As he arrived back at the main deck, he noticed not much had changed beyond himself. Sherlock Holmes was still standing there with an air or annoyance, as was Mr. Anderson, but Mrs. Hooper had returned, the hook she had been sent to retrieve now firmly in Mr. Holmes' hands. He was gesturing slightly savagely, his motions wild and tone unshielded, and somehow John found it quite hard to look away. Finally he managed to as the hook found itself buried in the now the splintered wood of the wall. The options he could see were either look away or attempt to stop whatever this was from happening. As the latter option involved speaking to Mr. Holmes, something that had not gone very well in his past attempts, he chose the former and moved away. It was a big ship and he had found ways to keep himself sane before all this, surely he could count on himself to do it again.

So he walked, making circles around every deck with a handful of mental notes, all the time the image of Hilda and Sybil Hope ingrained on the back of his eyelids. He walked with little aim and he walked for days with only small breaks to eat and to sleep and to sail the ship. To be perfectly honest, it was not the most thrilling task he had set himself to. While he walked he witnessed whisperings he may or may not have had reason to get involved with, and a vague and distant figure of a tall, consistently somewhat cross man with one or two others around he did do much to stay out of Holmes' way, he could not help but notice that he spoke much more to Mrs. Hooper than to Mr. Anderson, and that they were often alone together. He beat down the beginnings of suspicions, but something was on his mind, though he couldn't force it keep shape for longer than a mere second.

"That Sherlock Holmes," Captain Brookes was saying, shaking John out of a daze he had not even known he was in. "seems to be becoming an asset. Do you agree, Mr. Watson?"

"What, sir?" He had to ask, damning his lack of concentration.

"He's solved numerous cases already and he's hardly been onboard a week." He made a slightly amused expression and added, "though by all the complaints you'd be sure to think it months."

"Cases, sir?" He asked. "I haven't heard of many cases since Mr. Hudson's. Surely it hasn't been too many yet." The thought of Mr. Hudson reminded him once again that they would not have to stop again for weeks, as it had only been about three days now since they had landed last, taking him off of their ship.

"Well, Watson, of course that's the most impressive," He replied. "A man like Mr. Hudson and those sorts of substances, it does seem more major. These cases he's solved, though, the smaller ones, they may not be nearly as impressive, but I do respect a job well done. He's brought productivity of the workers up merely by being present and able to tell when someone slips out to Mrs. Adler. He has a hawk's gaze, that man."

"That certainly is good for the ship," John agreed, though he wasn't sure if the best use for Holmes' talents was staring at crew members.

"I've seen how the workers all look at him, as well," The captain continued. "There is a belief that he's some type of mad, but there's respect in their faces as well. I suppose that's from threats."

"Threats?" John gaped. Was Mr. Holmes threatening the workers? He was not the least intimidating man, but threats were not something he would have expected. It was too blunt and unclever for him, somehow he was certain. Threats? He thought of the workers and their nervous expressions, and the amount of times he had seen Mr. Holmes by groups of them. He had never once suspected.

"My God, you haven't heard?" Captain Brookes retorted. "Dear man, what have you been doing?" He shook his head, this news apparently too much for him. "Mr. Holmes has found threats to the workers. Mainly, it would seem, from other workers on the Reichenbach. He's stopped them at once, and the guards are all alerted and posted for any violence that may come from it. The majority of them could most likely handle themselves, but there still seems to be some relief in the air now, doesn't it?"

He felt himself nod, some of the relief being discussed entering into his own clouded mind. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes is most definitely an asset."

It had been days now, perhaps three, since John had seen Sherlock Holmes from a distance closer than half a ship's length away. When Sherlock's eye finally locked on to him again, he blamed this for the electric reaction he felt. He felt as if he had been caught off guard, and immediately brought up his defenses.

"Mr. Holmes," He greeted him moments later once he had decided there was no escaping the situation. After a few moments of silence and peering, he added, "I've heard you have impressed the captain quite a bit recently."

He had an expression on his face that John took to mean both "there's hardly a thing I care about less" and "I dare you to tell me I should". John shifted his weight uncomfortably, only just noticing Mrs. Hooper had been behind him. Gaze gliding over the area now, he could also see Mr. Anderson crouched several feet away from them, staring at the wall.

"Uh..." The lame, unmovable word fell flat in front of him, a useless and embarrassing pile between Holmes' feet and his own.

"Tea?"

"What?" He was taken aback. Had Sherlock Holmes just offered to get him tea? He stared at the man. Perhaps he was demanding tea for himself and expected John to jump and get it. The thought frustrated him and he opened his mouth to announce it.

"You've been drinking considerably less tea."

