A/N: Apologies about the lengthy chapter, but there just wasn't a good place to break the rest of this in two. :) Hope you enjoy.

Thanks again to damsel-in-stress for all her help!

~~o~~

Chapter Fourteen

~~o~~

"Holmes!" I cried in alarm, fighting to get free of Sparrow to do something to help my endangered companion as he stared defiantly at the Pirate Lord.

Suddenly Jack was up and off me, racing across the roof toward Lydia at the north end, and my ears told me why, even as I was shoving myself roughly to my feet to try to get to Barbossa and Holmes. The clunk-clunk-clunk of the flask hitting the roof and bouncing across it informed me that Lydia had at least managed to block it from sailing over the edge, but what I discovered an instant later, was that in her haste to back up and save the flask from being lost, once she'd swatted it down, her momentum had carried her backwards and slammed her into the low railing, causing her to flip back over it and nearly plummet over three stories to the ground between the house and the great oak which Holmes had previously climbed.

Two fortuitous occurrences happened at that very instant: Lydia somehow managed to grab hold of the rail to stop her fall, and Barbossa, noting Jack sprinting for the flask across the roof, snarled wordlessly once more at Holmes and abandoned threatening him, racing the same direction as Jack even as Holmes sank slowly down the closest rail, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his left arm with his bruised right hand.

"Get the girl, Watson!" he commanded breathlessly from where he ended, propped up by the widow's walk rail.

Instantly, although I fretted about the extent of Holmes's injury, I whirled about and sprinted toward Lydia.

Being younger and somewhat faster than the other pirate, it appeared, from the corner of my eye, that Sparrow was going to get to the flask before Barbossa, but I paid little attention to the two rogues, as at that moment an ominous creaking, that of wood and not so very different from the protesting timbers of a sailing ship, emanated from the rail to which Lydia was so precariously clinging.

The section she was hanging from was the very section of the north rail which Jack had used to make his midnight ascent to the roof by manner of grapple and rope, and after bearing the weight of the pirate as he climbed up and then later, back down the side of the house, its integrity had been compromised by the stress it was never meant to bear. Even as I ran, I could see the panicked look in Lydia's eyes, as more splintering and cracking noises arose, and the section of wood she was clinging to began to pull away from the rest. Ever so slowly, her slim fingers were sliding off the rail as it tipped, and it began to be a question of whether or not she would lose her grasp first, or simply fall when the rest of the damaged railing pulled apart.

"Hurry, Watson!" I heard Holmes call out behind me, and indeed I did, putting on a burst of speed that would have made my old rugby mates proud. Lydia's fingers had slid more than halfway off the rail when I flung myself forward and grabbed her tightly by each wrist.

"Got you!" I cried triumphantly, even as her fingers slipped completely, and the downward jolt of her weight dragged me against the steadily disintegrating railing.

"Bloody hell!" was the next thing out of my mouth, I am embarrassed to say, since there was a lady present, but I think the circumstances warranted something rather expressive at the moment.

Knowing that I couldn't hold onto Lydia indefinitely, both because the railing was slowly but steadily creaking and giving way, and because my injured shoulder had already been sorely tried in my grapples with Sparrow, I made a hasty decision to attempt something drastic. It was clear that both the young naturalist and I were in grave danger of plunging to the ground, and I knew that I had nothing to lose.

"Trust me!" I called to her, meeting her frightened eyes with what I hoped was a look of confidence. "Hang on!"

I then let go of one of her wrists, tightening my grasp with the other hand as best I could as she swung a little and tightened her own grip of my wrist, crying out in alarm. With my free hand I reached for a section of intact railing, bracing myself and preparing to use it as leverage to pull the distressed young woman back up to the roof.

I quickly found that I lacked the remaining strength to do so with one arm, and as I prepared to try again, Lydia's hand slid down my wrist an inch while she screamed louder this time, clearly petrified of her imminent fall.

I would find out later that Holmes had struggled to his feet and was moving as fast as he could in our direction in a probably futile attempt to lend assistance, losing more blood the whole way, but he at least was able to fill in the gaps of what happened in the next few seconds that night on top of that Owlsmoor roof.

Having all but made it to where the flask had come to rest near the edge of the roof, Sparrow would have likely grabbed the item first and had time to sprint for the stairs down the passageway with a fair head start over Barbossa, but before he could bend to retrieve the object he so sorely desired, Lydia's scream yanked his attention back to our desperate situation, and he paused, clearly torn as to what he should do.

Once more, Holmes tells me, that Jack Sparrow resumed his steps towards the flask, trying to reach it in the next instant before Barbossa, sword still in hand, was upon him, but the second and more dire scream from the terrified naturalist stopped him in his tracks, and he turned, having apparently let go a defeated sigh of some magnitude and swearing once more.

"Bugger it all to hell," he spat, turning and running in my direction.

The next thing I knew, as I was fretting that I was about to watch a beautiful young woman fall to her death and bear the blame for it, a pair of strong, weathered hands grabbed hold of Lydia's wrist, and together, Jack Sparrow and I hauled the woman up and over the edge of the roof.

