Chapter Text
It was easier said than done, to sneak ashore on such a rocky coast, one surely filled to the brim with crevices, hidden caves, sinks, and jagged daggers waiting just below the churning surface of the dark waters. The boats themselves were no match for the treachery of the rocky beaches themselves, and even in groups landing anywhere but the narrow docks that housed Moriarty’s own long boats seemed almost out of the question. Of course they couldn’t take that course of action, logically. It was more than suicide, and without the element of surprise, Sherlock and Mycroft both feared that whatever plan they did concoct would fail before it ever really took off. That was something they really couldn’t afford in the long run. Not with how wounded Sherlock was, even if he played it off and repeatedly told Mycroft that he was just fine, not to worry. It wouldn’t help if they got into trouble before they even reached the shore or the confrontation.
And though Sherlock often called his brother blind, Mycroft could see when Sherlock would pause in the midst of a perfectly ordinary task to nearly double over in pain, one hand pressed to his side where he was most wounded. The puncture in his side was thankfully remaining clean and healing normally according to the ship’s medic, but the threat of infection was still a looming ire with a hurt that size. Couple that with how hard Sherlock was pushing himself physically, and it was a wonder he hadn’t collapse from both pain and fatigue yet. Though Mycroft knew his brother better than most, even he was unable to predict just what he’d do in his obvious desperation to save something that Mycroft was sure had been lost. It was true that he held no love for John, but a brother’s unending love was another matter entirely, and even a Holmes knows when to stick to their guns despite the odds. Mycroft’s faith in Sherlock would have to be enough to support them all through this horrid affair.
So Mycroft attempted to plan a different way.
The results were the same.
Upon further far-reach recon, it was deemed next to impossible to land anywhere on the coast besides the allotted docks. Not just because of the rocky shoreline itself, but the way the rest of the cliffs just sheered off twenty or so feet above the point of contact. It was hidden well among the same colored rocks against a gloomy, cloud filled sky, and would have brought about a swift end for any foolish enough to fall for the illusion. So with a heavy sigh, Mycroft began plotting their course of action through the heart of the docks while Sherlock rested in his bed.
He’d forced to him to rest, of course, it wasn’t like Sherlock would every willingly give his body what it truly needed, especially not now, but at least after a minimal amount of argument, Sherlock had acquiesced. Now he was laying on top of the sheets in Mycroft’s cabin enjoying a fitful slumber while Mycroft watched over him. The elder Holmes had no presumptions that included Sherlock being confident that his brother would keep him safe, but it did not hurt to indulge in at least one secret family fantasy where everything in their lives wasn’t as truly dismal as it always seemed. And even if Sherlock didn’t know about the swear to him that came from his now-silent brother, Mycroft would keep the unsaid promise.
And when Sherlock woke, the plan would unfurl.
--
The row into shore was ghastly, filled with perils and a brewing storm the likes of which neither Captain had ever seen before. Even with the help of Harry -who’d shown up half-way into the journey to the rocky coast- and his men, the entire plan was liable to go belly up within minutes. All it would take was one fell stroke, one misplaced oar or one out of tune sailor and everything could end in a bloody disaster. And it was meant literally, bodies smashed upon the rocks for beasts of the sea to feed upon. Because let there be no doubt, even if they weren’t seen, Sherlock and Mycroft knew that the waters were infested with Merfolk. Lurking just below the waves, ready to let the sea do the heavy labor for them so they could snatch up the remains in the last moments for a hefty feast. A watery grave had no more meaning than it did at this very moment.
Beside Sherlock in the boat was his trusted First Mate, Lestrade, and a good portion of his remaining crew, filling up the interspersed boats around them in the water. Mycroft and Anthea were in a boat paralleled to his own, surrounded by their own crew, and in the boats behind them were the ones that Harry and his crew occupied. In total, there were about ten boats, with around six or seven people in each, give or take a few here and there, and thought it was enough to be considered a small army to them, it was nothing compared to the virtual army of Moriarty and his men. And, if what Lestrade and Tiny Tim had told him came true, then the Mers were potentially fighting for the mad Irishman as well. But each one of the men and women’s faces were grim and determined, hair whipped about by the salt and sea, and for a moment Sherlock’s own heart swelled with something he thought was pride-like. These men and women, pirates all, were willing to die at his side for a cause that was not their own.
Loyalty, bravery, pride, and truth. Sherlock’s assembled army had them all.
