Chapter Text
So this was how it would end, truly with a bang...
Sherlock didn’t even so much as blink twice when the two remaining crewmen hefted him up and over to the mast, ropes and a length of chain securing him in seconds while he watched a majority of his crew being dragged off. The crushing weight was no match for his leaden heart, and no amount of rope burn or cannon fire could compete with the feeling that he’d betrayed and essentially killed his entire crew, as well as John, in one blow. Especially John. The Merman was an innocent, and he’d handed him over to the most hate-filled being in existence. Sherlock would have rather cut off his own ear than do it again.
But there was no taking it back now.
And he thought that perhaps death by cannon fire or drowning was a just punishment.
The two midshipmen finished tying off the ropes and checking the chains. They stood around him and then stepped back, inspecting their work efficiently, before making their way back across the plank left between the two ships. Once safely back aboard their ship, the plank was pulled away, and The Science of Deduction was once again separate from The Westwood. Swiftly the larger ship began to pull away, Moriarty standing on deck, waving at Sherlock the entire time. The larger ship pulled far enough away to swing wide and circle back around, the starboard guns on full display as they came into range.
This was it, any moment now the larger ship would fully come into range and the long guns would rain judgement and Hellfire upon him and his ship. Then it would only take a matter of minutes before his ship sank and he plunged into the ocean’s depths, if he wasn’t already dead from the original assault. Now that was a pleasant thought...he could either die as collateral damage or by drowning, neither of which was a very pleasant death, or very honorable, as if that mattered.
Captain Holmes’ dying wish was that he’d never run from England in the first place. If he’d just stayed and accepted the charge of murder, to later be hung in the town square, the then freshly knighted Captain Moriarty presiding, then none of this would ever have happened. He would not have endangered his crew, some of whom he’d known better in the past few years than anyone in the many that made up the beginning of his life, and he would never have met John. He would never have tainted the golden innocence that should light up the world indefinitely, but now would be snuffed out long before its time. Moriarty would kill and claim John’s life as his own, and when that happened, Sherlock could only be partially thankful he’d be dead instead of forced to live with his decisions.
“Set the sails to the carved tree, the head of a dragon South shall it be, thirty-four feet in the line to the West, the next one goes under arrest...” Sherlock half-sang, half-recited out loud, his voice carrying slightly on the wind. “The master’s secret must be revealed, to open the paths that once were sealed.”
The first shot was so impossibly loud that Sherlock was certain the ringing he heard was just his mental alarm bells going off as the main mast splintered above him and began to sway. The second shot only confirmed that The Westwood was so close to his ship that the actual sound of the shot was ripping at the air around them, producing a shrill, biting, whistling sound. When it impacted, there was the crack of a lower side, then several more as the cannons all fired at once, mostly at the lower decks. The other masts weren't targeted as of yet, though once the jarring rupture of the ship’s hull bucked the whole floating mess, the foremast splintered and snapped, cracking before toppling down and taking out another of the lesser drive masts and the bowsprit with it. The fabric that had made up his mighty sails fluttered around the flying debris in large swatches of white, a gentle motion where the breaking of wood and metal was anything but.
The whole sight was impossibly beautiful in a way, really, the sheer amount of chaos dancing finely with travesty and agony until they swirled into one another so infinitely close that Sherlock couldn’t tell them apart anymore. Couple that with the odd pieces of beauty that should not be found in destruction such as this and Sherlock was fairly impressed that the way Fate had chosen for him to die. He rarely found such beauty in mundane, normal things anymore, the world having become jaded long before he could remember properly. It hadn't been until recently that he’d begun seeing the beauty in the little things around him, their own brilliance only being presented by reflected rays off of John’s shining visage.