Holmes, exhausted from his duelling efforts and the continued haemorrhage, sank tiredly to his knees, watching as Lydia was rescued at the hands of one pirate, and the flask disappeared down the stairs with the other.

Lydia, who had maintained a stiff upper lip throughout her adventure since first being kidnapped by Sparrow much earlier in the evening, now began to show the strain her close call had produced. Tears began to roll down her pale cheeks, visible in the moonlight that still poured across the roof.

"Thank you," she gasped, trying to maintain her composure, and then for a brief moment, fell against me and sobbed softly.

"You should probably tend to Mr. Holmes," she said suddenly, pulling back and bravely wiping away her tears.

"And I should probably be going," Sparrow commented quietly, now edging toward the stairway. I admit I struggled with how I felt about just letting him go, but Holmes was my primary concern at the moment, and I knelt by my old friend's side to evaluate his injury.

"Quite the gash you've earned yourself, old man," I said, removing my tie to try to mop up enough blood to see how bad the wound was.

"Quite the embrace you earned yourself, my good doctor," Holmes replied drily, not having missed, evidently, the moment that Miss Hastings had thrown herself into my arms. A loud tearing noise precluded us from commenting further, and the perceptive young woman handed me a long section of cloth torn from the hem of her skirt.

"Will this help for now?" she asked, obviously quite concerned about the amount of blood that had saturated Holmes's left sleeve. I nodded and fashioned a temporary bandage from her offering.

Sparrow, who had been backing toward the door, spoke up one last time. "Nothing a few stitches and a little time won't heal, ay? Then I must be off to…"

"You're not going anywhere," came Lestrade's voice from behind Sparrow, yet it didn't seem to me to carry the full weight of authority that it usually did. I helped Holmes to his feet, and once we had a chance to look towards Lestrade, who pointed a gun at Sparrow, it was obvious that whatever adventure he'd been through down below had been no less trying than what the rest of us had been through on the roof.

Normally particular in his manner of dress, the inspector looked as if he'd been through the ringer, with jacket torn and tie askew, and multiple scratches down one side of his face. His hat was missing, and his hair was in sore need of the attention of a comb.

"You are not going anywhere," he repeated, in a clearly somewhat disconcerted manner, "until you explain to me just what the blazes that horrible thing was!"

"Ah, so you've met Jack," Sparrow replied nonchalantly.

"Jack? That beastly thing has a name?" Lestrade demanded, his normally steadfast manner quite unsteady. I admit I'd never seen the determined little detective come quite so unglued.

Sparrow nodded abashedly. "Barbossa's sense of humour leaves something to be desired."

"Might I suggest," Holmes interrupted, "that we all go inside, out of the night air, and discuss matters in a more comfortable environment?"

Not one of us seemed to think it a poor suggestion, and we filed down the stairs to the sitting room and seated ourselves in the plush chairs. Sparrow busied himself in a cabinet for a moment or two, pouring the contents of a bottle into four glasses, and when he suggested that this was as good a time as any for rum, not one of us disagreed or refrained from taking the spirits he'd offered round. The remainder of the bottle he kept, perching himself upon an ottoman and slugging back a gulp all at once, the volume of which, I admit, made me raise an eyebrow.

The rum seemed to do Lestrade's nerves some good, and when he had consumed his measure, he returned his slightly more steady attentions to Sparrow. I expected Lestrade's typical interrogation, but it was not forthcoming.

"I shot that thing four or five times," he said, leaving the rest of us oblivious as to what he spoke of as he looked pointedly at the pirate. "I know I hit it –at least three times."

"Frustratingly ineffective, and yet somehow strangely satisfying," Jack commented back. "Happens that way with undead monkeys." Sparrow made the pronouncement as if it were the sort of thing one told other people every day.

"Undead monkeys?" we all chorused together.

"Yep. Barbossa's pet."

"This animal achieved immortality by drinking from the Fountain?" Holmes asked, contemplating the rum he was swirling about in his glass.

"Nah, from a cursed Aztec gold coin," Sparrow replied, downing another large gulp of rum.

Holmes raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Jack.

"Long story, mate," Sparrow replied with a shrug.

"I see," Holmes replied, still watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass. "I suppose it shall have to wait, for we have a decision of no little consequence which we all must discuss."

"Such as?" Lestrade asked pointedly, starting to regain himself.

"Such as, my good Lestrade," Holmes replied calmly, "the matter of what to do with this fellow here – Mister, ah, forgive me, Captain Sparrow."

Jack saluted Holmes with the bottle he held before downing another impressive draught.

"Captain or no," Lestrade grumbled, "this man is headed for the dock, and I don't mean at the waterfront."

Holmes allowed himself a wan smile and then a sip of rum. "Just what charges do you intend to press against this man?" he enquired. "And before you answer, Lestrade, let me assure you that Hector Barbossa is quite alive, so I think we must discard any charge of murder." Holmes glanced ruefully at the makeshift bandage on his arm for a brief moment, and then looked at Lestrade expectantly.

"Well, there's still breaking and entering, robbery, impersonating a constable, three counts of assault upon officers of the law, evading arrest, stealing a cab, vandalism of private property, and three incidents of kidnapping," Lestrade rattled off. "And he assaulted you, if I recall correctly," Lestrade added, indicating the small healing cut on Holmes's chin.

