turns away. John watches him walk back to the desk. John's face sets in resolve, and he leaves, face set stony with the revenge and frustration playing havoc inside him.

In the jail cells of Fort Charles, Sherlock strains, trying to budge one of the bars. Even with the damage from the cannon ball, it won't move. Even with his half-starved form, he can't slip out of there. He resumes trying to pick the lock on the mossy jail bars with the dog bone he has carved roughly into the shape of a slender key. But being too big, it's stuck in there. He stares around desperately. The paraphernalia on his clothes: artefacts, little jewels and beads, have nothing sleek and sharp in them.
He hears the sound of the door latch, and quickly lets go of it—

The door opens, and John slips in. Looks around. Sherlock lounges on the floor of his cell, apparently relaxed and unconcerned. John marches straight up to the bars. Sherlock smirks. The man looks just the way he had wanted him to yesterday. Dirty, rough, middle-class clothes, his knuckles smeared with blood, panting a little from exertion. Unshaven. Coppery-blond hair cloying to the damp flesh on his forehead. Sherlock casts a look down his toned, slim body, down the golden hairs on his chest peeking through the shirt, the creamy soft, warm tone of it. Such perfection. This man better not be an eunuch. He'd hate the Gods if this man turned out to be a eunuch. Or impotent.

"You! Altamont!" He barks. Sherlock yawns.

"Aye?"

"Are you familiar with that ship? The Black Pearl?"

Sherlock lies back down. "Somewhat." He answers dubiously.

"Where does it make berth?"

Sherlock scoffs. Innocent little fella. Good doctor. Never had anyone to tell him how good it felt, being bad. One sight of him, one breath shared and it was enough to drive a man crazy, "Where does it make berth? Haven't you heard the stories? The Black Pearl does not make berth. Why would it?"

John frowns, "Why wouldn't it? The ship's real enough. So its anchorage must be a real place. Where is it?"

Sherlock lets out a small sigh as he checks out his nails, "Why ask me?"

John lets out an answering, defeated sigh, not meeting Sherlock's eyes, "Because you're a pirate."

"Oh," Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, testing the waters, the limits of this man, this doctor who could drive lads like him crazy, "You want to turn pirate yourself? Is that it?"

John slams his fist against the bars in frustration. Sherlock is surprised at the outburst, "Never!"

He looks down, embarrassed at his rashness, "They killed my brother. They took Miss Morstan away. The two people I care about."

Sherlock smirks, "Revenge, interesting. Or is it the girl?" he sneers.

John looks away as he feels Sherlock's gaze assessing him, "Oh, I see! Well, if you're intending to brave all and hasten to her rescue and so the fair lady's heart, you'll have to do it alone, love. I see no profit in it for me. No profit."

Why would Sherlock see profit? Oh, poor doctor, trying to woo the bonny lass. Of course he'd have to change that, make him see the other side.

John looks away. . . makes a decision, "I can get you out of here."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "How? The key's run off, and I'm not inclined to sit and pick it till they drag me to the gallows."

John shakes his head and examines the cells, panting a bit, "My brother. . . he helped made these, he's a blacksmith. Those are hook-and-ring hinges. The proper application of strength, the door will lift free. Just calls for the right lever and fulcrum. . ."
Sherlock watches John as he speaks, and it dawns on him—John is the spitting image of someone he's known in the past.

"Your name is Watson, ain't it?" he exclaims. John gives him a puzzled look.

"Yes. John Watson."
Sherlock grins and stands up with new energy and enthusiasm, "John Watson, good, strong name. . . I'll tell you what, Mr. Watson. I've changed my mind. You spring me from this cell, and on pain of death, I'll take you to the Black Pearl and to the murderers of your brother."

He sticks his hand out, "Do we have an accord?"

John gives him a suspicious look. The deal seems too good. Sherlock keeps his hand out, still smiling all silver and gold. John shakes it.

