After spending a few stunned and unsure moments below deck, John had found his way back up to message Mycroft Holmes for his brother. It felt odd and not exactly professional, but he did it anyway for some reason not completely clear to him. If this was how Sherlock Holmes always acted, he supposed, Mycroft should be used to it anyway.

The crew had not been riled up like the passengers, he decided as he watched them work, no less focussed or hard working as any other day. They worked diligently, no need for gossip or arguments. The passengers, he knew, were still less than joyous, but he was not able or willing to do much to help them. For most of them, it seemed that their unhappiness stemmed from their own issues that they themselves created. His job was not to help them sort out their lives, and though he didn't like to see upset on his ship, or his people in an uproar, he was not about to make it so.

The sky was clear and it seemed as if it would remain so. He had checked it as soon as getting back on deck, and then had done so several more times mainly just out of habit. He had little to do, something that occasionally felt like a blessing, but more than he liked to admit, bored and annoyed him out of his mind. It was only sane for him to be glad to have such a calm job, especially after the injuries he had witnessed in the army. He hated to admit that while he did often think about the contrast of his life now and then, these thoughts were not always followed with the obligatory relief of changing things and getting out of the danger. He checked the sky's conditions once more.

He paced back and forth on the deck, feeling as if his skin itself was too constricting. He sighed as he moved past the same mark on the wood over and over again. This time, just before the day started, was the always the hardest to keep himself concentrated on his work. There was a sort of indescribable longing that gripped him too tightly. He took in a breath and attempted to banish it.

His eyes flicked off of the railing of the ship to the door to the lower deck. He didn't expect there to be more problems, but he supposed that he should most likely check anyway. With his head still slipping away from concentration, he made his way down.

There were much less people now out of their quarters, and the violin was still shouting from behind Sherlock Holmes' door. Slowly, he walked across, inspecting the few people still there, just two women and a young man whose name escaped him. They did not look enraged as the others had before, or even annoyed, they just looked intrigued, a reaction that John could not disapprove of, as he understood completely. They looked at him as he made his way by and one of them women turned, gesturing nervously now to the other two to follow her, and he watched as they all left behind a near by door.

He paused now, in front of Sherlock's door. He wasn't entirely sure why he had come back down in the first place, and now that he was in front of this strange man's door, this troubled him more than he thought it might have, and the memories of the trouble he had already caused tore him between wanting to insist on knowing what he was trying to do to his ship, and walking away. The door swung open. He realized he had not even noticed the violin playing having stopped.

"Are you just planning on standing there then?" Sherlock said, looking down at him. "I assume you've come to ask me of my intentions or to berate me for whatever small chaos you believe I've caused." He stared at him when he didn't respond. "Well?" Another thought crossed his mind. "Have you messaged my brother?"

His mind moved too slowly and it was long seconds later before John could reply the oversimplified answer of, "Yes."

"Good," Sherlock said. "I suppose it's safe to assume you can follow orders then. That'll come in handy."

"Are you planning on investigating?" John said finally, the question he had been trying to voice now readily on his tongue. "I mean, you're aboard to investigate for your brother, but it doesn't seem like you've begun at all yet. Unless whatever that was before is part of some hugely diabolical scheme."

"No," Sherlock replied. "I haven't begun at all yet- but I plan to. Mycroft would never stop messaging me if I didn't."

"Uh, well, that's good to hear," John said awkwardly. He stood there a silent moment more before Sherlock began closing the door. "Wait!"

Sherlock looked down at him, waiting.

"When are you beginning?"

"I don't know," He drawled, sounding as if he was being nagged by his mother.

"Now?"

He gave him a strange look as if John were mad. "I'm composing."

"Oh."

Without another word, he promptly shut the door between them. This time there was more of a pause before the music started up again, and it was not an angry shout as it had been before, but light and sweet and mysterious. John was tempted to stay outside the door and listen to it for a while. It was the thought of Sherlock discovering him more than anything, that made him push this thought away and ascend the steps again.

The air felt different on the main deck, and somehow he felt older. He could not imagine anything yet to come this day, even with the excitement of the morning passed. It was sure to be a passing problem that would not trouble their stagnant time. He could feel his mind preparing itself to wander as his eyes inspected the slightly splinter wood at the edge of the ship. He checked the sky's conditions again.

He had received back word from Mycroft Holmes and it did nothing but make him wish that he knew the man enough to understand how his words were expected to be taken. It was written rather casually but this was not a casual accusation or a casual imprisonment, and he himself was not a casual man. He could read it as angry or exhausted or pitying or even as someone talking a small delusional child. It maddened him that he did not know what this man was trying to get across and so did not know what to expect when he would see him just the next day to take Mr. Hudson away. He considered for only a moment asking Sherlock what he believed his brother thought about the matter, but after just a moment of thought he decided it was best not to ask anything of Sherlock.

He had instead shown the letter to the captain, who had then taken his mid-day break to study it himself and decide the best course of action. John took control of the ship, the job he was most comfortable with, and firmly pushed these other thoughts out of his mind. He navigated with little thought and all the concentration that he had. The sun was bright above them and shone a strange light gray through the tinted glass covering the opening John looked out. His time sailing passed far too soon and the captain was back before he had thought more than a few minutes had passed.