This was the sort of challenge that Sherlock longed for his entire life really. One he had always hoped for, prayed for, considered dying for...and here at the beginning of the end, Sherlock felt like he would indeed die for it, sitting here in this tiny wooden boat at the mercy of the elements. Moriarty wasn’t some pushover naval officer that he and his crew could dupe, trick, and then swindled for their goods and loot. Moriarty was a demon, a devil with a human form, and he would not be tricked the way simple men would. Oh no, it would take something truly devious and inspired to trick him. Something special and unreal. Perhaps even something otherworldly, and Sherlock knew just the thing.
The advantage Sherlock had for being dead was fantastic and absolutely perfect.
He only hoped it would be enough, otherwise being dressed like the dead come rising out of the sea was going to be a pain. Indeed, already he could feel the sting of the salt water in his wound, even though it was wrapped tight beneath his ripped and powder-stained shirt. his pants were becoming stiff in places where his body heat rapidly dried the salt water clinging to them, and his face and hair were smeared with sand and grit from the ocean, as well as watery dark muds that served to look like aged blood. Bits of seaweed had been picked from the bottom of Mycroft’s ship before they’d set off and decorated him in places where it would cling to a dead body floating in the surf, and his already normally sallow skin tones were only brought to death by the dreary, over-cast skies. The dark would have the same effect upon him, and when anyone saw him, they would hopefully think him a vengeful water ghost back for revenge.
Pirates were very superstitious, after all, and the plan had actually come from neither Sherlock or Mycroft, but from Mike Stammford, who was tending to Sherlock still. An off placed comment about him looking like “Death Walking” had spawned the whole plan and after much deliberation, both Holmes brothers had agreed that it was worth a shot. Playing upon guilty men’s already nervous consciouses would only serve them well, and if it weren’t to work, they weren’t down anything but some wet clothing and a bit of seaweed. From there, Mike and Molly had taken to getting their ailing Captain prepared for his watery role, and even Harry had admitted he looked like the damned. Now if they could only land without incident, this entire plan was sure to take off all on its own.
Landing the boats along the very narrow pier was a challenge in and of itself due to the now ever growing storm. The surf had grown in height, the swells almost doubled in size and capping white as they bashed the little boats against one another and the dock wood at every chance, making tying them down more than just a challenge. They all had to work together to get the boats stable enough to tie to together, long and thick ropes lashing them to the creaking wood of the dock itself as they made their way to the narrow bridge. But after a lengthy amount of time, all of the assembled parties were seen safely onto the pier and were steadily making their way to the creviced pocked shore with Sherlock, Mycroft, and Harry in the lead. Once inside the rocky covering it was mostly a free-for-all due to the fact that none of the three had any clue as to who or what would be waiting for them once inside, but knowing Moriarty, it wasn’t to be pleasant.
It was a nice change of pace when they stumbled first upon a few small groups of men, no more then ten of them, standing around under a single torch that feebly lit the holler they occupied and well away from the water’s edge. The men were all semi-wet, shivering, and apparently very disgruntled at having to be this close to the mouth of the caves, and were the perfect opportunity to test their drowned spirit role upon. While Sherlock prepared himself for his big debut, the rest of the men and women hid themselves around the outcroppings, and watched as Sherlock walked into the cave with a shambling grace just as a huge wave caused massive spray onto all on the rocky floors below. Back-lit with such a massive wave, his already dripping attire was refreshed, and the sea air gave everything an even fishier smell to it than he already had.
When the first man finally spotted Sherlock as he slowly, ever so slowly, walked towards them on bare feet, it was as if the rest had been touched by the sea spirit as well. They all turned as one to stare down the dead man’s wandering specter, faces rapidly paling and hands shaking as they tried to go for their cutlasses at their sides. Luckily, none of them had guns, or Sherlock might have been in a bit of a problem, but at such a long range he would be fine. Especially if all of them even refused to get near enough to him to use them. They were each taking large steps backwards towards the far exit of the chamber, closer and closer still to the inlet of water that cut beside the path.
For his part, all Sherlock had to do was look like a dead and vengeful spirit.
The groaning and desperate attempts at talking -only without actual sounds coming out of his mouth- were just for his own amusement.