Sparrow now looked decidedly uncomfortable, and polished off the remains of the bottle in his hand in one go.

For some reason, at that particular moment, I elected not to inform the good inspector that I too had been assaulted by the pirate; knocked out cold for a moment or two when he'd struck me upon the head with a rock. Somehow it mattered less now, and the reason was sitting directly across from me, looking unsettled and intensely thoughtful. I found it intriguing that she had begun to look less happy as the case against Jack Sparrow waxed grim.

"And how long do you suspect he'll get?" Holmes asked quietly. I thought it an odd question, for Holmes could estimate, based on the accumulated crimes, as well as anyone, how long the perpetrator's sentence might be.

"Oh, I'd say twelve to fifteen," Lestrade replied, after doing a little calculating. "Maybe twenty."

It was then that Lydia spoke up.

"This man saved my life," she said in a soft but steady voice, meeting Lestrade's gaze quite evenly. "If it weren't for him and for Dr. Watson, I would have fallen off the roof and broken my neck."

I didn't miss the grateful look that Jack shot Lydia at that moment.

Lestrade glanced questioningly at me, and I nodded, then briefly explained to the inspector the events which had taken place upon the roof.

"So you see, Lestrade," Holmes interjected once I was done, before the inspector could say anything else, "there are mitigating circumstances before us."

I knew Sherlock Holmes well enough to understand that he had already determined the balance of justice in his mind, and now had set upon the task of convincing the stalwart Inspector Lestrade to see things his way.

"Mitigating circumstances or not," Lestrade replied, his feathers clearly beginning to ruffle, "he's still committed the crimes. Perhaps they'll go easier on his sentencing at the Assizes knowing that he made the effort to assist Miss Hastings."

Holmes opened his mouth to put forth his next line of protest, but Sparrow spoke up first, offering my companion a grateful look.

"No worries, Holmes," the pirate said with a wan but somewhat roguish grin, "it's not like I haven't encountered this particular predicament before."

"I see. Lestrade, would you mind terribly if I had a word with Sparrow?" Holmes asked.

Lestrade frowned, clearly unhappy with the entire situation.

"Just a few points that I find it necessary to clear up," Holmes responded, sinking tiredly back into his chair. It was very like Holmes to want to know the minutiae of his cases, even as exhausted as he was.

"Well?" Lestrade inquired with ill-disguised irritation, prompting Holmes to get on with his line of questioning.

Sparrow, who seemed to be showing no untoward effects from the half bottle of rum, turned his attention politely towards Holmes.

"I assume, from your actions, that one draught from the Fountain of Youth is not enough to sustain a man's life indefinitely?" Holmes enquired.

"Nope. Ten years," Sparrow replied helpfully. "One drink, one decade."

"Aging ceases, wounds heal?" Holmes asked.

"Yep. I look pretty darn good for two hundred and nine if I do say so meself," Sparrow added with a cocksure grin. "Also, as my illustrious counterpart has so aptly demonstrated, should said wound be fatal…"

"Two days later life is once again breathed into the deceased," Holmes finished for him, looking quite sober.

"Bloody nuisance if someone has been overly efficient in seeing that one's apparently deceased remains are respectfully interred," Jack said with a grimace.

"One would imagine," Holmes replied, slightly unsettled. "And should one not obtain more water at the end of the decade, one resumes his place among the common mortals?"

Here Sparrow became more sober than I had seen him to date. He said nothing, but his dark eyes met Holmes's with a slightly haunted look, he shook his head once, and the message was clear: the end of the decade was the end of the decade.

"I recall," Holmes continued after a moment of reflection, "that you earlier mentioned having first drunk the water 'one hundred and seventy years ago to the month.' You're very short on time."

Jack shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned.

"But this is all cobwebs and moonshine!" Lestrade exclaimed, finally breaking in upon the conversation. "Surely you can't possibly believe that the Fountain of Youth is the explanation, Holmes?"

I couldn't blame the inspector for finding the topic of conversation somewhat fantastic.

"I have no other theory." Holmes's answer gave the impression that it was unyielding, and that he was almost as unhappy about it as the inspector.

No one said anything for a long moment, but I saw Holmes's gaze flick expectantly in Lydia's direction, almost as if he'd been timing when it was her question would come.

"So he's going to jail and that's that?" she asked unhappily, looking expectantly at each of us.

"I'm afraid so, my dear," I said quietly, taken aback at how disappointed I myself was at my own answer.

"The law must be upheld, Miss Hastings," Lestrade replied, doing his best to be kind in the way he answered her.

"But it doesn't seem at all fair," she complained to him, and although she spoke calmly, it was not difficult to miss the storm clouds gathering in those smoky grey eyes. It was elementary to deduce that Lydia, once her life had been save by Jack Sparrow, felt that her rescue at his hands should somehow count towards cancelling out his other infractions of the law, especially now that murder was not among them. No doubt was present in my mind that she had forgiven him already, and that she understood what being incarcerated and detained would mean for him. She knew, as did Holmes and I, that when Jack Sparrow made the decision to leave the flask to Barbossa and save her instead, that he knew he was risking trading his life in return for hers.

