Obligatory disclaimer: The Mouse owns all, save my original characters.

A/N: Please bear with me on this. I was not happy with the lack of screen time James received, nor the method of his... departure. So I am doing some tampering. Which means, yes, this is completely self-serving.

James opened his eyes slowly, every fiber of his body tense in expectation that danger was forthcoming. He swallowed hard and forced his breath to slow. The last thing he remembered was the looming figure of Davy Jones rising above him, asking, "Do you fear death?" Despite the searing pain in his chest at the time, James had appropriately responded by thrusting his sword through the merman, for all the good it did. Even through the fog of agony washing over him, James knew it was pointless to try to kill someone who was already dead. Then blackness enveloped his senses.

But as he opened his eyes, James found that he was not on the deck of the Flying Dutchman. Nor riding the waves from being tossed overboard in disregard. Nor washed up on a sandy shore somewhere with birds circling, waiting for him to die. Instead, he was lying in a bed in a room he was not at all familiar with. Sunlight filtered through curtains made of homespun fabric, casting the room in warm glow. The walls were whitewashed and everything in the room, which was absent of any adornment, was also pale. It was difficult to tell if it was morning or afternoon, for there was no clock in the room and his personal effects were absent. He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed to explore the rest of the home, but found himself too weak to do so and a sweat broke out upon his brow.

"Ah, I see you finally awoke. I was beginning to wonder – you have been out for quite some time."

Startled, James sank back against the pillows and turned in the direction of the voice, staring in surprise as a young woman entered the room carrying an armful of fresh towels. She was dressed very plainly, in a navy skirt and white blouse, and her ebony hair was pulled back into a simple braid that fell to the middle of her back. Her lips were curved into a warm smile that was so infectious that James found himself helpless but to return her grin.

The woman glided across the floor, setting the towels upon a bureau and then sinking into the chair next to the bed. Her features were serene and pleasing – and James found himself gawking at her like some awestruck schoolboy. The black of her hair caused the paleness of her skin to appear luminescent. Her eyes, dark with concern, were the richest, deepest brown he could ever remember seeing and were shadowed a delicately drawn brow that was currently knitted with worry. James placed her age to be nearly ten years his junior, but a sudden headache appeared behind his eyes and the pain overrode all ability to make judgments.

Watching her patient struggle with confusion and pain, she placed a slim hand against his forehead, hoping her touch was cool against the fever that greeted her. This time she was not worried, for although his skin had been warm for several days now, the fact that he had awaken probably meant that the fever was breaking. She wet her lips before asking, "How are you feeling?"

James quirked an eyebrow. Such a simple question, but the answer was legion. He opted for concise until he felt stronger. "Exhausted. Sore. Confused. Thirsty."

Nodding her head in either agreement of amusement, she smiled ruefully before replying, "The last I can easily remedy. The others will be taken care of in due time." She rose from the chair and crossed the room. Beneath the window, a pitcher sat within a basin on a well-worn table. Hidden from his view, but appearing when she picked it up, a drinking glass was quickly filled and then water spilled into the basin. A washcloth was dipped into the water and then wrung out. Sinking back into the chair, his hostess, for lack of a better word, presented him with the water and smiled. "Drink up."

James took the glass and was grateful that she knew instinctively to help him sit up, although he felt like an idiot because he was indeed so helpless. She braced his shoulders so that he could properly sit up, one of her hands rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. It occurred to him, fleetingly, that such actions were inappropriate, but as some of the tension washed away, James wished for her to never stop.

Once the glass was empty and he was resettled on the pillows, the cool washcloth blanketing his brow, James felt that he was owed a few answers. But since she had been so kind, and he felt so fragile, demanding that she give responses seemed rather hostile. So he quietly asked, "I feel quite foolish in asking, but how… how did I get here?"

Her laughter was like bells, comforting and filling the air. Taking the empty tumbler from James, she set it on the bedside table and sighed. It had not been discussed how to handle the aftermath of his arrival in her home, but she figured honesty, in very small doses until James gained more strength, was the best course of action. "A mutual acquaintance of ours asked that I care for you during your convalescence. They promised me that you were well on the path to recovery when I received you and that you just needed a little more help in gaining strength. Basically, I was told that you needed help in recovering from your injury. On others, that wound would have been mortal. You are very lucky. But none of that matters right now. You are safe. You are tired. You need more rest."

It suddenly dawned on James that he had been skewered through by that whelp Will Turner's father. Pulling away the fabric of the borrowed shirt he was wearing from his shoulder, he swallowed hard. Sure enough, there was a freshly formed pink scar that started right above his heart. Unable to look and see where it continued, his hands dropped from the garment and James closed his eyes, grimacing in frustration.

Her slim fingers lightly touched in his forearm, causing him to sigh. Her voice was low for a woman, but the cadence was almost lyrical. Listening to her speak was enough to relax some of the tension from his muscles. "There is nothing to be upset about. Soon, you shall be back to your old self. I have brought you two books to read. Cervantes' 'Don Quixote' and Homer's 'Odyssey.' I was told that you were well educated, so I thought to pass the time you might want something to do." She stood and slipped the two tomes out from the pile of towels, placing them within reach on the nightstand.

James watched her, but since sleep was demanding that he submit to its will, his words came out slurred when he said, "What I want to do is get out of here. Wherever here is."

Hands went to hips in mock exasperation. "Admiral Norrington, you are doing amazingly well, but you are as weak as a newborn. I promise you that you shall be up and about in no time. But do not push yourself before you are ready." A smile curved her lips, this time reaching her eyes.

Her words intruded into his descent into slumber, pulling him awake. Panic darkened his green eyes to black. "You know, I know nothing right now. I mean not to be rude, but who are you? Where am I?" He almost winced at how his words spilled forth, like the ravings of a madman. However, with no information, it was like he was being held prisoner.

A cool washcloth was pressed against his brow in immediate response. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I know it is easier said than done, but try to relax and not to fret. I am a friend. That is all you need to know right now. Try to rest and as you gain strength, I shall tell you more." She looked at him for several moments, her gaze roaming over his features, before rising and making for the door.

Exhaustion beat at him with two fists, but since he still had more questions than answers, he struggled to sit upright. Hating the tone in his voice, James nonetheless was unable to keep the desperation out of his words. "Then your name. Please, if nothing else, I ask that I might know your name."

She stopped in her tracks. Her hand was on the doorknob and all she wanted to do was slip from the confines of the room. But she shouldered the responsibility of caring for the man until he was not only healthy, but stong – both physically and mentally. Before shutting the door behind her, she smiled back at the man on the bed. "Helen. My name is Helen."

Then the door latched shut.