Sherlock Holmes was out of sorts. Mildly irritated, he told himself. Rather pissed if he was being honest.
The day had started off gloriously. Bright blue skies, a cool breee, nary a cloud in sight and quite clearly a long, long way away from London and all of its intrigues, a suspicious Inspector and a rapidly closing down human trafficking ring in particular.
"The Caribbean" she said. "Someplace quiet, a nice neutral port with plenty of teahouses and opium dens" she claimed. "Just until things calm down in London," she assured.
Bollocks.
The (they being himself and Watson) had been at the sleepy Macau Port for a mere three days before trouble of some sort had caught up with them. Sherlock grumbled internally. He was never taking vacation advice from Ms Irene Addler again, regardless of if she payed for travel and accommodation or not.
"Thoughts?" Watson's statement intruded on Sherlock's musings.
Sherlock took a moment to examine their would be attackers with a critical eye. Faded, roughly patched clothing. Slightly rusted weapons. A touch of discolouration in the extremities of two, a sure symptom of scurvy.
"Corsairs," Holmes answered shortly. "Though for the life of me I cannot imagine why they would be here."
"Perhaps they heard of your vacation plans," Watson replied dryly, correctly guessing his friend's line of thought.
"I'm sure," Sherlock panned in an equally dry voice, drawing an amused grin to Watson's face, despite the man's best effort to conceal it.
Their banter was cut short by a rather large explosion from further inland, shaking the few glass windows on the dusty street as a gust of wind kicked up a small whirl of dirt.
"That came from the direction of the Freeman's Garrison," Watson stated.
Sherlock grunted.
"It sounded like the armoury's gunpowder stock was fired," Watson continued on, unaffected by his companion's apathy.
Sherlock grunted again.
"The Garrison is on the opposite side of town to the Mayor's Manor," John pointed out.
Sherlock grunted yet again.
"I'll bet your pipe to my jacket that the explosion was a diversion," he offered.
Sherlock was silent, but he did glance rather longingly at the jacket in question. It had been his until an unfortunate night of cards, and was exquisitely comfortable. Reluctantly, Holmes shook his head.
"There will be a reward for thwarting whatever these ruffians have planned," Watson proposed, prodding one of the fallen ruffians in question with his foot. "Probably a favoured status within the town too," he continued. "Access to the best accommodation, wine, women....perhaps even your jacket back," he threw out as a last ditch effort.
"Well," Sherlock stated after a long pause and great internal debate, "if we absolutely must, I suppose we could take the time to have a look," he finished with great reluctance.
Watson grinned victoriously. It wasn't often he could persuade Sherlock to do anything he didn't wish to.
"But I get the jacket after we're done."
Watson's grin quickly tuned to a frown when he was reminded of the high price of his victory. He had a creeping suspicion that he had been played...
X x X
"So..." Watson began airily. "Whatever happened to rescuing the distressed Mayor from the evil ruffians?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, before closing it as he stepped over a still body. The two of them had set out from the dusty street they had been ambushed, intent on rescuing the Mayor—and proceeded immediately in the wrong direction, heading instead for the docks.
"There are guards at his Manor, yes?" The detective queried.
Watson slowly nodded his assent as they strode along.
"And tall fences? And locked doors? And big, nasty, savage, rabid dogs?" Sherlock prompted as Watson continued to nod his assent. "Do you think any potential kidnappers will just knock on the front door and hope an uninformed and unsuspecting servant will open the door for them?"
"Hmmm..." Watson mused. "I guess such a plan would have to be truly stupid. I think I see where you're going."
"Exactly!" Holmes snapped his fingers. "While the war-band is sacking the Manor, we shall proceed aboard the ship, take the Captain hostage and demand he take his leave."
"Ah," Watson stated. He paused slightly before continuing, "and if we are both utterly incorrect in our suspicions?"
Sherlock paused mid stride. "Well, I suppose we'll make it up as we go along."
Watson sighed and shook his head as they resumed their journey to the docks. "You absolutely fill me with confidence, old boy."
X x X
"You're an idiot," Watson stated evenly. "An absolute, utter, complete fool."
Sherlock frowned slightly as he replied, "don't you think you're being just a tad harsh there?"
"No," Watson answered. "I'm quite sure I was spot-on in my declaration."
At this point, some small amount of background is in order. The two men, upon reaching the docks, had proceeded towards the raiders' ship unchallenged. Unfortunately, Sherlock's cunning plan had hinged upon their ability to actually board the ship and they found themselves thwarted in this regard by means of a raised gang plank.
Then had come Sherlock's brilliant idea to climb the mast of a nearby ship and use ropes to swing aboard their original target. A sound plan in and of itself, yet this was where their problems arose.
In Holmes defence, they had passed by a burning building decorated with the distinctive trappings of an opium den, whereupon had had the misfortune to breathe in copious amounts of the fumes issuing from said building.
You can't honestly fault him. Really.
The ascent of a nearby merchantman's mast had gone well, all things considered. It was the swing itself that had triggered the beginning of their troubles.
You see, for all of his vaunted intelligence, logic skills and deductive reasoning, Sherlock Holmes could be an exceedingly absent-minded man. Even more so on the rare occasions he became high on opium.