"Did I make it quite clear, Inspector, that I would be dead, if not for his unselfish actions?" she asked of Lestrade in an exceedingly polite manner, her unblinking gaze locked on his.

Lestrade opened his mouth, likely to answer her with a sharp comment, but I must give him credit for maintaining his composure and his professional demeanour.

"That you did, Miss Hastings," he replied, his tone mimicking hers, "and I shall do my best to emphasize that fact when I am called upon to testify."

I expected an angry reply or break in her stoic civility, but suddenly it was as if the gathering storm had dissipated with the whims of Mother Nature, and Lydia let go a sigh of obvious resignation and stood up calmly.

"Thank you, Inspector," she said tiredly, making the effort to offer him a brief smile. "I shall be in your debt for endeavouring to do so.

"Now, if you'll all excuse me?" she asked, looking to the rest of us and then making her way from the room.

Lestrade took that opportunity to stand and approach Sparrow. "Seeing as how we've all got a bit of a wait before the first morning train from Sandhurst," he said, "I hope you will forgive the precaution." He held up a pair of handcuffs and glanced at an empty armchair meaningfully.

Jack shrugged, roused himself from his ottoman, and sat down in the chair, allowing the inspector to shackle his right hand to the arm without resistance of any kind.

While Lestrade was preoccupied, Holmes leaned close to me, wearing a look both somewhat amused and contemplative. "If I were to ask you, Watson, who you think to be the most dangerous person in this room, what might your answer be?"

"You," I said without hesitation.

"Well, yes, that's likely true," he replied with a brief chuckle, "but aside from that?"

"Certainly Sparrow," I replied, wondering why Holmes would ask me such a thing.

"So my answer would have been until a half moment ago," Holmes replied softly. "I'm beginning to rethink it after the way our lovely assistant looked before she left the room."

"I saw nothing but acceptance and resignation, Holmes. She may not like it, but she's certainly bright enough to understand why the law is the way it is." I was about to comment, in mild exasperation, about Holmes's persistent mistrust of the fairer sex, when he spoke again first.

"I wager you underestimate her, Watson," answered Holmes. "Miss Hastings is a woman of no little patience and determination. She is educated and perspicacious; she has competed successfully with the men in her field and earned herself a coveted and somewhat eminent position at the British Museum. I daresay she is used to getting her way, mostly because of tenacity and fortitude of will."

"But don't you think it possible that her father had a hand in that?" I asked, bringing up the obvious.

"Propose that to Miss Hastings, my dear fellow, and I think you shall see the thunderclouds roll in once more," Holmes said with another brief chuckle. He hadn't missed her short lived expression of displeasure with Lestrade.

"Indeed, Watson, the look you saw before she left the room was one of resignation to an alternative course of action, not one of defeat. You mark me well. Women are dealt cards that men are not, and I stake my reputation on our lovely assistant playing from a hand which neither you nor I possess."

I was too exhausted to argue with Holmes at that point, and my head and shoulder were still throbbing dully, precluding much in the way of cohesive thought. Jack Sparrow had slumped back in his chair, looking pensive and largely unconcerned at being arrested and informed of his rights by Lestrade.

Lestrade looked as bad as I felt as he resumed his seat, setting his revolver on the table at his elbow now that Sparrow was secured. In fact, our small party was a sorry sight in general, much more bruised and battered than when we had arrived at the large old house in Owlsmoor.

Lydia's thoughts must have been running along the same lines, for a few moments later, after exploring the servants' quarters, she brought back a basket containing gauze and antiseptic, a bowl, towels, and a pitcher of water.

"Let's see that head," she said, coming to stand behind my chair. I allowed her to treat the small gash on the back of my skull from the impact of the rock. I must admit, although the antiseptic stung annoyingly, that it was not unpleasant to be tended to and have the dried blood cleaned from my neck by gentle feminine hands. When she was satisfied with the appearance of my minor injury, she moved across the room to Lestrade, knowing that nothing further could be done for Holmes's wound until I could get my hands on some suture.

"We should clean those," Lydia said to Lestrade, indicating the three linear gashes across his cheek. "They'll scar if they become infected.

"May I?" she asked pleasantly, holding up antiseptic and gauze.

Lestrade looked like he would have protested, had he not also appeared so weary, and he nodded and let her approach.

Holmes had been nonchalantly, yet purposefully, making a point of watching everything Lydia did from the moment when she had re-entered the room, and I could tell, although he was slumped in his chair and pained by his wound, that he was carefully monitoring her interaction with the inspector.

"One catches more flies with honey than vinegar," he murmured to me softly without looking my way.

"Holmes, what are you on about?" I asked, watching as Lydia tended the inspector's cuts the same way she had mine.

"Keep a close eye on her, Watson," he replied.

And so I did, listening to her speak to Lestrade of what had happened in the barn.

"That animal must have been quite fierce to have attacked you that way and done this," Lydia prattled on sympathetically as she finished cleaning the blood off his face.

"Wot, Jack?" Sparrow spoke up derisively from his chair. "Bloody monkey's only a foot high."