"Agreed."

"Agreed! Now get me outta here! And call me Sherlock."

John looks around, figures out what he needs. He makes a chair his fulcrum, and levers the long bench under the door. Pushes down—it's hard work—but the cell door rises, and then falls forward, crashing down on the bench and chair. Sherlock is impressed. He steps out of the cell, looking into John's eyes. There's fire in them. Burning bright and fiery, not caring about the extreme act of felony and treason to the East India Company.

Fire that no one sees, not even that lass.

"Someone will have heard that," John reminds them of their current predicament, "Hurry."

John heads for the door. Sherlock searches the desk, cupboards.

"Not without me effects."

"We need to go!" John insists, keeping a watch with his axe out for anyone coming their way. Sherlock finds his pistol, sword belt, and compass. Straps on the belt, checks the shot in his pistol.

"Why are you bothering with that?" John points out.

"My business, John. As for your business—one question, or there's no use going," He joins John at the door of the prison hold, "Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true, in the face danger, and almost certain death?"

John tries to follow through Sherlock's speed of his speech, but is unable to do so, "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock smirks. Better than questioning his judgment was following it blindly, "That'll do."

Making out of the jail cells is child's play for John and Sherlock. John keeps his hands steady on his sword, ready to hack down anyone in their path. Sherlock likes it, the way John is playing protector to him, tricking himself into the thinking that it's all for him and not for that blasted girl.

"You won't be needing that," Sherlock points out, as they climb out of a deserted parapet. Sherlock takes out a rope strong enough to take their body weights, makes a loop out of it and with practised ease, he flings it across the wall and secures it. After testing the joint, he hands the rope to John, "You go first."

John gives him a sharp nod, trusting. Already. Sherlock wants to warn him. Pirate, shouldn't trust Sherlock of all people. If Sherlock was any decent, he would've not thought such thoughts about John Watson. But he was a pirate. No place for decent.

Sherlock strengthens the joint as John goes down further. Sherlock decides to follow, and then notices that John has left knots for him on the rope itself. More friction, less chance for slipping down the rope and having his palms skinned by it. Thoughtful.

When Sherlock takes the final five feet for a jump, John is waiting for him obediently.

"You didn't have to make knots on the rope, John."

"Can't have you slipping down," John replies casually. Sherlock feels something dark, deep in his gut at that as he stares at John in surprise.

"Oi!" comes a shout from the top of the parapet atop Fort Charles. Sherlock looks upwards at the call. A sailor is looking down at them, pointing and shouting. Sherlock hadn't counted on that.

John instantly reacts; throws the sword towards the top like a javelin, where it buries itself in between the fissure of the bricks making up the fort and simultaneously cutting the rope off. The sailor stares at dismay, as Sherlock and John make off.

"Seems like I did need that after all," John replies with a quick smile, gathering the rope quickly.

"You're far too cheerful for a man who's just lost his brother," Sherlock points out, mostly to remind John that they weren't going on a vacation or an adventure; they were going on a death-trial.

"And you're far too grim for someone who's getting their ship back," John remarks wryly. "And I'm not being cheerful; I'm just being polite. I do need to keep you in good humour, don't I?"

"Well, if that is really your intention, Mister Watson, then you can start with quitting politeness," Sherlock snaps. His attempts at reminding John of the seriousness of their situation fail, but maybe John already knows. Maybe all he's trying to do is add a bit of colour to it, so that they are not consumed by the dark ahead of them, "And concentrating on how to get the ship back. No ship, no girl, mate."

"Fine," John snaps back, clearly not happy to have his own olive branch thrown back at his face. Sherlock glares at him and rolls his eyes, "And it's Doctor Watson."

"Yes, Mister Watson," he has the dignity to scoff.

As they steal past the docks, they spot the Jolly Mon, four inches of water in the bottom as it squats low in the water, heeled to one side, creaking on its lines.