The captain did not bring any new ideas to him and seemed just as baffled as he had been by the response. He had decided, though, to ignore all meanings they might have overlooked or misunderstood, and simply bring Mr. Hudson as planned and hope for the best. This plan was not the most thought out or the safest, but would be, at least, well executed.

John moved aside for the captain to take him place at the helm yet again and retired back to the main deck, searching for unrest and breakage. A face caught his eye and he slowed subconsciously, hand tightening its grip on his cane.

"Ah, hello, Co-captain Watson," Gregory Lestrade greeted him with a grin. "I trust the ship is going well."

"No, I believe it is we who must trust you to keep the ship going well."

"Yes, that is true," Lestrade replied. "and it is. You have a fine amount of guards and well trained ones at that. I'm still getting acquainted to everything, but you should be proud of what you have here."

It sounded more polite than fully true, but John smiled anyway. It had been a long time since anyone had given him a compliment outside of very polite conversation.

"Why thank you," He told him. "I'm sure you'll do well here, you have even better training, and we haven't got much to investigate. Hopefully the boredom won't hurt you."

"I doubt it will," He replied, then shook his hand and left again. John found himself wondering the meaning of such a reply.

This passing conversation skimmed along the surface of his mind as he tended to his duties. It most likely meant nothing, but the phrasing had felt off somehow. John found it hard to believe that is was just a casual remark, even as he tried to keep himself from becoming paranoid. He walked about the decks, inspecting what he should, speaking when necessary, and he felt the time pass like it was dragging on and on, and felt it pass as if it had only been moments. He was feeling a strange exhaustion when he heard a very familiar deep voice say, "No, that doesn't make any sense at all."

He cocked his head in the direction of the words to see Sherlock coming onto the main deck, two guards behind him.

"Tell me, Anderson, do you ever think at all?"

The guardsman, Mr. Anderson, looked highly annoyed at this comment, something John couldn't blame him for, and he began to retort when Sherlock easily cut him off.

"Molly Hooper," He said now, addressing the other guard in such an informal way it made John extremely uncomfortable. "Fetch me a hook."

"What?" She replied nervously, clearly also taken aback.

"A hook, I need a hook," He said impatiently. "Grab me one."

"Oh!" She left to retrieve this item without another word. John knew very little about Mrs. Hooper, including, until this point, even her appearance. He was aware that she was a guard on the ship, and that she had medical practice, but this was about it. He found it odd that out of all of the guards on the ship that Sherlock Holmes would pick her to accompany him, as well as Anderson. He pondered the idea of them being thrown together and was highly curious to know if that was indeed what had happened. He supposed that he would just have to wonder about it to himself or let it go.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes," He found himself saying. He approached the other man a little hesitantly, using his cane as little as possible. "Started investigating now, have you?"

"Clearly," He replied, but did not sound as annoyed as he had moments before.

"With Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Hooper?"

"I'd hardly say I was investigating with them," He replied. "more like leading them behind me and hoping they pick something up."

"Ah." John replied blankly, no further replies coming to mind even as he grabbed for them. Behind Sherlock, Anderson stood with his arms crossed tightly and an annoyed and guarded look upon his face.

"Well," John said, slowly, trying to make his mind work again. "I do hope it works out for all of you. I must be on my way."

"No you don't," Sherlock murmured as John turned away, as if he couldn't help himself.

"What?" He asked, surprised.

"You aren't going anyway imparticular," He told him. "You've been wandering the ship, your fingers on your left hand are slightly dented from tapping them on your cane in boredom, and you've just turned in the direction that you were coming from when I arrived."

"Oh."

"You didn't have any real destination," Sherlock repeated. "but I believe if you go into the fifth door on the left in the lower deck, you'll find something quite illegal."

"Oh," John said yet again. "thank you. I... I shall look into it."

And with that he spun around on the spot and promptly walked away from the man, face warm and stomach squeezed uncomfortably. He tried to ignore how flustered he had become and and did no more than positively hate it when he could not. His concentration attempted to place itself fully into the task at hand, and for once found itself successful. Down the stairs, across the hallway, he arrived at the place. Though he had been able to force his focus, he could not force enthusiasm. Whatever it was, he didn't feel as if it could be anything of much interest. In the end, he was correct.

He opened the door with no hesitation and was not prepared. In front of him stood Miss Hilda Hope, in a vulnerable state. She stood, half slumped against the wall, legs wide, half naked. Her face was twisted with the agony of physical and emotional pain, a mask that John had never witnessed before and hoped never to again. Below her was her older sister, Sybil, crouched there with a serious yet worried look. The lamplight from the hall behind the door flashed against the thin metal branching between the hands of Sybil and the underneath of her sister. Hilda's eyes opened and widened with terror as soon as they noticed and recognized him.

"P- please, Mr. Watson," She choked out. Sybil yerked her head up, along with her hand, eliciting a groan from Hilda. "Please."

John stood in the doorway, mouth ajar but speechless. His mind groggily waded through a stiff sea of shock. He began to unfreeze from his position, the eyes of the horrified, pleading sisters still on him.

"I..." His hand tightened on the door handle. "Hurry up." Quickly, he backed out of the room, slamming the door in front of his face. His heart was pounding within his chest and he wasn't sure how to deal with what he had just witnessed.

In the end, he walked away from the scene, scarred but silent. Her wasn't sure if he would ever be able to look at either Hope sister the same again, but he was determined not to let anything be known.