Lydia shot a sharp look his way. "So are the giant rats of Sumatra," she countered, "and you wouldn't take them so lightly. You'll have to remember, Captain Sparrow, that not all of us have encountered an undead monkey before."

With that, she turned her attentions back to Lestrade. "It must have given you quite a start. I'm sure I would have fainted dead away at such a horrible sight, but you must be accustomed to seeing some awful things as an experienced investigator."

"Well, that is true," Lestrade answered, a bit of his cocksure manner returning at the vote of confidence from the pretty naturalist. "We witness some fairly unpleasant and sometimes difficult to explain events in my line of work. Isn't that right, Mr. Holmes?" he added, glancing in our direction.

"Quite," Holmes replied briefly, seemingly disinterested.

Lydia broke out the antiseptic and began applying it to Lestrade's cuts. I knew how much it stung, but I could tell that Lestrade was gritting his teeth and attempting not to let on just how intensely unpleasant it was in front of Miss Hastings.

"Oh, that must sting terribly," she said sympathetically. "Here, this will help." And before Lestrade could stoically protest that it wasn't anything she should concern herself with, the young woman leaned close and blew lightly on his cheek, drying and cooling the bitter antiseptic she had applied there.

If Lestrade had looked unsettled over the creature he had encountered, he was certainly having nearly as difficult a task in trying to maintain some semblance of composure under the close attentions of our comely young assistant. She'd charmed him once in the jail, and it was apparent that Lestrade was beginning to look a bit flustered, although not displeased, at all her fuss.

"That must be better?" she asked a moment later, tucking the antiseptic and unused gauze back in the basket.

"Much," Lestrade croaked. "Thank you."

Holmes glanced at me ever so briefly and raised a meaningful eyebrow, but I admit that I still hadn't perceived whatever it was he was convinced he had. We both watched her as she approached Jack.

"Come to tend to me bumps and bruises?" Jack asked her, a mischievous grin appearing. "You'll find it easier to do from here," he added.

Lydia's gaze dropped momentarily to where he was patting his knee, and then rose again to meet Jack's.

"I shouldn't think I would like to get that close to you," she said with minor disdain. "You're likely to have some foul trick up your sleeve."

Jack's grin became a full-fledged roguish smile. "Of course I do," he replied in a swaggering tone. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

Lestrade nearly rolled his eyes, while Holmes sat forward ever so slightly in his chair next to me as he watched their conversation unfold.

"Still, you should let me tend to that cut," she said, indicating the small laceration over one eye that I daresay was my doing during our scuffle on the roof.

"It'll be long gone in half an hour, love," Jack assured her even as she reached into the basket of supplies.

"As will I," he murmured to her softly, and then he leapt from his chair and for the second time that day, grabbed the poor girl, and pressed a knife to her throat. Gauze and antiseptic cascaded across the floor as Lydia cried out and dropped the basket.

Lestrade was on his feet in an instant, revolver trained on Sparrow, who was utilizing our lovely assistant as a human shield. I had also reflexively thrown myself out of my chair and was now frozen in place, wishing once more not to jeopardise the girl. Holmes, however, remained seated, appraising the situation calmly.

"Now," Jack said with some authority, "I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but apparently it has. Please put down the gun, Inspector." When Lestrade didn't move fast enough for his liking, Sparrow jerked Lydia's arm behind her back just hard enough to elicit a small, pained gasp from her. Lestrade, obviously vexed at the turn of events, slowly set the revolver down again on the table at his elbow.

"I shall be going," Sparrow announced, "and to ensure that you gents don't do anything stupid, the lovely Miss Hastings shall be accompanying me.

"However," he continued, fending off the protests that Lestrade and I had started to issue, "I shall release her once we've made it outdoors, as long as I see no sign of any of you setting foot outside this house. In return for a head start of half an hour, I shall return your bonny assistant to you unharmed."

"Done," Holmes replied without hesitation, provoking a look of irritation and disbelief from Lestrade.

"But, Mr. Holmes!" The inspector's protest went unheeded by the detective.

"We have an accord, then?" Jack asked, addressing Holmes.

"We do."

"Then, once more, I must take my leave, gentlemen. Cheers!"

And with that Sparrow swept the two of them out the door and down the stairs.

Lestrade managed to contain himself for all of thirty seconds, but when the front door of the house banged shut below us, he ran to the window to see what was happening. Concerned for Lydia's safety, yet feeling somehow that Sparrow would be true to his word, I joined the inspector at the window.

Holmes, curiously enough, rose from his chair and crossed the short distance to where Sparrow had been sitting. He stared down at the medical supplies strewn across the floor, and then bent to examine them further. When he straightened back up, I swore he'd just tucked something in his waistcoat pocket, but his expression revealed nothing.

"He'll take her to the barn, I wager, and once he has the horse he needs, he'll set her free." Holmes made his pronouncement and then slumped wearily back in his chair.

Just as Holmes had predicted, a moment or two later a lone figure astride a horse rode out of the barn, quickly accelerating eastward, no doubt where the first pirate had also headed with monkey and horse. In the moonlight it was easy to visualize Lydia, calmly making her way back towards the house.