"Ah, there, there!" Sherlock exclaims happily, "Now there's a lovely sight!" He hops down into the boat merrily. Prepares to make way.

"I knew the Harbourmaster wouldn't report her. Honest men are slaves to their conscience, and there's no predicting 'em. But you can always trust a dishonest man to

stay that way. . ."
Sherlock notices that John is standing, frozen on the dock, staring at the boat in dismay, his knuckles white and tight-lipped with unspoken refusal. There's something unsettling about seeing John this way. Sherlock frowns, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach, and then casually gestures to him.

"Come aboard."

John jerks almost visibly and gulps, "I haven't set foot off dry land since I was twelve, when the ship I was on exploded," he regards the boat cautiously, "It's been a sound policy."

"No worries there," Sherlock says nonchalantly, pouting and trying not to sway unsteadily as he works his way with the ropes and the single sail that the boat has got, "She's far more likely to rot out from under us than succumb away to an explosion."

Sherlock's attempt at humour fails spectacularly as John grimaces and steels himself, steps into the boat as if it's going to capsize with the slightest movement. Sherlock hoists the sail with record speed.

"Besides," Sherlock continues to cheer John up again, "we are about to better our prospects considerably. Just like you bettered your limp."

He nods toward the H.M.S. Dauntless, looming in the harbour. John white-knuckles the gunwales, stares at the majestic lady, blinking bemusedly.

"We're going to steal a ship?" He asks in one breath, and then his eyes widen, "That ship?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "She's a woman, dearie. Give her some respect. . . and it's commandeer. We're going to commandeer a ship. Nautical term."

"It's still against the law," he says, not meeting Sherlock's eyes as the latter turns to him disbelievingly.

"So is breaking a man out of jail. Face it, John: you may say you'll never be a pirate, but you're off to a rip-roaring start," he smirks and then lowers his voice, leaning in closer to him. The pheromones of him, unlike anything Sherlock had ever countered even in his life with the supernatural. He takes in a whiff, "My advice—smile and enjoy it."

Before he can see John's disbelieving face, he turns away, preparing for launch. The Jolly Mon bobs its way across the bay, dwarfed against the H.M.S. Dauntless as they reach closer to her. John holds a stay line with iron fists as Sherlock tells him his plan.

"This is either crazy, or brilliant," he utters when Sherlock is finished.

The latter smirks, "Funny how often those two traits coincide."

The Jolly Mon nears the rudder of the much larger ship as Sherlock and John prepare for the next half of their plan.

Aboard the Dauntless, there's been a breakdown in discipline; about a dozen Navy sailors are gathered together on the main deck, playing dice. Murtogg and Mullroy among them.

Suddenly, Sherlock and John jump out, into the open—brandishing pistols.

"Everybody stay calm," Sherlock yells a raw-throated yell as he descends down the poop deck stairs and John jumps behind him to easily for a man of such short stature, only to prove to people that his left arm wasn't that bad and he was still in the prime of his life, which he obviously was, "We're taking over the ship!"

"Aye! Avast!"

Sherlock gives John a look at that, shakes his head: don't do that. John is subdued as he looks to Sherlock for guidance on how to be a pirate.

The sailors all look at them—and then burst out laughing. They grin, shake their heads. Sherlock stands there, grinning with them—but his gun is still level. Lieutenant Small steps forward.

"Are you serious about this?" He says with a grin. Sherlock moves his pistol across, points it at Small. Both their grins fade.

"Dead serious."

Small scoffs, "You understand this ship cannot be crewed by only two men. You'll never make it out of the bay." He says smugly, fighting the urge to succumb to laughter again. Sherlock is used to this, people laughing at him, and then crying later. He cocks his pistol.

"We'll see about that."

More guffaws from the crew. A couple sailors move forward, hands on swords—Small holds up a hand, still regarding the whole thing as a joke.

"Sir, I'll not see any of my men killed or wounded in this foolish enterprise."