John had changed things for him, truly changed things, and had started creating a man out of the shell he had been for the past 23 some odd years through influence the Merman couldn’t possibly know he had. The subtle friendship that had steadily been growing between the two of them these past months had also done wonders to strengthen the other relationships he’d already been engaging in. His companionship with Lestrade for one had steadily been improving, their already strong working relation relationship changing to let a personal one bloom as well. Or Mrs. Hudson, whom he’d known for quite some time now, and felt like he knew her more as a person after these past months. There were so many things that he’d finally observed instead of just seen plainly through unobservant eyes.
Sherlock raised his eyes to the sky he could see through the swaying sails and rigging, the shadow of the swaying mast casting him in shadows for what seemed like hours, but in reality were probably only minutes. His final minutes.
“Yo, ho, haul together, hoist the Colors high.” The Jolly Roger he hardly ever flew was tucked safely into a cedar chest inside his personal cabin, and he sort of wished to see it before he went, just one last time. “Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.”
The main mast finally came crashing down atop him.
--
Aboard The Westwood, where both crews were still mostly lined up on deck to watch the display (those who weren’t manning the cannons) in rapt attention, the air was awash with emotions. The pirate crew was a mass of grief and pained cries, both for their home and their beloved Captain Holmes, who’d tried to protect them and only ended up dead for his troubles. Moriarty’s crew, those not currently engaged in some ship's work, were guarding them as they huddled together, sneers on their faces and harsh laughter coming out of their mouths. And if Lestrade hadn’t been bound in irons, he would have punched the nearest one straight in his damn mouth.
“Commander Moran, if you would be so kind as to escort our new guests down to the hold where they will be staying for the remainder of our trip to Port Royal.” Moriarty’s cheerful voice punctured the grief like a cutlass through lace, sliding in deep enough to really dig down and hurt. “I’m sure they’re dying to see the decor.”
“Aye, Commodore.” Moran said, his head nodding in the crew’s direction to start their descent into the bowels of The Westwood. “Are we to keep them separate from the Merman, sir?”
“Yes, of course! I nearly forgot about dear old...err, what did you lot call him again?” Moriarty’s fingers touched his lip gently, his brow furrowed as if trying to remember a long past acquaintance’s name. “Jimmy, Jolly...something beginning with the letter ‘J’ yes?”
“His name is John.” Mrs. Hudson’s emboldened voice came from somewhere further down the deck than Lestrade, but he’s know her voice without having to see her face. That sort of strength was hard to hide in a woman’s voice, but especially in the refined age that Martha had come to know. “And you will show him the respect he deserves. He’s lived a better, longer life than you lot.”
Moriarty’s smile was quickly replaced with a snarl, lizard-like face with a grace that only comes with with unintentional revelation. And just like any great beast hiding in plain sight under everyone's noses, the unveiling of him -the discovery that he had been amongst them the whole time- was beyond imagining. Even Lestrade was tempted to take a mighty step back away from the clearly bubbling rage that hadn’t been there only seconds ago, but now looked to rival the fires of Hell itself. It was like searching the dark for light and never finding one, so alone and lost in your emotions, in yourself, enough to completely break you.
But his voice was calm and even when he spoke.
“Neilson, do take this...charming woman down first. And makes sure she’s as comfortable as you can maker her.” His dark eyes never left Mrs. Hudson’s slightly quivering form, because she’d been yanked out of line by an impressively tall and close shaven man, who was holding her tightly by her upper arm. “By all means, take your time.”
The man named Neilson grinned as he dragged Mrs. Hudson off, using a set of stairs opposite to the ones that would descend into the lower hold where they were to be held. No, these ones went down to the gun decks and probably the brig, if this ship had more than one that is, which knowing the Royal British Naval, it probably did. Lestrade had a strong inkling that she would be returned later, bruised and bloody in places, some manners taught to her by the fists of crewman Neilson.
Lestrade’s face turned into a scowl.
“Now then, where was I? Oh, yes!” Moriarty’s facade was firmly back in place, the smile outshining the fact that it never reached his eyes. “I want this lot on the other side of the ship from Johnny Boy, close enough to see him, but far enough away to not be able to help. How does that sound?”