"Lestrade," Holmes added after a moment, "how many horses were left in the barn?"

"What? Why?" Lestrade asked, already hurrying across the room toward the stairs to check on the young naturalist. "There were three," he added when Holmes didn't reply to his own questions.

"Excellent. Might I suggest, seeing as how you are both the least incapacitated and carry the most authority, that you take the third horse to the village and arrange for a four-wheeler for our transport to Sandhurst? Oh, and you might rouse the local doctor, who, I am sure, is accustomed to being woken at all hours, and obtain whatever supplies Dr. Watson tells you he needs."

"But Sparrow…" Lestrade began.

"Will not be caught this night," Holmes replied. "I shouldn't let it concern you, my good Lestrade. If Sparrow fails to catch up to Barbossa and the flask, you shan't have need of pursuing him further. If he succeeds, then you have ten years during which to find him."

Lydia returned at that moment, looking less harried than I should have expected for someone who had just been taken as a temporary hostage, and after replying to our queries that she was perfectly alright, sat down to listen to the remainder of the ongoing conversation.

"Well, I'd say it's not likely for him to hang about London waiting to be caught," Lestrade replied back with a fair amount of frustration and sarcasm colouring his words.

"No, I suppose not," Holmes replied blandly. He then adopted a pensive attitude and spoke again. "You know, Lestrade, I have ever been thankful that in my line of occupation I am not required to submit official paperwork, but I must say that I particularly don't envy you the report you shall have to prepare for this specific case."

"And why is that?" Lestrade asked.

"You plan to include all the relevant details?"

Lestrade frowned and spoke hesitantly. "Well, erm, I…that is…"

"Two hundred year old pirates, corpses breaking out of Scotland Yard, undead monkeys…" Holmes went on. "You'll have to explain that Sparrow escaped from custody on your watch, and that Barbossa, who was not actually dead, did also."

I'd rarely seen the poor inspector look less pleased.

"Not a report that I'd be anxious to hand in to the Chief Superintendent," Holmes said pointedly.

"You're sure you have no other theory?" Lestrade asked after a moment, beginning to sound desperate.

"No, but I do have a suitable explanation," Holmes said with some encouragement. "Fetch the supplies and arrange the cab, and by the time we get back to London, I think you shall have a report that, while not glowing, shall facilitate damage control and negate the need for the Yard to question whether or not you are in your right mind."

Looking like a tired and beaten dog, Lestrade headed out on his errand.

"Now, Miss Hastings," Holmes said to her, once he heard Lestrade exit the house, "will you be the one to return this to Inspector Lestrade, or shall I?"

The naturalist's face went quite red at that moment, and I saw that Holmes held in his hand Lestrade's key to the handcuffs he'd placed on Sparrow.

"Good heavens!" I gasped. I was quick enough to recognise that she must have taken it without Lestrade's knowledge, likely when she'd distracted him by tending to his wounds.

"You planned on slipping this to Sparrow after you'd tucked it into that basket of gauze," Holmes went on calmly.

Lydia said nothing for a long moment, and then spoke after taking a deep, fortifying breath and letting it back out. "I couldn't let him die after he saved my life, Mr. Holmes. As you stated, I was going to give him the key so that he might have a chance."

"And yet our pirate friend was already one step ahead of you," Holmes replied, favouring the young woman with a wan smile. "I suspect he released himself with one of the three sets of keys that he still had on his person after the constable assaults."

"But, Holmes," I began with a frown, "I never saw Sparrow undo the handcuffs."

"Of course not; you were much too absorbed with monitoring Miss Hastings' activities, and too focused on the same thing that Lestrade was to recognise that she'd picked his pocket."

"I recalled from the jail which pocket he tended to keep his keys in," Lydia said with a shrug.

"You knew!" I exclaimed suddenly to Holmes. "You knew that he was trying to escape, and yet you did nothing."

"Au contraire," Holmes replied, smiling again. "I saw to it that your attention was also applied elsewhere, thus relieving you of the burden of trying to decide whether or not you should rat him out for being a pirate, or bite your tongue since he acted as any other good man would."

"This isn't the first time that you've taken it upon yourself to decide that a man shouldn't be left to the law," I said, less annoyed with him than I ought to have been.

Holmes's manner became more serious. "No, I admit you are right, but it is quite one thing to leave a man to face the consequences of his crimes, and quite another to condemn him to death before he ever makes a court appearance to be accused.

"I do believe Miss Hastings agrees with me," Holmes added, tucking the key back in his own pocket. "I shall see to it that the key which Lestrade dropped is returned to him upon his arrival back."

The two shared a look of understanding, and it was clear to me, once Lestrade had written the amended police report, that Jack Sparrow was going to disappear into the mists of London and of time.

~~o~~

Holmes was as good as his word, and by the time I had dealt with his wound and we had caught the first early train out of Sandhurst, he had managed to dictate to Lestrade a very simple explanation that involved Sparrow making his escape from Baker Street and not having been found after a long night of searching. Holmes was content to let Lestrade add that even he had been unsuccessful at tracking the pirate.

