Freebooters:
Jack Sparrow Sherlock Holmes Crack Fic

This is a crack fic requested on the Pirate Blog I follow on Tumblr. The request was for "Now that belletrist has put the idea in my head, I really want to read a crack!fic with Jack Sparrow and Pirate!Sherlock on the same ship, preferably both captive in the same brig. Does this not sound amazing? Yes. Good. So glad you agree." from another blogger named TheLabyrinthsScribe. I hope she enjoys it.

Though this involves my Pirate Captain version of Sherlock Holmes, it is in NO WAY canon to my other story Glimpse of Gold. It just so happens to mention some plot points but nothing significant and should in no way take any sort of predicting point for the other story. This is just ridiculous crack fic.

None of these characters belong to me. I don't profit from this and it is only done for fun and laughs. No harm or ill intentions meant.

Captain Sherlock Holmes had no earthly idea how he'd ended up in the brig of one of the most widely-known British Royal Navy Flagship or how he'd come to be in irons.

Oh, he knew it was a British Royal Fleet ship by the insignia stamped upon the crates across the way from him, and the types of bars and wood used in the construction of the ship. What he didn't know was how he had gotten aboard the ship in the first place, and without someone noticing his absence. Even if he'd walked off willingly, surely someone would have seen him depart with a group of strangers and alerted his first mate Lestrade or the rest of his crew. No one should have been able to get him away from Tortuga without someone in his employ noticing, even if he couldn't quite remember what had happened prior to him waking up here.

The last thing he could remember was sitting down at a nice little tavern in Tortuga, ordering quite the pint, and letting himself relax after yet another successful raid on some well-to-do ship coming out of a poorly guarded harbor. His crew had long since run off into the ether and left him to his ways, as they always did, and his ship had been secured safely in the harbor where not even the brightest of fleet ships could penetrate and not be spotted. No one had alerted him to an imminent attack and no one other than the other patrons around him seemed all that unordinary. He wouldn't have drank anything if they had, and as far as he could remember, he hadn't had more than the one pint. He wasn't really someone who drank to excess anyways, even when he did decide to indulge.

Which was why this entire situation seemed so damn confusing in the first place.

Apparently, whoever was sharing the tiny barred cell next door to his own agreed with him whole-heartedly, because as they started to move (and therefore got Sherlock's attention) they gave a loud groan and flopped over onto their side. The tiny bench they were perched on, however, wasn't made for that sort of movement and certainly didn't have the space to accommodate such thrashing, to that Sherlock could attest. But it was in some humor that Captain Holmes watched as the precariously perched figure made it a few more inches closer to the edge during whatever alcohol-induced flailing that they were indulging in and then promptly fell off the wooden plank and onto the disgusting, splattered floor beneath them. He didn't laugh, because Captain Holmes wasn't one for outright emotional outburst of any sort, but his smirk was enough to tell the tale of his humor, and it only perked up more when the ratty man -because it was indeed a man- rolled over to blink groggily at the ceiling.

The man was of average height, Sherlock supposed, though it was hard to tell from the man's position on the floor, with long dread-locked hair, complete with bits of string and other odds and ends. It was covered from the forehead up by a dingy red bandana that was tied tight in the back, beads and small bits of metal dangling from it as well, and had the clear indentations of what was probably a hat worn often near the edges and ears. He was dressed in the familiar fashion of someone who lived a life at sea, and had the familiar stench of body odor and alcohol clinging to him in an almost sentient cloud. Boots well worn on the hells and soles, so they'd seen a lot of running or movement and were more than likely fairly old, but well made. Expensive at one point, and not quite the right size for the feet they were worn on. Stolen then, not completely unheard of, but unusual enough by most upstanding society, which meant he lived around the law, much like Sherlock did.

That left him with several options of what the man could be, all of which he'd be able to tell from the mans affects that were clearly taken from him, since there was room at his waist for an ammunitions belt or other such pouches. But without them even Sherlock was hard pressed to tell what the man did with his life when he wasn't penned up in the British Royal brig. Though if Sherlock had to take a guess, based on the evidence in the surrounding cells (all full of still drunken men) he'd have to say he was a fellow pirate.

In total, there were about five or six of them that he could see from his sitting position along the wall. The cells weren't much more than enough room for one man to move about comfortably, two if they desired to be really close, and designed for prisoners they wished to keep a close eye on. Sherlock had been in this type of cell before, during one of his lovely stints with the lovely Captain Shang, whom he stole from and ran circle about on a regular basis. Her brig was designed much like this one was, built for the close quarters of her relatively sleek ship and the dangerous occupancy of her captures. Shang was a pirate hunter, plain and simple, and if there was anything to base his assumptions on here, Sherlock would say the say for this crew. Which led him to the obvious conclusion that the man in the cell directly next to his own on the right, was also a pirate. They were all pirates of some degree.

Bollocks...

