Chapter Text
After three days underway, the crew were happy to be back out at sea, and Sherlock was feeling a bit more at ease once more. It had been three days since the last sighting of the fish man, and he was finally starting to relax a bit from the constant worry for his crew and their health. Though on the outside he often presented a heartless, cold exterior with little care for others, he was rather the opposite, even going so far as to be somewhat fond of his crew. (Not that he’d ever tell anyone that, mind you, he just preferred the distance between himself and others. Holmes liked his privacy, just as any other man in his family did.) He was so afraid to lose those closest to him that he rarely let himself get close to them in the first place, and so projected the cold persona as a defense.
He often stopped any attempts before they ever got started.
But his crew was loyal and he cared for them more than he did for anyone else in the world, probably, even his own family, though he often chose to ignore them or tune them out at random times. They even put up with more than his actual family did, or what little remained of his true family at any rate. Take his elder brother Mycroft, for example. The man was brilliant, socially influencing, and charismatic down to his littlest toe, but instead of doing something for the good of humanity, he’d turned it into a profit and now stood as one of the few Captains in the Pirate King’s Inner Court below the age of fifty. Sherlock hadn’t understood the decision at the time, but now that he too had forsaken the crown and its subjects, he thought he faintly understood how useless it all was, though he’d never let Mycroft know all that. The man would be insufferable for the rest of his life.
Like he had been after he had found out that Sherlock had denounced King and Country for a life at sea and to be constantly on the run. And though Sherlock had never fully explained what had happened to make him do such a stunt, Mycroft had just nodded and welcomed him to Court, even helping him put together a skeleton crew until he could find more hands. The crew he had now was one of his own device, having told Mycroft’s men to jump ship the first chance he got because he knew that his brother was watching him via their eyes. Now, his crew was of his own choosing, different people he’d helped or found in his travels, each one special to him in their own way.
And he wasn’t going to risk them to some Merman, not when he could out-smart or out-run it faster than the Merman could probably understand.
“Your headings, Captain?” Lestrade’s voice was bright this morning, having finally gotten some decent rest the night before. Sherlock had run them all day and all night for two days straight, but he’d finally felt safe enough to let them rest. “I’m hoping whatever had you spooked back at the bar is over now. So where would you like to go?”
The customary answer of “Wherever the wind may take us!” was ignored.
And Sherlock didn’t rise to the baiting, but did consider his options.
“How are we doing for supplies, Lestrade?” This was a crucial part of his calculations, after all. He had to know if they needed port or just some place to lay low for a while, which was his plan. “I won’t have you lot starving. You’d be useless that way, or at least in the long run. Although you’d probably make fascinating dissection materials.”
“Ever protective of our health, I see.” Greg grumbled the last bit, but seemed to think over the question quick enough, disregarding the Captain’s gruff manner of asking and the highly morbid thoughts it brought with it. Sometimes the Captain was just too odd. “I don’t see why we’d need to dock in a port somewhere. All our supplies were restocked after the last raid, and spirits are high, sir. We’re free to the Ocean’s whim.”
“Then to a nice quiet bay, I should think. Somewhere out of the way but sheltered, and not like last time.” He glared at Lestrade, though the storm hadn’t really been his fault. The man couldn’t help that he’d been thrown over board and damn near drowned in a freak reef that had suddenly appeared during a near-instant storm. “Keep away from Tortuga and the lot. They’ll be looking for us to head to port there. And I have no intention of giving them such an easy target. ”
“Aye, aye Captain.”
--
The island they’d chosen didn't look all that inhabitable, seeing as it was only a few miles long at best, and probably not even that wide at the middle. It was one of the many random islands that formed in this region, palm trees and bits of flora dotting the white sands with color, rocks jutting far out of the ocean floor to prevent them from being seen while also providing a natural fresh water source, but no animal or sentient life in sight. It was the perfect place for them to rest for a while, since they had a small island to walk along, but also because they could see any potential danger coming for miles in the open space while still staying hidden from sight of others. The mountainous jutting of rocks at the one end had saved them from discovery once before, and it would serve them in the future, Sherlock was sure.