Moran’s glare silence Lestrade and the rest of Captain Holmes’ crew before they could reply.
“As I thought.” Moriarty clapped happily. “Off with you then, Moran, and do let me know when you get this lot settled. I have a special welcoming gift in store for our aquatic guest.”
--
Mycroft’s ship was quite possibly the fastest pirate ship in the Court fleet, being significantly larger than most, but incredibly well designed to be swift in the water. Even so, it was still nearly impossible to turn around two days out of Tortuga to start heading in the opposite direction when word reached him that his brother was in dire need of his assistance. (And Sherlock never asked for help, which only led to underlining just how crippling the situation had truly become for him.) But he was anything but weak-willed, and so Captain Holmes the Senior had driven his crew to the brink by pushing them and the ship as hard as he could. He had to make up for the lost time the message took arriving and just how far away he was from his younger brother.
But he would make it.
When he finally saw the billowing smoke on the distant horizon, he knew, that despite his best efforts, he had failed his younger brother and left him to his fate at Moriarty’s hands. If Sherlock’s message was anything to go by, Mycroft expected to find a ship in ruins and a mass of floating, long-dead crew...his brother one of many to have gone to Davy Jone’s Locker. And at the very worst, he would never find his beloved younger brother’s body, having lost his only chance through sheer stupidity on his own part. He’d known Sherlock was in danger, he’d known when he’d gone to check upon him, but he sat back and left him on his own as Sherlock had asked. And therein lay his mistake.
When they’d made their final approach, the remnants of the ship burning in the surf, some only fit to be called driftwood, Mycroft himself was at the railing, looking for any signs of survivors. But there were no bodies afloat in the waves as was common with sinking ships or capsized vessels. In fact, apart from the burning wreckage, there was nothing to imply the ship had a crew at all, and hadn’t just met a fate at the hands of the angry goddess Calypso. Had Moriarty taken his brother and his crew back to Port Royal after all? Even when all signs seemed to imply that Moriarty wanted nothing more than to torture and kill his brother?
Mycroft took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, all the horrible scenarios raging in his brain, driving him to the brink of madness and back in the matter of moments. His brain, much like Sherlock's, and indeed their long-deceased Father’s, functioned at a much higher speed than many others’ did. TThat was often needed to get them into trouble that far out-weighed anything most normal people could imagine, but that was just what they needed. Without it, their minds would wallow and rot, left to such mundane ideas of life and the boring aspects of daily living. Sherlock often complained of being bored or unstimulated, his crack wit wasted on those who just could not conceive what he himself could.
And now it would no longer grace this Earth.
“Captain! Look, out over there, clinging to the broken drift!” The man sitting high in the crow’s nest, his eyes bright and fevered as he pointed out over the water and wreckage where a mass of something lay tangled in the remains of the once proud sails. “A person, sir! A person clinging to the mast!”
Mycroft’s eyes snapped open quickly and tore through the scenery, seeking out the figure his crewman was speaking of. Yes, there, tangled but floating face up with hands in a death grip against the wood was a familiar, dark-haired man. He looked as pale as the sails themselves, and it was difficult to tell from this distance if he was still alive, but the tight grip on the wood was a good sign. Mycroft was intimately aware of the fact that his little brother could not swim.
“Call the long boats down, and someone fetch me a spy glass!” He called out orders in his same even voice, not being able to afford to be emotional at this point. Caring could often prove to be a disadvantage. “Anthea, prepare to disembark and go to help me to collect my brother. I will need all the help I can get.”
Anthea gave a sharp nod and handed over the spyglass, thus revealing the floating figure to be Sherlock amongst the wreckage. Mycroft closed the brass length of the spyglass with a snap as he strode towards the staboard where three longboats were being lowered to the water, the rigging and blocks straining in the haste in which they were tugging at the lines. He divested himself of his hat and frock coat, needing to be spry enough to help haul his brother from the water’s tender hold, and not risking any unnecessary weight. He was by no means a young man anymore, and although he did not rival Moses in age, he wasn’t as sturdy as he used to be.