Sherlock's smirk quickly faded back into his traditional scowl, all traces of former humor gone as he stood abruptly and made his way to the tiny door before him. It was the traditional pin-jam type of cell, one he could easily remove the pins in and escape, except for the fact that the edge with the pins had been secured shut at the top and bottom with two small bits of chain. To prevent his sort of escape, Sherlock suspected when he took a more careful look at it, effectively tuning out everyone else in the rat-holed brig around him. If he had any chance at escape he had to focus on his cell and no one else or their predicament, tune out the stimulus, and focus his mind down to the sharpened tool he'd trained it to be. He cared about nothing more than getting himself free and finding the quickest way off the ship, which by the motion of it, was anchored somewhere or still at harbor.

"Hm, fortuitous luck..." He murmured under his breath, long bony fingers poking decidedly at the chains to find even larger padlocks resting between the joined links. "Wonder if we're at sea or not. Most likely not but not enough variables."

Easily picked with the right tools, which he always carried about in his left boot, and he'd be off and out of the dungeon, up onto deck, and from there it was only a matter of time before he could sneak off the ship. Even if they were anchored at sea he could easily take a skiff and row out without notice once it had become dark -which was hard to tell from here in the belly of the ship- and to the nearest port. He was a Captain, after all, and what sort of rubbish would he be if he couldn't even navigate using the stars?

"I believe we're still in Tortuga, savvy?" The mystery man said suddenly from his right, the man's eyes blearily settling on his form in reply. Sherlock just blinked before he realized he'd talked out loud when brain storming. "Can't imagine being out for longer than that even with the night I had."

"Hmm." Sherlock just hummed in acknowledgement, his fingers still rapidly searching for a weak point in the irons or chain before he sat back down on the bench behind him and took off his boot.

"No reason to take off your clods, mate. I wouldn't be getting comfortable, if I was being you." The man smirked widely then showing off a mouth filled with gold teeth and mouth decay, the tiny beard that had been beaded moving as his mouth did. "Not when they're just going to be shoving us from this ship to ones headed for Port Royal."

"I'm hardly becoming comfortable." Sherlock retorted quickly before removing the small bits of metal he used as lock-picks, replacing his boot before standing just as swiftly as he had sat. "And we're not at port, but a ways out if we're anchored at sea. Close enough for long boats to row out but not technically in port all the same."

"Aye? And how did you reckon that?" The man finally lifted himself up and off the dingy, disgusting floor, practically throwing himself back into the seat along his wall, watching Sherlock with keen eyes. "Did you wake up while they drug you aboard?"

"No."

The man sighed in obvious frustration at not getting a more in depth response from Sherlock, but that was hardly on the top of his priorities list. Right now he was focused on getting the lock on both chains picked without anyone noticing his activities and without alerting any of his other prisoners to his activities. Which was why he was so irritated with the man next to him. He was making unnecessary noise as well as distracting him from his task, which was something that both annoyed and frustrated him to no end.

"Care to elaborate on that, friend?" The other man tried again, needling some sort of response with his questions and the banging of his body and belts against the metal bars. "Or are you just guessing?"

"I'm not guessing." Sherlock snipped back, turning to face the other cell instead of the locks he was getting ready to start picking. "The British Royal Naval seal is on the crate across the row from us, which leads me to the conclusion we are aboard a British run ship. If we are still near Tortuga -where I was in just hours previous, for I was not asleep that long and you said you were not either- then they are not parked in harbor, as it is a Spanish dominated island. If we are still near the island, like I expect, it is easy enough to get back to the mainland from a long boat."

"You got all that from a crate across from the brig line?" The other pirate blinked slightly, the gold-dotted smile quickly returning full force, though Sherlock cared little, even if it irked him. "Right oh mate, you must be one sort of eyes to get all that out of so little."

"I simply observe what is there in front of me. It is hardly my fault others are duped enough to not look about them properly." He was anything but polite, but that was hardly the least of his worries as the first lock clicked open and he quickly disengaged it from the chains it joined. "Simple locks, simple ideas, simple conclusions."

"Aye..." The pirate once again stood up and swaggered -as much as someone could swagger in a small cell- up to the bars of the connecting wall, sticking both hands through, one outstretched as if to shake. "Captain Jack Sparrow, of The Black Pearl, at your service."

Sherlock stopped messing with the lock long enough to meet the other man's eyes, from which he learned that the man was truthful...or that he at least thought himself truthful. But could this really be Captain Jack Sparrow, famed pirate Captain of The Black Pearl and its unruly crew? Captain Sparrow who was rumored to have battled against an undead crew and captured mermaids? Which in itself is unusual as not many in their profession would go anywhere near the sirens if they had any sense, himself included. He hadn't met John any other way than an accident, after all, and if stories were true, Sparrow hadn't interacted with the docile sex of the Merfolk species. He'd gone up against a good handful of the females in Whitecap Bay and came out alive...