The shape of the island was what was best about it though. Because of the somewhat double crescent shape, it held a hidden sandbar that jutted just off the eastern and northern shores, and a rocky shoreline at its southern most tip. It would keep the waters calm, even in the case of a storm, and would block passage for any unwanted visitors would were unfamiliar with the shoreline. Plus it prevented anyone from sneaking around the tip of the island as well, just in case they were accomplished trackers. It was why Sherlock seemed to favor Baker Island as a safety retreat so often, because it was in fact so safe. Out of the many islands he’d taken refuge on in his life and somewhat eclectic pirating career, this one, one he’d discovered on his 221st day of being a pirate captain, was his favorite.
Even his cook, a Mrs. Martha Hudson had said so, and then smiled fondly at him before producing tea from somewhere like she’d done for the past five years that he’d known her. She was some kind of woman, that was certain, born and bred in the Scottish heartland, tough with many, but kind as well. Mrs. Hudson was something like a mother, Sherlock often thought, if his mother hadn’t died when he was so young, and her maternal ways were a strong influence on Captain Holmes, as well as his crew. It was at times like this that Sherlock was glad he’d killed her husband back in Tortuga and freed her from his evil ways, only to bring her on his ship and place her under his own carefully calculating eye.
As the rest of the crew were settling, and the few long boats being dropped down for some of the crew to go ashore and make camp, Sherlock drew his favorite sitting chair out onto the deck to lounge about and watch the sea. Such was his favorite past time, when he wasn’t experimenting or raiding King and Country, of course. It gave him a sense of calm, to look out into the open sea and know that somewhere out there, things were waiting for him. Adventure, of course, it came with being a Pirate Captain, but other things like excitement, danger, mystery, and knowledge he had to seek out. And seek he did. He sought it with all his might and vitality. But sooner or later, he knew that one day, something else would come from across the sea too him, and when it came, he might even see it coming and be waiting.
But never patiently.
Sighing, Sherlock took off his long, dark coat in the heat of the sun and draped it over the back of the broad chair, the shade cast by its back enough for him not to burn in the direct light, but warm enough for him to doze as he gazed into the distance. He did so for quite some time, the sun dipping slightly against the mast of his ship before he came back to himself, only to catch a flash of something golden floating in the water near the edge of the island, far away from his long boats and crew. The original glimpse of light must have been what had drawn him out of his musings originally. But whatever it was, it was slowly making its way closer to the ship, and when Sherlock realized exactly what he was looking at, he nearly tripped and fell down the stairs in an effort to retrieve his pistol. Damn Mrs. Hudson for hiding it from him!
When he once again emerged from the thoroughly wrecked cabin with his pistol in hand, his white shirt flared open where his top few buttons had come undone in his rush from the chair and deck, the familiar golden spot in the ocean was much, much closer. But it wasn’t making its way any closer than just to the edge of the boat, near the bow, and it was just bobbing there in the surf, head laid back gently in the water, his eyes shut gently. If Sherlock didn’t know that it had been swimming closer the entire time he’d been running around the ship like an idiot, he’d say it was sleeping. Or perhaps just sunbathing in the water, like some fish were known to do. But something in him knew that he wasn’t sleeping, and that he was far from harmless.
So Sherlock looked at him a second time, closer, as if studying a specimen in a jar instead of a threat out in the water, his critical eyes at work.
The creature’s head was floating gently, bobbing with the water, its eyes shut tightly as if in pain, the tail deep in the water and out of sight for the moment. The golden hair that Sherlock had seen plastered to its human-like face fanned out in the water like a halo, the gold dimmed by the water. His hands and arms were floating out on either side if him, like some perverse form of a dead body, and there were clear signs of exhaustion everywhere that Sherlock could see. He was afraid of the creature, really afraid, and wanted it to stay were it was just as much as he wanted it to move and go far, far away from him and his ship. But the thing floating in the water now was so absolutely tired and pathetic looking that Sherlock doubted it would be going much of anywhere on its own unless it was under threat or not its own will.
But he could also see the Merman in clearer detail this close up, which was something that drove his scientific mind into complete overdrive. He wanted to study the creature in detail, to know everything he could about it, what made it tick, what made it chase them. And if he leaned over the side of the boat just a bit more, he’d be able to see just how long the tail was when fully extended in the water. So he wasn’t so sure if he wanted it to regain whatever strength it had, which had to be incredible because of how far and fast it had followed them in that short of a time period. No, if he was going to do any sort of study on it, he’d want it as weak as possible for capture. There was no sense in injuring any of his crew if he could prevent that and go about this wisely, after all. Capturing it while it was still fatigued from such a journey would be the smartest course of action, but only if he was absolutely sure.
