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Navy blue blankets littered the ground and hung from the bed posts and walls, a fan blowing heartily against them, an imitation of undulating waves. The king-sized, four-poster bed was stripped, large sofa cushions pulled tight against the sides with skillfully tied sheets to serve as walls. A curved sofa sat facing inward in front of the bed, the bow, and its corresponding piece was behind it, the stern. A Jolly Roger was attached on the front left post of the bed, the white skull and crossbows sporting a deer stalker hat.
Sherlock Holmes, nine years old, stood proudly on the bow, in fitted petticoat trousers and a tunic, covered by a fancy coat and a captain's hat, the fan blowing wind through his hair like a tempting sea breeze and almost casting his hat off several times. He held a steering wheel of a car in his hands (don't ask), painted light brown as to be similar to wood. He turned it with great difficulty left and right in a seeming unorganized pattern that suggested he was fighting turbulent weather and unforgiving waves. The room's quiet was only interrupted by Sherlock's soft grunts of labor and the beautiful lullaby of the waves cascading and crashing together, the sound playing softly from the speakers attached to Sherlock's computer.
Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel, knuckles bone white, and he bellowed excitedly, "Land ho!"
A startled yelp and, presumably, the thump of a small boy toppling sounded from behind the sofa, on the bed. Loud rustling was heard before John Watson's head appeared from between the corners of two, plush sofa cushions, features pulled in annoyance.
Sherlock turned to John, not noticing or choosing to ignore John's palpable irritation, and said with great importance, "Sailor John, we're approaching land and will need to pull ashore soon. I'll call to you when I need you to drop the anchor." Then, Sherlock went back to struggling with his steering wheel, attempting to pull his ship to a safe stop.
John remained for a moment, dumbstruck with annoyance and amusement, before he smiled and shook his head at Sherlock's antics, disappearing again behind the cushions. It was only a moment before Sherlock called, "Drop her in the water, Watson!" to which John promptly responded to by tossing a rope over the cushioned walls, a rather large pillow with an grey anchor stitched onto it attached to the end of the rope. It landed on the mess of blankets below, causing them to bounce up slightly and cover the pillow. John considered it a success.
Moments after the anchor slapped the waves, Sherlock whipped back calling a labored, "Argghhh," as though he'd been struck or propelled by some great force and clutched the arm of the sofa for balance. "I hope you've grabbed ahold of something, Sailor!" he called to John. John's head appeared between the cushions again, hand gripping the side of one.
Sherlock abruptly pulled himself up, tentatively releasing the arm rest. He looked around sharply, taking in the scenery. Picking up from the seat of the sofa a pair of binoculars, he looked for detail. "Shiver me timbers!" he exclaimed. "There's more booty here than we thought, Watson!" Pulling a map from the pockets of his trousers, Sherlock snapped it open and looked at the crude directions and map he'd drawn earlier. A large red X was labeled at the end of a long dotted line showing the travel of their ship. Sherlock examined the map with the utmost seriousness, John peering over his shoulder curiously, and compared it to what he saw in front of him.
Shoving the map back into his pockets, he took up the binoculars and thrust them into John's hands. "Avast ye, Watson," he declared, "this is where we shall commence the real search!"
John held up the binoculars, using their magnified vision to see the sign on the door, a blood red X. Handing the binoculars back to Sherlock, he turned and dug through the cushions behind him, pulling our a plastic, brown shovel, along with a rusted pale. "Let's pillage this here village for the booty, Captain Holmes!" John called, fist thrust in the air.
Sherlock grinned at him and pulled his plastic cutlass from his belt. "Dead men tell no tales," he said, before jumping off the deck and creeping to the door, gesturing for Watson to follow. He did.
"Quiet, sailor," Sherlock hissed as they creeped through the poorly lighted tunnel (otherwise known as the hallway to non-pirates) to a room at the end, which also bore the sign of an X.
John softened his steps and fought back a giggle. Sherlock glared at him warningly, then quickly dashed to the door of the room. John was swift to follow suit. Pushing against the door, Sherlock whispered, "Heave ho, Watson!" to which John responded by twisting the door knob, the door pushing in, and Sherlock tumbling to the ground. He quickly righted himself, a small glare sent John's way, before resuming character. "Blimey!" he cried in a whisper. "Sailor, see for yourself a treasure most wonderful of doubloons!"
John looked around the room, which was neatly organized. Mycroft was asleep on his bed, and John was sure to keep silent to ensure he stayed that way. Mycroft needn't know they were pillaging his room in their pirate game.
Sherlock seemed unconcerned as he thumped forward inelegantly to pick up their treasure. Picking it up gently, Sherlock lifted up a small box full of parts, batteries, cords, outlets, chargers, speakers, headphones, you name it. They were electronic devices all removed by Mycroft from Sherlock at some point; not to say Sherlock didn't deserve it after he almost singed off Mycroft's hair in his last disastrous experiment, but Sherlock would have considered that as an extremely pleasing result, meaning he didn't care. Seeing as he didn't care, that's why they were collecting it again now, so they could restart some experiments.
John gulped as Sherlock shook the box carelessly, listening. Then, he opened it and dug around before gasping loudly. John startled slightly and looked at Sherlock questioningly. "It's not here," Sherlock mouthed furiously. His eyes darted around the room quickly, looked for possible hiding spots before landing on Mycroft with a soft, enlightened exclamation of, "Aha!" Tip-toeing to John, he handed him the treasure box before softly walking to Mycroft's bed.
John watched him with a thudding heart as Sherlock slowly, cautiously snuck a hand under Mycroft's pillow. Suddenly, frighteningly, Mycroft's eyes snapped open and he shouted, a hand snatching Sherlock's wrist. "Thar she blows!" Sherlock cried, snatching his wrist free, hand clutching a small device. "Weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen!"
John nodded quickly and sprinted down the hallway and into Sherlock's room, jumping onto the sofa and diving behind the cushions. He grabbed the end of the rope and began to heave, pulling the anchor back into the ship, before heading to the bow to steer.
Sherlock thundered down the hallway, Mycroft hot on his heels, and slammed his door behind him as he ran into the room. He locked the door and jumped onto the sofa. "God's speed, Watson!" he yelled giddily. John grinned and turned the steering wheel, and Sherlock punched a hand in the air victoriously.
They heard Mycroft grouse and rumble, blowing steam, surely, from the other side of the quickly lengthening expanse of the ocean between them as they set sail, and Sherlock offered John the sacred treasure to add to the treasure box. John put it away safely and turned to Sherlock.
"Think it was worth it, Captain, to steal back your booty from the the old sea dog?" John asked Sherlock, remaining in character for the fun of it.
Sherlock laughed and slapped John on the back heartily, "Oh, this is just the beginning! The game, Watson, is on!"
Fin.