--
Meanwhile, Moriarty was happily giving Moran his orders to go and retrieve the fishy Tethys and bring her front and center. He’d grown tired of waiting for the right moment to slay John and then call upon his deadly under-water army, and he was hungering for a bit of bloodshed. Well, technically it wasn’t bloodshed on his part that was going to occur, since the stipulation of their agreement required that he not actively hurt her or any of her people. But that didn’t mean that Moran or any of the rest of his crew couldn’t actively hurt them, and he would remain true to his word, their bargain. He would have John’s blood on his hands and no other.
It suited him just fine. After all, he did so hate to get his hands dirty.
“You!” She shouted upon being drug up from some watery location where Moran had stashed her in waiting, wild and struggling against the iron the crew had slapped on her for her struggles. “You dare to defile the contract, to go against your vow!”
Tethys clearly wasn’t happy with the outcome of their bargain, not that he cared much for her plight. In truth, it was more fun to watch her struggle against the five or so crewmen holding her upright as they walked towards them, each one hanging onto chain and flesh tightly. Sebastian himself was at her head, a hand clamped tightly in her silvery locks, another clamped tightly against her throat, digging in under the clear gills. She was thrashing for all her worth but it was doing her little good and more hurt as Sebastian was quickly loosing his patience. The small dagger making its way out of its sheath at Moran’s belt easily told the Commandant that, never mind his thunderous face. If she didn’t start cooperating soon, Moriarty thought, she was liable to lose more than just her life in the process.
Watching her be bound to the dry, rocky outcroppings just above the water’s tender hold was all the more pleasing when she realized just what exactly had been done. What was going to happen to her. To be able to see her freedom but not quite able to reach it, to ever touch it. Sebastian had truly outdone himself this time.
“Heathen! Contract breaking fool!” She was screeching now, louder and louder and with truly inhuman growls and sounds. “The magic will rip you to shreds! You break the contract and your oath!”
“My dear Tethys...the promise was for you and your people from me, never from the rest of my crew.” Moriarty said smirking as he gave his personal rapier to Moran for use, starring down his nose it at the bound she-demon. “And I need something of a trial run before I outright do this on John or Ladon or whatever you named him. I haven’t broken my promise. I won’t be harming any of you, Seb here will.”
She gave another almighty scream and rattled her chains enough to make them and the rocks she was tied to creak and groan, but nothing broke free and all the manacles held fast. Tethys, despite her inhuman strength and larger size, was held fast with her arms spread wide and her tail bound down. She looked like a little Water Demon Jesus, which only made Jim’s mirth grow and his sense of completion escalate.
“Well, he’ll be doing it at my instruction. Written instructions, because I know that if I were to actively or verbally participate in this that the magic would rip me limb from limb.” He shrugged before seating himself on the rocks just off to one side happily. “I wrote done the ritual earlier before we made port, long before I made the deal. I’m not breaking my oath.”
Her screams echoed around the cave.
--
A ways off, Sherlock continued to agitate and horrify the crew present to witness his unearthly game, eyes rolling in his skull, his steps uncoordinated and body drenched in sea water and its dregs. When one attempted to flea past him, they were either felled by his own blade or those waiting just out of sight behind the rocks. None of the men would ever get past them and back to the main ship and Sherlock knew for a fact that Mycroft, Harry, and the rest of the men would have the same idea in mind. They were either to be picked off one by one by hidden opponents or flee from Sherlock’s specter dance to the side of Moriarty, who would be trapped against the back of the cave and the large bays of water let in by the design of the isle. It was the perfect place for an ambush, they’d realized, once they had finally set foot upon land.
Because the caves almost naturally trapped prey on foot against the waters.
And normally they were teaming with teeth-filled-fish.
But the serious lack in water back-up was both a blessing and a curse, because none of them knew just what those denizens of the deep were planning when they were so far out of sight. They could be anywhere really, waiting for someone to get too close. Sherlock wouldn’t give them that opportunity. No, he had much bigger fish to fry...
And then the screaming started.
Long torturous howls filled every available space of the open aired cave, reverberating and traveling around the darkened pockets and across the churning waters before breaking apart upon the incoming tide. Each one sounded more and more pained than the last, reaching in both volume and pitch before cutting off and starting anew. Howls of the damned, they were, or at least of something distinctly not-human in a vast amount of agony. It went one for more than twenty minutes, by Sherlock’s count, before it ended with one final horror-filled wail and the silence prevailed once more.
Sherlock didn’t know what was worse.
The cries...or the silence.