Captain Holmes of course had heard all sorts of stories about the man in the cell next to him, none of which even prepared him for the shock that was finding some if not all of them to be true. And although those rumors of his appearance seemed to be false, he wasn't anything less than intimidating. He was no giant of a man, he wasn't as wide as he was tall with muscle, and he wasn't courting Death in any sense of the word unless one counted to encounters he had frequently with the authorities, but he did look to have a mouth filled with a quicksilver tongue and an even sharper mind. In short, this man was nothing like what Sherlock had come to expect from the legendary man next door, and it made him smirk. Captain Sparrow was quite the exception.

He didn't take the other man's hand, but he did nod in his direction once.

"Captain Sherlock Holmes." He conceded finally, tone whip-sharp and serious, eyeing the other man's hand as it retreated, unsure if he should be telling this or not. "Of The Science of Deduction."

Sparrow whistled deeply, his once-thought lazy eyes sharper now, inquisitive, and taking in far more that what Sherlock thought they were to begin with. He was an enigma, this Captain Sparrow, and someone to definitely be wary of if his posture was anything to go by. Relaxed but ready to spring up and run at any moment, tightly coiled intellect and muscles ready beneath a lazy and dull exterior. Sherlock was keen on watching people, it was a way to pass the time for him, and he knew danger when he saw it. And he clearly saw it sitting in the man next to him.

"Heard stories about you, little brother to the other 'Olmes Captain, of the friendly sort with a certain Pirate King and all. Dangerous the lot of you, quick in the mind and eyes." Jack elaborated, hands waggling for emphasis, a smirk making his face crinkle in the corners when he leered Sherlock's way. "A right force in and of yourself though, yeah? What with your eyes and all? A curious sort to say the least."

Sherlock stopped his work and turned to look at the other man again.

Curious was not a word associated with him very often.

"Yes, you are correct." He said slowly, cautiously, watching for a reaction that would tell him something. "I am the younger of the Holmes brothers, true. Though curious is not a word I often hear when describing me."

The Captain's smirk widened even more.

"Well, would yah look at that! I've heard a lot about you after all." Sparrow said again, this time with more emphasis on the end of his sentence, like his name was synonymous with some horrible event. It might be, knowing the rumors that circulated about them all. "Braved the likes of Commandant Moriarty and the British Royal Navy in order to save a large fishy of the sea, aye?"

"You're being redundant and annoying." Sherlock said definitively as he set about picking the last lock, the clinking signaling that it was open and that he could set about removing the hinge joints before escaping. "I did not brave anything. I was forced into confrontation with the man, yes, but I hardly saved anyone regardless of species. I have a rather persistent scar for the encounter which would almost claim otherwise."

Captain Sparrow laughed loudly, hooting his voice about the brig, making any number of the other occupants stir in their alcohol induced slumbers. Sherlock was worried that the noise would draw attention to them and made a slashing motion towards the significantly tanned man, hoping to silence him. It didn't, and even if Sparrow had seen it, which Sherlock didn't think he had, it wouldn't have helped any. Captain Jack Sparrow was not someone he could stop once started, and laughing wasn't any different. He was a force in and of itself, self-sufficient, and treacherous.

"You really are a proper mind then aren't you?" He bit out once he got done laughing himself hoarse, his smile nothing but blinding as he leered in Sherlock's direction. "Knew you'd be funny, like your brother. Met him once, I did, after he gave me a lift from a little island off the end of Cuba. A riot, he was, just like you."

"I'm hardly funny, Captain Sparrow, and neither is my brother." No one was coming at the loud sounds apparently, so Captain Holmes went back to his task of removing the chains from the door, the iron pins easily being removed with the flat iron tool he had. "Regardless of whether or not it actually matters, I do not see my brother taken to being called funny either. He would be most unpleasant."

Jack snickered again, resting his head against the bars before watching his progress through lidded eyes. It was a gesture made to look like he didn't know what was going on, as if he wasn't watching exactly how Sherlock was getting himself out of his captivity, but Holmes knew better. He could clearly see the move for what it was though and even if it fooled others, Sherlock was hardly able to have the wool pulled over his eyes in such a manner. Jack Sparrow might have been clever, but he was hardly on par with the likes of him and his elder brother. There wasn't a game out there that Sherlock didn't catch on too eventually and Sparrow's was no exception. Holmes was onto him.

"See, and that's why you're so entertaining. Such proper talk from an infamous pirate captain!" Jack nodded his head towards the cage door. "And suave to boot. You'll be outta here in no time with smarts like that and who knows where you'll go with bones as sharp as yours."

Sherlock huffed a breath.

Not even pirate captains could contain themselves from mocking his physical features.

"Am I to understand you want out as well?" Sherlock asked slowly as he stepped outside of his cell, the metal heavy and hard to move by himself, but he did just enough to slide it out so he could slip through. "I assume that's what you're getting at, anyways."

Jack just waggled his eyebrows in response.