He didn't think he'd be picked up, had long since resigned himself to a slow death, likely of dehydration. It had been two days already, and he was sure he wouldn't last for a third. He was too smart to try drinking seawater, and not smart enough to know how to survive in the middle of the ocean with nothing but the clothes on this back and the broken planks he was lying on.

John Watson pressed his face harder into the rough wood, not wanting to wake and face another day. The planks that had once been the ship he'd sailed on as a surgeon of the Royal Navy were barely big enough to support him, and now that he was dry he didn't want to shift and get wet again. He knew, vaguely, that he should rise, should find a way to survive, but every muscle in his body was sore, a headache pounded behind his eyes, his tongue was thick in his mouth ,his stomach gnawed at him uncomfortably, and his skin was tight and aching from saltwater and sunburn. Yes, he was going to die, and for the first time he welcomed it, shutting his eyes against the sun and waiting for it to come.

He didn't quite believe it when he heard voices shouting, nor when he felt rough hands on him, tying ropes around him, felt the scrape of his body against the hull of a ship. It was the water that finally did it: his head was drenched in it, his tongue was coated in it, and he coughed and sputtered and drank greedily, blinking his eyes open as someone washed the salt out of them.

It wasn't the sight he was expecting to see. Instead of the clean, crisp uniforms and steady, reassuring presence of the Royal Navy, he was met with civilians. And not just any merchants: these were pirates.

The words of thanks died on his lips. He glanced blearily down at the tattered remnants his filthy uniform, wondering if they were going to force him to join them or if they had pulled him to safety so they would have the privilege of stringing him up by his own intestines.

There was a man kneeling in front of him, then. "Welcome aboard," he said with a smile. "I am captain Basil, and I'm very glad to see you are alive, sir."

Watson gazed back at him steadily, determined to accept whatever death came with dignity and as much grace as he could muster.

"I can see from your expression you are an observant man. No doubt you have already surmised that this is a pirate ship. Allow me, then, to dispel your fears: you will not be harmed. We're not those kinds of pirates. I'll explain it all later, but for now be at ease and do not fear for your life or your liberty."

The man rose, addressing those around him. "Take him to my own quarters, make him comfortable, and bar the door. I don't trust him not to jump back into the sea; he's seen what real pirates do to men like him."

Watson was lifted, then, and taken away from wherever he was. He was scared and confused and wanted to fight, but every part of his body was screaming in protest, his vision blurred, his ears rang, and then, blissfully, there was nothing at all for a while.

He woke to find he was in a cabin by himself, a port window letting in some light from outside the ship. He came back to his senses slowly, and was surprised to find he was clean and dry, dressed in a soft nightshirt, and cocooned in warm bed sheets. The real bed, not the hammock or single blanket on the floor like he would have expected. He was even more surprised, when he remembered exactly what had happened to him, that he had both eyes and both ears and all his limbs and that his intestines were currently where they ought to be. 'Not those kinds of pirates,' the man had said, hadn't he? But what did that mean?

Watson changed into the clothes that had been laid out for him, wanting regardless of what came next to at least have some trousers on. There was some scraping from outside the cabin as he finished buttoning on a clean white shirt, and the door swung open. A man walked through who Watson vaguely thought might have been the one who had introduced himself. The surprises kept coming, because the man smiled widely.

"I had a very good feeling you were a resilient man, Doctor. I am very glad to see you up and about."

Thoughts swirled through Watson's mind like the wind in one of the storms that could be so dangerous out at sea, not least of which was how on earth this man knew him. When he spoke, however, all he could seem to force out in a weak, broken voice was, "Not those kinds of pirates?"

"No," the man said, his smile not disappearing. "Not those kinds of pirates. We may look the part, but I assure you mercenaries is more accurate."

"Mercenaries?" Watson's voice broke again, and the other man noticed, silently opening a water barrel in the room and offering him some.

"More accurate, not exact. Think of us as the private detectives of the sea."

Watson shook his head slightly. "You've lost me."

"Then please allow me to start over. My name is Captain Basil, but my real name is Sherlock Holmes. Whenever someone has a problem on the seas, they hire me. Perhaps real pirates have stolen their cargo, perhaps a friend or family member has been shanghaied, perhaps an important political figure needs guaranteed safe delivery to some country or another. All of these and more my crew and I will address for the right fee. We are not England's enemy, and we are not yours. Come, see my ship."

Holmes led Watson out onto the deck. It was, indeed, a small ship, and the majority of the crew that bustled about were young men, hardly older than boys.

"London's outcasts, yet the sea's finest," Sherlock Holmes proclaimed. "These young people were abandoned, living on the streets, but the sea has forged them into what you see here. They help me complete our missions, and are handsomely rewarded."

"Holmes," Watson said softly.

"Yes?"

"No. Holmes, that's your name."

"Yes."

"That's the name of the official my ship had on board. Mycroft Holmes. No relation, I hope."

"Very close relation. He is my brother. Why would you hope not? Did he somehow offend you?"

"No. I suppose the most offensive thing about him now is that he very likely is dead. Our ship was attacked and burned, and if there are more survivors besides myself I don't know. It was supposed to be my last voyage, and it should have been in more ways than one. That I am alive to tell you and your brother is gone, I apologize."

A cloud shadowed Holmes' face, but not one of grief. "Mycroft!" he called.

A portly man emerged from around the corner. "We were right," he said solemnly.

Holmes nodded. "We should have stayed closer to them. We might have been able to help. This is Doctor…" he paused, turned to Watson. "What was your name?"

"John Watson," Watson answered dumbly. "How did you…"

"This is John Watson, the sole survivor. We should have…"

Now it was Holmes' turn to get cut off. "We would have perished with them." This comment came from an older, gray haired man who climbed off the rigging to join them.