As for the disappearance of Hector Barbossa, Holmes smiled gently and said there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind, that upon hearing of his death, that a gang of drunken comrades from the Oxford club had broken into the mortuary, stolen the body, and seen that he'd had a proper burial at sea. Conveniently, the body would never wash back up onshore.

Once Lestrade had submitted his report and the case had been closed, he never spoke of the matter again; it was almost as if he preferred to treat things as if they never had happened. The scratches on his cheek took some time to completely fade, a constant reminder for a while of what exactly did happen that night in Owlsmoor, but when any of his colleagues asked what had happened to his face, he would mutter something vague about a female pickpocket that he had been attempting to arrest. The other inspectors would merely smile at his reticence in disclosing the details, amused at the idea of Lestrade getting cat scratched in a struggle with a woman.

As for Miss Hastings, she was filled with the same curiosity that I was, and the next day accompanied me to the celebration for Admiral Sir Wellesley's seventy-fifth birthday jubilee. Holmes elected to remain at home, trusting me to report back anything significant that we might find, and I left him in a deep sleep induced by his exhaustion and the dose of morphine I had given him to ease the pain of the wound from his duel. Although it would heal well under my medical supervision, he would always have a scar across his upper left arm.

The jubilee was a grand celebration, and Lydia and I joined an enormous throng of people to catch a glimpse of the ships upon the Thames. A little brochure had been available with the names and descriptions of most of the prominent vessels, both military and otherwise, participating that day, and although the brief histories and service records of many of them were fascinating, there was really only one ship which my female companion and I were interested in seeing.

We were not disappointed.

During a procession of some of the oldest vessels from the posts where Admiral Sir Wellesley had served, India and the Caribbean, there appeared among them, like a black swan among its paler compatriots, a ship which could only be the one we sought. Decked in celebratory colourful ribbons which contrasted sharply with the ebony sails, the Black Pearl also flew a Jolly Roger, a salute to the fact, according to what Lydia read to me from the brochure, that the grand old ship had once had a reputation as the 'fiercest of pirate ships'. We shared a knowing smile, confident in the knowledge that the brochure was not completely accurate about the ship's questionable career being over. The crew of the ship was decked out in pirate costume, and although the colours waving overhead were those of the Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea, neither Lydia nor I could catch a glimpse of either of the pirates we had encountered, and we left to return to Baker Street, perhaps just a little discouraged.

Holmes had roused himself by the time we arrived back, and was ensconced in his armchair, cloaked in his dressing gown, and wreathed by a small fog of tobacco smoke.

"Well?" he asked expectantly, puffing contentedly on his pipe.

"She was there," I informed him, "and a bonny black thing she is indeed."

"Her colours?" Holmes asked. "Was she flying any?"

"Barbossa's," Lydia replied, sitting on the sofa next to me, "but there was no sign on deck of either of them."

"I see," Holmes replied absently, lost in thought for another moment.

"Do you think we'll ever know what became of him?" Lydia asked, clearly still concerned for the rogue who had helped save her life.

"I suspect," replied Holmes, emerging from his contemplative reverie at last and meeting her gaze, "that should Captain Sparrow be successful in his endeavour, that he won't be able to help but let us know." Holmes said nothing of the possibility of the pirate not succeeding, but I'm sure it was something that comprised part of all our thoughts.

"Well, I must be going," Lydia said, rising to her feet. She went to stand before Holmes' chair. "Thank you," she said to him, holding out her hand.

"For what, my dear Miss Hastings?" Holmes enquired. "I should be thanking you for your invaluable assistance."

"Jack Sparrow was not the only one who probably saved my life on that roof," she said pointedly, while Holmes waved off the notion dismissively with the pipe in his hand. "Indeed, I owe both you and Doctor Watson that debt. Pray, do call upon me if ever I might be of assistance in the future."

"I shall," Holmes replied, favouring her with a brief smile as he shook her hand. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," Lydia replied softly, and I admit to fighting off a grin as she bent over him, trapped as he was in his chair, and planted a small kiss on his cheek. He flashed her the briefest of unsteady smiles, most apparently discomforted by her affectionate gesture. If in fact he wasn't squirming in his seat externally, he certainly must have been internally.

I accompanied her to the door to say my goodbyes.

"I wager that we'll hear news of our curious friend in time," I said, trying to bolster hope for her.

She nodded, and then appearing to have made up her mind about something or other, stepped forward and quickly embraced me.

"Thank you," she whispered, stepping back after only a brief hug, so as not to seem inappropriate.

"You are most welcome, my dear," I replied warmly. "Do keep in touch, will you?"

"I shall," she said, smiling as she shook my hand, and after placing a similar chaste kiss on my cheek, she was gone down the stairs.

"I suggest you check your pockets, Doctor," Holmes said drily, and when I turned to face him, he wore a slight smirk that informed me he was merely implying, not that Lydia would have taken anything, but that I had been sufficiently distracted that she might have had the opportunity.

"And I suggest you check yours, my dear Holmes," I said in return, and I laughed as I held up the small box of matches which Lydia had pressed into my hand upon her departure.

~~o~~

Epilogue

It was a lovely, brisk, mid-October afternoon when I returned to Baker Street after my rounds, and I opened the door to the sitting room, only to find Sherlock Holmes rifling through his records, standing amidst a small avalanche of papers he had already carelessly discarded as he yanked more out of the folder in his hands, snarled in frustration, and then tossed them aside.