If anything, this only made John's stare more intense. What in the world was this man talking about? He cared less about how he knew his tea habits, but why he'd find it interesting to bring up.

"I... I suppose so," He replied, still defensive.

Sherlock turned away suddenly, coat tails flying as if possessed, and called out for Mr. Anderson, who frowned with vehemence.

"Tea, Anderson," He repeated. John felt his eyes on him again before they fluttered away and he added, "Pekoe."

"Aren't you going to drink any?" The words left his mouth before he could question his response.

Sherlock gave met his eyes again and John fought not to break this uncomfortable connection. Finally, he turned back to Mr. Anderson who had just begun to hesitantly move. "And Souchong."

Mr. Anderson looked for a moment as if he were going to open his mouth and refuse, but after a wavering few seconds of standing, facing the expectant man, he turned away and came to terms with his task.

"How," John asked as casually as he could, mainly to break the silence. "did you know?"

"Know what, Watson?" He asked, face nearly unreadable. "That you needed tea or that you drink Pekoe?"

"Both."

"Every four hours you have a spills on your shirt or pants, and usually an expression much less confrontational than the one you're currently wearing." He looked away to inspect the object Mrs. Hooper had been patiently holding next to him. "Your clothing has all been unmistakably cleaner and drier than usual." John felt himself flush at these words.

"And- and the Pekoe?" He had to ask.

Sherlock Holmes grinned, something that John wasn't quite sure if he had ever witnessed before. "I saw you drink it."

He couldn't help but laugh, a reaction that was half-startled out of him. This inspired an odd spark in Sherlock's eyes that John feared and yet somehow felt obsessed with, more curious about it than anything else he had seen in his life.

He realized he was staring, and his face became hot again. After a moment he realized that not only was he staring, Sherlock must have been staring back. No such similar reaction came from the taller man.

Mr. Anderson was back before it seemed possible, with two cups gripped just slightly too tightly in his pale hands. One was shoved in John's reaction, followed quickly by an apologetic look that he felt was there just for show. The other cup seemed to appear in Sherlock Holmes' hands as if by magic, and he held it in front of his face, breathing it in as if it were some type of airborne drug. The thought caused John to tear his gaze away once again.

The tea was a comfort. Sherlock had been correct- of course- in his assumption. In all the time he had spent avoiding Mr. Holmes, he had somehow forgotten to live at all. The tea had all but disappeared from his life during the past few days, along with the moderately stale scones he was partial to and any enjoyment of his work.

This warm cup of tea soothed him more than he felt comfortable saying, and so he drank wordlessly, savoring in secrecy. His mind was attempting move quickly through the vast landscape it was confronted in, and he busied himself with holding it back, forcing it to instead remember each and every sip that cascaded down his throat.

His eyes had been focussed somewhere between the veined cup and the splintering floor, and he lifted them up on a whim, only to find himself staring into Sherlock's anew. Awkwardly, he brought the cup to his lips without breaking eye contact, feeling Holmes studying him with a mysterious intensity.

"Is there, uh, well that is to say," He said suddenly, tripping on his words as they failed to rouse the other man to shift his gaze. "is there anything I could give you any assistance with?"

After days of avoiding the man, here he was, offering his help. He didn't think he would ever truly understand himself.

He saw his lips twitch very slightly before turning his face in the direction of Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Hooper who were watching him like a superior as well as a little as if he were a very feisty child they were being made to watch over.

"Yes," He replied, breaking the silence yet making it no less uncomfortable. "I should think some extra brain power, no matter how small, could be useful."

He opened his eyes to retort, then decided that perhaps it was best to take it as some type of twisted compliment. His couldn't find the correct words to answer this response, so he simply nodded, a gesture though vague, he felt was reliable.

Breaking through the still marginally dingy blue of the early day, something was flying towards him. Instinct winning out over thought, he caught it in the hand that wasn't loosely gripping his cane. The projectile, on further investigation, seemed to be a small notebook crammed with untidy handwriting. He deviated his gaze so that it fell upon Mr. Holmes again, and found him to be no longer looking back, content, it would seem, to not present any explanation for the notes he had hurled at his co-captain.

"Excuse me," His voice cut through the barrier now between them as if with a jagged knife. With an air as if he had nothing he wanted to do less, Mr. Holmes tilted his face to look back.

"What is it?"

"Exactly."

There, once more, was that edge of a smile, and it shocked John no less than it had moment ago when he had seen it first.

His eyes were shining with anticipation and something very much like excitement. He stood staring, silent, as if he were waiting for John to figure it out himself, which John then attempted to do. After several creaks of the ship and long, too loud breaths from their group of four, he finally answered.

"Investigate, Watson.