"We've fought pirates before," Holmes argued.

"It wasn't pirates," Watson and Mycroft said at the same time.

Watson gazed at Mycroft for just a moment, then understanding finally dawned. He closed his eyes, brought his hands up to his face. "You deliver people," he murmured. It was the next moment that the anger hit. "You bastards," he hissed. "My ship was just a damn distraction, wasn't it? You knew they wanted him dead," he said, glaring at Mycroft. "You didn't even warn us! Hundreds of good men, what the hell do they matter?"

"No!" Holmes cried, grabbing Waton by both shoulders and forcing him to face him, "your commander did know there may be danger, and it was not at all intentional. We were simply backup for a possibility that we couldn't ignore was possible. I swear!"

Watson took a deep breath, casting his eyes towards the water. "Sirs, please, I…"

"All is well," said Mycroft Holmes. "You've been through the quite the ordeal, Doctor."

"How?" Watson finally exploded. "How do you all know who and what I am?"

The older man barked a laugh. "They don't," he said. "It's just one of their little tricks. I'm Lestrade, by the by, and about the most normal person here. You get too crazy hanging about them, come talk to me. You can always find me on deck or up in the rigging, day or night." He turned and went, Watson thinking to himself that he wasn't very normal at all.

Sherlock Holmes must have picked up on it, because he grinned at Watson almost conspiratorially.

"It was your pockets, Doctor," Mycroft said.

"My pockets?"

"You had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in your pocket," Sherlock explained, "and you had cleaned and dressed the wound on your leg. You also had painkillers in your pocket, but you didn't take any. You thought, or perhaps more correctly, hoped, that you could help someone. Your hands, also, look like a doctor's hands. Combine these clues, and I could safely deduce you are a doctor. There are no deductions necessary, however, to see you are famished. Come, let me show you to the mess."

Watson was, indeed, famished, and was triply glad these weren't 'those kinds of pirates' when he was given real bread instead of weevil infested hardtack and real meat instead of salt pork. He also had cheese and an orange and an apple that Holmes tossed him when he realized he was still hungry.

As he ate, Holmes regaled him with stories of their adventures: everything from cleverly destroying a pirate ship using quick maneuvering through tricky waters to infiltrating merchant ships to retrieve stolen goods.

"And when I am not Captain Basil," Holmes said, "I'm a private consulting detective in London." He seemed to know Watson didn't understand what that was, and he explained himself, detailing the things he would do for private clients and government officials alike.

"One day," he said wistfully, "I will give up the sea and the city altogether. One day, God permitting I live to see a day when I am old, I will retire to some small town and live out my days as a quiet villager. I will buy a couple goats and teach them to drive a cart and every year my goat cart and I will hand peppermints to children during the annual Christmas parade."

Watson laughed at the mental image that produced. "After this kind of life, sir, I don't imagine you ever living quietly."

"Perhaps not," said Holmes with a smile, "but it is nice to imagine."

"Yes," Watson said wistfully, "it is nice to imagine."

They walked back on deck. "Tell me," Holmes said, "when were you set upon by pirates?"

"How on earth did you know that?" Watson asked.

"You knew we were pirates immediately," Holmes answered. "I could see it in your eyes, even delirious with pain. You're also injured. If I had to make my most informed guess, I would say they stabbed you through the leg with a saber and shot you in the shoulder at close range. Likely the only reason you weren't immediately and cruelly disemboweled was because of your qualifications as a doctor."

Watson nodded slowly. "I think they had some idea that they'd force me into their crew, but our sister ship arrived and they were forced to retreat. The battle was brutal, though, and we were scrubbing blood from the deck for weeks." He shuddered slightly. Holmes laid his hand on his arm, gave him a look so sympathetic it felt like they'd known each other for years. Holmes then insisted that Watson spend time resting after his ordeal, and he did so until well after sunset.

It was Holmes who found him that night. "I'd be obliged," he called softly, "if you refrain from your course."

Watson didn't turn to look at him. "I belong with them," he murmured.

Holmes approached slowly, leaned on the railing next to him. "I've jumped into the water once to pull you out. I'd prefer not to do so again, but I will if need be."

Watson shook his head slowly. "I'm not jumping, just thinking."

"Very well. What are you thinking?"

"That I can't jump. Someone wants me to live."

"Oh?"

"Someone saved me. They must have; I lost consciousness while still on the ship. I was choking on smoke and was hit in the head by something: something falling, perhaps, or perhaps it was I who fell. I don't know. It's nearly impossible I would have woken alive on a piece of debris if someone had not placed me there. Someone must have wanted me to live."

"I think you may inspire more loyalty than you know, John Watson."

Watson closed his eyes for a moment, then lifted them to the stars. "Thank you for saving me. I don't know if I said that."

"I think I want this to be my last voyage," Holmes replied, making Watson blink in surprise at the sudden change.

"Why would that be?"

"Because they're ready. My crew, I mean. My quartermaster is ready to be captain, and the crew is ready to be humble merchants instead of putting their lives on the line every moment. It's down to you, I think. I believe you're right: I can't keep this life up for long, and I don't think I want to. We need to complete our mission, but when we dock in London once more I think it will be the last for me. Will you come with me?"

"With you? Where?"

"To London. You did say this was your last voyage with the Navy, did you not? I could use a friend. As you can imagine, I have none."

"You don't have to do that. I already said: I'm not jumping. You don't need to try to save me."

"I'm not. I'm quite in earnest."

Watson was quiet for a moment. "I'll consider it," he finally said. And suddenly the night felt full of promise, like a new life was really possible for them both, like friendship might be real and true, and that maybe the world was not quite so cruel as it seemed.

For the prompt from JackofCats - The one where Holmes is a pirate and Watson is a (captain/admiral/surgeon/whatever else you like) of the Royal Navy