So, you can't really blame him when he forgot to relinquish his grip on the rope at the peak of his swing.
Nor can you blame him for letting go whilst above the rigging of the raiding ship and becoming entangled in said rigging, nor can you really blame Watson for joining Sherlock in his entanglement during his attempt to aid him—although you could blame Watson for shouting, "let go you stoned fool!", during his companion's swing, thus causing Sherlock to release his hold on the rope at such an inopportune moment in the first place.
"This is all your fault," Sherlock spoke suddenly, interrupting Watson's tirade.
Watson gaped at Holmes wordlessly from his position suspended between the fore- and mainmast. "My fault? MY fault? You were the one with the bright idea to rob the ship while the pirates were raiding!"
Sherlock scowled thunderously, somehow managing to look intimidating even while hanging upside down by his feet, swinging in the breeze. "Perhaps, but you were the one who decided we should leave the opium den when we ran out of money!"
"I didn't think you'd get it in your head to help ourselves to the pirates 'chest of treasure'!"
"I didn't hear you complaining."
"You refused to tell me what you were planning!"
"Oh, you would've come with me regardless."
"Ahem."
Sherlock and John's argument was cut off by a number of new arrivals. Nigh on two score rough looking men now stood crowding around on the deck below them, a number of flintlock pistols and muskets pointed up at them. In the middle of the group stood two young women, held firmly by the arms by a tall, spindly man wearing an oversized tri-point hat and a fancy vest. The tall man coughed again, indicating himself as the leader of the mob.
"Oh, hello," Sherlock blinked as he offered a greeting, swinging back and forth in the wind.
"'Oh hello' he says," Watson muttered quite clearly.
Sherlock fixed him with a stare. "Well, it's only polite," he said pointedly.
Ignoring the reddening visage of the pirate Captain, Watson snapped back his reply. "We were going to rob his ship! I hardly think good manners will positively affect our situation now!"
"The two of you, be sil--" The Captain interrupted, only to be interrupted himself.
"Well, they certainly won't with the way you are currently behaving. I truly thought you knew better."
Watson stopped for a moment, before scowling mightily. He began to struggle against the ropes he was entangled with as he gave a shout, "know better? I know better?!?!" he yelled. "I know better that my fist is denser than your nose, and I'll bloody well prove it to you!"
It was at this point that the pirate Captain lost what little remained of his patience. "Cut the fools down!" he ordered curtly.
Several men perched on the rigging, previously enjoying the show, swung up with their swords to cut the two strange men down. Sherlock, swinging in the open as he was, became the target of numerous thrown, sharp, pointy object until a lucky dagger throw severed the rope wrapped about his feet.
With a loud thump, the two men fell to the deck, while the Captain gave them an irritated glare that was mixed with relief at the knowledge their squabbling was over.
It was not to be.
"Introduce your fist to my nose, will you?" Sherlock shouted, bouncing back to his feet. "You forget who signs your pay checks!"
"Signs checks to an empty account!" Watson taunted.
"You dare--!" Sherlock began indignantly.
The Captain snapped. Striding forward, he made to grab the two insane thieves as he cried, "enough!"
With a sharp whistle of wind, two blades flew from their inconspicuous sheaths to halt poised at the Captain's throat.
"Took you long enough, old boy," Holmes sighed irritably.
"Indeed," Watson agreed. "For a moment there, I thought we would have to come to blows to elicit some sort of reaction."
As the shock of the sudden role reversal wore off, the Captain made a quick gesture behind his back. A lumbering crewman sprang forward with speed that belied his size, intent on separating the two 'captives' from his Captain.
The Captain tensed, waiting for the opportunity that would arise when one of the two deranged men took their blade away from his throat to deal with his unwitting Second Mate. He smiled, the emotion not quite reaching his eyes.
With a detached expression, Watson reached into his coat and pulled out what appeared to be a snub nosed revolver of some sort. Barely sparing the moving man a glance, John calmly aimed and squeezed the trigger. A dull blast echoed across the still deck.
The entire sequence of evens, from hand gesture to report of the pistol, had taken less that three seconds.
The Captain began to sweat nervously as two blade tips began to press more insistently into his throat, while doing his best to ignore the cooling corpse on the deck, the bloody stump that was once its head in particular.
"Now," Sherlock began with a pleasant smile as Watson stowed the devastating pistol back in his coat, "I believe we were about to negotiate safe passage for ourselves and the two lovely ladies you escorted aboard earlier."
X x X
Sherlock allowed himself a satisfied smile as he looked out the clear glass window to examine the evening sky. The day, starting on a fantastic note yet quickly going downhill, had returned to its previous state. The opium he had accidentally inhaled earlier had worn off, he was being treated to a fantastic meal of roast lamb at the Manor, Watson was engaged in an intellectual conversation debating the merits of some sort of plant with the resident surgeon, and the grateful daughters of the Mayor that they had gallantly rescued from the clutches of the dastardly pirates were being most attentive to his needs. Yes, the day had finished on a rather fantastic note.
Oh, that was a very direct look. And they're excusing themselves from the table. You know, I think they might be twins. Somehow, fantastic no longer feels like a strong enough adjective.