"Wilson, garrotter, June of eighty-five!" he cried in agitation, answering my question as to just what file he was looking for before I could ask it. "It is under neither 'G' nor 'W'!"

Calmly, I stepped next to him and retrieved the binder for 'S', holding it out to him.

Holmes stared at the folder icily for a moment and then lifted his gaze to meet mine.

"And why, pray, is James Wilson the garrotter filed under 'S'?" he asked with ill-disguised irritation.

I simply held up the file bearing the title The Case of the Sussex Strangler.

"Honestly, Watson!" he gasped, dropping the folder he held into the pile at his feet and taking the one I had offered him. "You do go out of your way to romanticise the titles of your accounts."

He flung himself into his armchair and tore open the file.

I was about to insist that I had thought the title rather catchy, when Mrs. Hudson knocked upon the door and then entered, a long, narrow box tucked under one arm.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," she said, "I have a package that was delivered for Mr. Holmes."

She handed over the odd-shaped parcel and left, throwing a look of disgust over her shoulder at the small mountain of paper and then tossing up her hands in frustration.

Curious, I scrutinised the addresses on the label as I went to set it aside, but what I read made me hang onto it and read it again.

"Holmes, you have a package."

Holmes gestured at his desk without looking up from his file. "Just leave it there, if you would."

"I really think you're going to want to see this," I insisted.

Holmes let the hand holding the file drop into his lap in mild exasperation. "Watson, I am busy at the moment. Just who is it from?"

"It doesn't say."

"Is there at least an address from the sender?" he asked, still clearly disinterested.

"All it says is Tortuga."

"Tor…" Holmes was on his feet quickly, and together we placed the package on the table and examined it. It was about three and a half feet long, eight inches wide, the same in depth, and only moderately heavy. It was addressed in neat handwriting, that of a man, to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at the appropriate address, and the postmarks confirmed that the parcel before us had indeed traveled all the way from the West Indies to reach us. Holmes cut open and stripped off the plain paper that had surrounded the likewise plain wooden box, and using the poker from the fireplace, gently prised off the lid.

Inside was a fair amount of straw packing material with a single sheet of paper resting atop it. Holmes held it up so that we could both read it at the same time.

For Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the only other man in two centuries to have crossed blades with Hector Barbossa and survived, compliments of the first. Cheers, mate.

C J S

The note was brief but spoke volumes, for CJS could only be one person: Captain Jack Sparrow. As we had last seen him in August with less than a month to live, and this was October, it was clear that somehow he had managed to catch up with his nemesis. Other than discovering that he'd recently been in the Caribbean, I wondered if we'd ever learn of his whereabouts again.

My musings were interrupted when Holmes reached back into the box, and shaking off the straw that covered it, raised an antique sword from the depths; the very one he had fought with that strange night in Owlsmoor. How it had come to travel to the Caribbean and back was a mystery even Holmes wouldn't theorize about.

"We shall have to inform Miss Hastings that he survived," I said, thinking that I would send off a quick letter to inform her of the arrival of the package.

"Somehow I think that she may already know," said Holmes, appraising the sword and then the walls of the sitting room as he looked for an appropriate place that he might hang it.

We would find out later that he was right, and that Lydia had, the same day, anonymously received a tiny box at the museum with the same vague return address. It contained a fine gold chain upon which was mounted a small, but singularly stunning black pearl. She knew, despite the lack of a note, precisely who had sent it.

Holmes placed the sword upon his desk, and distracted for the moment from whatever case had caused him to pull the Wilson file, sat back down in his chair and lit his pipe, drifting in thought as I took my seat across from him.

After several long moments of contemplating our adventure and the fact that Sparrow had survived, I finally decided to ask Holmes a question I had been meaning to for the past two months.

"Would you do it?"

Holmes glanced at me and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Drink from the Fountain, I mean, if given the chance," I clarified. "Would you extend your life for decades, perhaps centuries, if you had the opportunity?"

Holmes took the pipe from between his lips. "Would you?" he asked me.

I had had two months during which I had repeatedly revisited the notion, and I already knew my answer.

"No, I don't think I would," I said.

Sherlock Holmes smiled warmly at me for just a moment, and then his eyes drifted down to the file he lifted up off his lap.

"Then neither would I, my dear Watson," he said softly, still smiling. "Neither would I."

~~o~~

A/N: Thank you to everyone who took a chance on reading this peculiar mix of characters, and to everyone who sent encouraging comments about it!

For the record, Admiral Sir George Greville Wellesley was a real person, and at about the time this adventure takes place, would have been, give or take a year, about seventy-five years old. He did in fact serve in India and the West Indies.

According to PotC lore, Jack Sparrow is (or was!) the only person to have ever dueled Hector Barbossa and lived. Of course, he cheated and Holmes got lucky, but all that counts is the outcome.

Oh, and I suspect, should Lady Broadnax manage to coerce poor Holmes into attending her upcoming Hallow's Eve party, that he and Watson will probably already have an idea for costumes. :)