Sherlock leaned over the side a bit farther...and slipped.
When he realized that he was indeed falling towards the surface of the water, he momentarily panicked and thought of his crew. There wasn’t much time to think of anything else before he plummeted into the water, eyes stinging at the horrible salt water burn as he clamped them shut tightly. There was no use in flailing because he couldn’t really swim, more of only-barely keeping his head above water when he waded in of his own will, and that was on the calmest of days. Once he was in over his shoulders it was like his limbs totally forgot how to work properly and his brain gave up on trying to decipher how to swim. In short, Captain Sherlock Holmes couldn’t swim. Drowning was such a painful death too, and went on for what felt like eternity.
Just as he felt the tell-tale burn in his lungs from what little oxygen he had been able to grab before hitting the water’s surface, he also felt two sets of distinct pressure against his sides, beneath his arms, grabbing and pulling him up. For some reason the sensation felt familiar, but for the life of his oxygen starved brain, he couldn’t figure out why. He quickly stopped trying as he continued to flail uselessly beneath the waves, his hands swiping at nothing and getting him nowhere. At this rate he’d drown in no time, but at least the constant buzzing in his brain would finally stop.
Sherlock tried to open his eyes in a burst of panic, but only got a bright flash of color and the harsh burn of salt water before he shut his eyes tightly again and prayed that one of his crew had seen him go over board. That it was someone under his employ that had seen him go under and was now trying to haul him to the surface for air. Because if it was the Merman, then he was doomed either way, and just hoped that nothing was left of his corpse once he’d been drag to the bottom and consumed. He didn’t want anyone finding the grisly remains. Especially not one of the orphans who so frequently played in the shallow reef.
Suddenly Sherlock’s head broke the surface of the water, and involuntarily he took a deep, gasping breath, air filling his lungs as he choked and sputtered. A moment later his eyes cleared too, and he was able to see though his sopping curls that while he was floating at the surface of the water, he was still being supported by the two arms that were wound tightly against his chest. But there was also a strong torso against his back, one that was moving faintly in their effort to support his own lanky frame, and something distinctly serpentine that ever so slightly brushed near one of his legs as he moved.
The Merman, because who else would have webbed and clawed hands complete with small. Lacy fins along the forearms, had pulled him above the surface and allowed him to regain his breath. It had saved him from drowning. No, not only saved him from drowning, was continuing to save and support his as he got his wits back, and was ever so slowly making towards the beach. And the only reason he knew this was because the white sand was ever so slightly coming into focus through the water more and more with each passing second.
Sherlock was surprised enough in that moment to not immediately fight against the pull backwards that one flip of the mighty golden tail sent them into. He could see the shimmer of its serpentine length beneath the water and resting below his legs, which were trying uselessly to help in the action, and watched in fascination as it propelled them further than human legs ever could. After all, human legs were designed for walking and running, and weren’t webbed for swimming, where as a Merman’s tail was quite made for swimming, and not much else. Humans had the advantage of both modes of transport, something Sherlock was sure he could use in his favor just as soon as they got into shallow enough water for him to be able to touch and get away.
But of course he was quickly losing himself to his musings again, something that his brother swore would ruin him one day, and at the moment, Sherlock was certain to almost agree. He had no idea where on the lengthy beach they were swimming to and was completely at the mercy of this water-bearing creature, whose own strong grip and endless amount of strength seemed unparalleled in the water. If this was a weakened, tired Merman, than Sherlock had no hope of ever taking him at full strength, and even now his own fate was looking very grim.
Perhaps Merman didn’t dive to the depths to consume their meals...
Sherlock tried to twist suddenly in the creature’s impossibly tight grip, his shirt tearing as he did so, but he’d been able to move enough where he could see where they were headed. A small rocky outcropping had descended from the larger, jagged hills into the water a ways, creating a series of small, shallow wading pools where all manner of life seemed to collect. He’d spent hours there in knee deep water, wading about and poking at all sorts of trapped marine life, many of the underwater beings brightly colored and beautiful. It was also safe from the surf, the calm pools warm from the water, and the perfect depth for someone of the Merman’s size to hide in and be protected.
His crew would never even see them behind the larger boulders, and by the distinct lack of shouting, no one had seen him go overboard.
No one would know he was missing...
Until they found whatever was left of him.