“Captain, they’re ready for you.” Anthea said patiently, awaiting her Captain’s next orders with the grace she always had. He was glad he’d never listened to those who would say things against her talents back when he’d discovered her in the Spanish Americas. “Your orders, sir?”
“Await my return, but keep the ship close in case of an attack. Be on guard and prepared for any unexpected surprises. Moriarty so does love those.” Mycroft said suspiciously, eyes furrowed only slightly as he planned. “Be on your toes.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Captain Holmes quickly made arrangements and boarded the small vessel with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in ages, his mind alive and crackling with energy, his body shaking in its need to move. Even though his men were working as fast as they possibly could, he could not help but fight the impulse to demand they do more in a faster pace. It was an urge he often found himself reigning in while dealing with Sherlock, but now it took on a sharper edge that threatened to eviscerate him if he wasn’t cautious.
The long boat moved gracefully to the clinging man’s side, so that he was easily able to lean over and with the help of his midshipman, hauled the form into the vessel with little resistance. The body was pliant with unconsciousness rather than death, Mycroft was happy to observe, and though his brother was pale, it was not from the last fate as he had once feared. They would make their way back to the ship as the as the other two boats made their rounds to look for other survivors, so that he might tend to his brother properly.
The jostling from hauling him up the line rigging and over the railing to the main deck roused Sherlock, and although he probably needed rest after his ordeal, Captain Holmes found himself glad that he was capable of being awoken. Trauma to the head was not always as mendable as damage to the body was, after all. And while he had very skilled medics, it was likely that even their talents would go to waste if Sherlock had been hurt badly enough.
“I got your message from Tortuga, brother dear,” Mycroft said, a scowl on his face as he helped haul Sherlock up and over the railing to the main deck, his back and torso slicked in sweat from the manual labor. “But it appears that I arrived too late. You are down a ship and definitely a crew, taken by Moriarty, no doubt. There are no other bodies.”
Sherlock only sputtered and flailed for a few moments, attempting to get his wits back about him, his face pressed to Mycroft’s shoulder as his hands randomly gripped at fabric. The much younger man was struggling, Mycroft knew, but he could do nothing to help his brother regain his senses any faster. To do so might lead to more problems than solutions, and when it came to the man’s mental health, he would not risk it. He would be patient and wait for him to answer.
He was left to wait for some time before Sherlock attempted to spring up.
“John, they’ve taken John!” He suddenly shouted, pushing himself up and away from Mycroft’s embrace, hair and eyes wild in panic, sea madness painting the blue of his eyes ferociously. “We have to get him back before Moriarty kills him! Him and my crew! We must save them!”
“Sherlock, Sherlock calm down!” Mycroft insisted, holding the struggling body tight against his own in order to prevent further harm. His wild flailing would only serve to hurt his damaged body further. “You are safe now, and we will go for your crew. Now who is this John fellow? You’ve not mentioned gaining another crewman.”
“John, he has done nothing, he is an innocent.” Sherlock said, body relaxing almost uselessly against his will. Exhaustion was almost certainly taking over at this point. “I have sentenced him to death, Mycroft. I only have three days to save them. I must save them!”
“Lucky for us that I have a fleet at my beck and call, isn’t it? I’ve already sent for other ships to meet up with us just off the coast of Jamaica, before we storm Port Royal. We will not beat them there at this rate, but certainly we will corner them there.” Sherlock could only stare at his brother in hardly concealed astonishment, his hand still randomly tightening in the fabric of his tunic. “What, you thought me to roll over to the likes of James Moriarty? Pirates never say die, Sherlock. They merely sing for fortune, fame, and revenge.”