"Fine by me. We brought you a nice little boat, so you can all get back to shore, safe and sound."

"Agreed. You have the momentary advantage, sir. But I will see you smile from the yard arm, sir."
Sherlock gives them a completely false smile, "As likely as not," and then turns to his companion, "John, short up the anchor, we've got ourselves a ship!"

John snorts, "Well, that was easy!"

"People are ridiculously good at underestimating, my dear," he dips his voice so low that one can bury a body in it when all of them leave. John nods, following through the next part of the plan and ignores Sherlock's little endearments.

Sailors make their way down a rope ladder, crowd onto the Jolly Mon. John pushes hard against the windlass, to no avail. . . the anchor is too heavy for one man. Sherlock notices that.

"A little help?" Sherlock smirks at Small. He shrugs, gestures to Murtogg and Mullroy. The three men throw their weight into the windlass, and it turns. Sherlock's pistol is on them the whole time.

"I can't believe he's doing this," Murtogg whispers. The windless turns, bringing Mullroy into his view.

"You didn't believe he was telling the truth, either," he says irritably.

The windless turns some more, and there's Small. He turns and looks over his shoulder at John, "Do you have any idea, boy, what you're doing?"

They make another quarter turn, and then, John smiles, surprised at his own answer, "Oddly enough, no."

And he sprints away at Sherlock's calling.

Sherlock and John crank a capstan, raising the forward jib sail. It luffs and billows out. The huge ship inches forward slowly, pulled by just the one sail. Sherlock grins his most honest wolf-bright smile at John.

"Lookee there, love! We're underway now! All we need is a little bit of show. Now. . . do you trust me?"

John looks at him incredulously, "No!"

Sherlock is taken aback, "Oh. . . very well. We'll have to do something about that then."

"Why should I trust you? You're a pirate and you threatened—tried to kill Miss Morstan," he gulps in a sharp intake of breath, "You didn't leave me with a lot of options, did you?"

"Valid reasons, those. At yet you're embarking on a killer journey with me—a pirate—completely at my mercy," he smirks as John's bemused face.

As Sholto moves along, preparing the HMS Interceptor to go after the Pearl, concentrating on a manifest he gives orders to his sailors. Some of them are booting the rail guns, other filling the armoury in case they have to face a standoff with the fastest ship in the Caribbean. Alongside him is Governor Morstan, who glances over—

Sees the tiny Jolly Mon headed toward them, riding low in the water, overloaded with sailors. Beyond that, the Dauntless sails—albeit slowly—for open waters. He frowns, and then his mouth hangs open. Rushing to Sholto, he taps him urgently on the shoulder, "Commodore—"

"A moment."

Morstan does not look away from the ship now gaining the speed. "But—"

"Please."

At that, the Governor drops all pretence of politeness, "Damn it, man, it appears someone is stealing your ship!"

Sholto turns around, glances out at the bay. Sure enough, the Dauntless is on the move. Sholto takes a brass telescope from his belt, opens it, trains it on—

The main deck. He picks out John heaving the sails. He shakes his head

"Rash, John Watson, too rash for a military man. Should've known better, you."

And then he spots Altamont, at the rudder, casually examining it, giving the ship a sense of direction. Lowers the telescope, gritting his teeth together.

"That is, without doubt, the worst pirate I have ever seen," he says, and turns around to away, "Sailors, to the Interceptor!"

Out in the open sea, Sherlock leans on the wheel, relaxed; not much sailing to do with a following wind. John climbs up the poop deck with sure rapid steps that are in no way reminiscent of his limp at all. Sherlock eyes him admiringly, like a osprey watches the salmon fretting. The creamy skin now golden with the sunshine, the hairs on his chest almost invisible now. Oh, what a sight, what a sight. Sherlock can almost imagine it, the pink vulnerable skin underneath, hardened to nubs under his skilful touch. Soon, and John Watson will be another conquest added to his list—

Oblivious to Sherlock's dirty thoughts about him, John points: the sails of the Interceptor fill out, and the ship cuts through the water toward them like blade cutting through glass powdering it down to little shards," Here they come."

Sherlock does not look away. He looks at John's blue eyes fixed on something beyond his shoulder. Light and afire with something darker. Boy's true to his history, despite his limited knowledge.

Sholto's smaller ship quickly comes alongside the slow moving Dauntless. Its decks appear empty. Grappling hooks are thrown, and sailors draw the two ships together. His men swarm across.

Like a Greek God who can magically climb between the two ships without a change in his creases of his Navy uniform, Sholto hurries onto the Dauntless, passing his orders.

"Search every cabin, every hold, down to the bilges!"

Past the railing of the Interceptor, a single sentry stands watch—who is surprised to see a soaked Sherlock and John as they climb up over the side of the smaller ship, unseen. The sentry points his rifle at Sherlock as he struggles aboard. Sherlock squints at the rifle unsteadily, and gives him a false smile, "Oh. . . hello. Didn't see you there."

When the sentry doesn't budge, Sherlock tries a different alternative, "I like your badge."

Meanwhile, John tackles the Sentry from behind, covers his mouth in an instant. Sherlock is dazed.

"Can you swim?" John demands. The sentry struggles against him. John tightens his grip on him.

"Can. You. Swim?" He asks again.

"Oh for God's sake, John," Sherlock huffs, "remove your hand!"

John moves away awkwardly, "Sorry." The sentry wheezes, and then stands in attention.

"I'm going to ask you one last time," John looks him down, even if the sentry is taller than him, "Can you swim?"

"Of course, sir. Like a fish, sir. I grew up summers living in Dover, with my uncle, sir—"

John nods, "Good." Lifts the man up and throws him overboard. Quickly unties the ropes to the grappling hooks. Sherlock doesn't waste his time being amused, he cranks the capstan bars, raising the foresail—but John can sense a change in the air.

"What?" he demands. Sherlock gives him a brief smile.

"And you insist you aren't a pirate."

Sholto emerges from a gangway—and sees his other ship moving away. He realises that something was horribly wrong.

"Sailors! Back to the Interceptor!"
But the distance is already too great. One brave sailor tries to swing across on a rope, Errol-Flynn style, but falls short with a splash. Sholto watches in horror and dismay alike as Sherlock waves, and shouts across the distance, waving his hat—

"Thank you, Commodore, for getting our ship ready to make way! We'd have had a hard time of it by ourselves!"

Sholto seethes, as none of the bullets that the sailors fire at them actually hit them. In spite of it all, his order to Small is measured:

"Raise the topsails. Clear up this mess."

Small hesitates in his response, "The wind is quarter from astern. . . by the time we're underway, we'll never catch them."

Sholto pauses, and then closes his eyes, hating himself for what he is going to say, "We need only to come about, to put them in range of the long nines."

Small looks surprised at the order—but relays it.

"Hands! Come about! Jackets off the cannons!" He turns to Sholto and whispers, "We are to fire on our own ship, sir?"

"I'd rather see it at the bottom of the ocean than in the hands of a pirate."

"Commodore, there's a problem."

Sholto looks around as the steersman turns the wheel. The Dauntless' course does not change one whit. He spins the wheel. It goes round and round, with no signs of slowing.

"He's. . . disabled the rudder chain, sir."

He looks away, closes his eyes, sinks his chin to his breast, "So it would seem."

The Interceptor dwindles with distance. Small watches it go, with some degree of admiration.

"He's got to be the best pirate I've ever seen."

Sholto reaches out, stops the spinning ship's wheel, "So it would seem."

The Interceptor makes for the horizon line in front of his eyes. With the time passage, the ship is gone, into the sun and horizon, and as are Sholto's hopes for rescuing Mary before the inevitable occurred.