Chapter One

People think the ocean is a wonderful place, but it's not. There are traps everywhere and if you get caught, there's no guarantee that you'll get out. If possible, it's even harder when one is one of the merfolk, especially now, with the war on. To the humans, it simply seemed as if the tides shifted, that the waves got stronger, but battles waged in all depths of the sea. The king had died, three years ago now, and the succession was uncertain. Some felt that the throne should go to his son and some thought it belonged to the merman's brother. The prince was young by their standards, barely into adulthood, but the sides were split evenly and equally determined. So the war raged on and on, many merfolk dying, and Prince John was getting tired of fighting. Not that he could think about that now.

Hugging his trident tight to his body, he went into a spiraling dive between the rocks. He was out numbered at least ten to one, but in here the most they could fight was two at a time. Not that it mattered if they got him surrounded. John, though still young, was battle worn. His scales were a teal, seemingly shifting between blue and green. His tail started where a human's hips would, but it was much longer that a human's legs, much more muscular too, and the fin at the end resembled that of a beta fish. He had a heavy dose of more transparent scales that protected portions of his chest and back, meeting at his neck again so that they could meet with his gills and fins. These fins were where a human's ears would be, and they did help him hear, but they also helped him pick up extra light frequencies so that he could see. His hair, if seen in the light, would be a dirty blonde, his eyes a strange mix of blue and brown. Prince John had scars, mostly odd seems in his tail fin and scratches along his tail. His gills flared in frustration as he searched desperately for an escape.

There! A clear path out of the rocks! Not thinking twice, John took his chance. With a speed born of war, he was out quickly, but they weren't following him. Why- John nearly screamed in pain as iron pierced his skin in the left shoulder, an icy pain that went all the way to his core, burning at its entrance. His magic was screaming, trying its hardest to survive, even to keep him alive. He couldn't see; he couldn't hear; he simply thrashed, trying desperately, animalistic-ly to escape, but to no avail. The hook was sunk deep, entering through his back and protruding out the front. There's a mighty tug and he was being pulled towards the surface and some instinct screams that he'll get pulled from the water. That's when his magic stops trying to save itself. It surges through his blood, around his person, because there is only one way he is going to survive. He might not get to change back, he still might not survive, but it's the only thing that can save him from air. By the time John is yanked on deck, the hook violently removed, he is human.

Sherlock Holmes used to be a cabin boy. He had been young, too young to do much else on a pirate vessel, but when he was old enough he rose through the ranks quickly. When he became a man, he had his own vessel, a pirate captain like few of the officials had seen before. Mycroft hated him, but Sherlock had run from his brother's governmental reign ages ago. As the Captain, there had been many attempts at his life. He survived them all and had finally found a crew that respected, if not liked him. Gregory Lestrade was a good Quarter Master, keeping everyone in line when Sherlock couldn't be bothered, which was almost always. Everyone was loyal to him and he was loyal to Sherlock. Irene Adler was his Sailing Master, gifted with a map and a compass. The Boatswain was one Sebastian Moran, and if Sherlock was honest, he'd be surprised if the man slept, obsessing over the state of his ship. Anderson was the Carpenter and Surgeon, and he was good at it too, even if he complained about it most of the time. The Master Gunner was James Moriarty, an unstable fellow, but he worked hard and obeyed orders. Molly Hooper was a Rigger, a dancer among the sails and ropes. Victor Trevor and Sally Donovan were simply Mates, but they shared the work, worked hard, and helped Molly when she needed it. Sherlock himself helped when it was needed, but they had a fairly small ship and a crew of eight and a captain was enough to keep them going.

They were almost to England, back from India with a shipment of rare spices. The sale could pay their way for a while if they were careful. Lestrade had a habit of deep sea dragging with a large iron hook and he had told Sherlock once that he hoped to catch an octopus or shark sometime, or at least a big fish for them to feed on, so Sherlock allowed it. Besides, if it made Lestrade feel more secure on the ship, who was he to argue. "Better hoist that hook of yours Lestrade, we're getting to shallower water." Lestrade gave a curt nod, pulling on his chain, but he frowned.

"Sir, I think there's something attached to it."

"What?" Sherlock had never thought that Lestrade would actually capture anything, the improbability too high. Moran and Anderson came to Lestrade's aid, pulling on the chain as quickly as possible. The others stood and watched, Irene stroking the wheel absentmindedly as she kept an eye on their course. The last tug was the hardest, Donovan and James coming to their aid, but they pulled a little too forcefully and the hook flew out of the water, releasing its captive. The hook fell immediately to the deck, slightly coated in red. The captive had been flung to the other side, lying on the deck. It was a man, blood pouring from his shoulder, shivering uncontrollably in a puddle of water, completely naked and very unconscious.

"Oh my god," cried Molly, swinging down from the rigging to stand at the man's side. "Captain, what are we going to do? We can't just leave him! Where did he even come from?" Sherlock's mind was working quickly, at knots of speed, but there was no rational explanation for the man's origin. Despite what many thought, Captain Holmes was not heartless, but he might have even surprised himself with his next words.

"Take him to my cabin and cover him in a blanket. Could you spare clothes Moran?" Although staring in shock, the man nodded. "Good, get him some. The least we can do after pulling him out of the water like that is get him safely to England." Everyone continued to stare at him. "Oh for God's sake…" Walking to the man, he leaned over, picking up the man himself. With a glare to everyone he said "Moran, clothes," before walking off. Sherlock heaved the figure onto his bed, throwing a sheet over him. He was kind of short, at least compared to Sherlock himself, with sandy hair and his skin seemed to have a healthy tan. He was muscular, not obviously, but there was an ease in which the man's chest rose and fell while he breathed that spoke of muscle tone. The shoulder wound was ghastly though and Sherlock started shifting through his chests for medical supplies. Pulling the man to the edge of the bed so that the injured shoulder hung off the edge, Sherlock poured salt water through the wound, catching it on the other side with a bucket. The man made a horrible gurgling sound and Sherlock became slightly alarmed, but the man's breathing evened out again with a barely a hitch. Patching both sides with herbs, Sherlock wrapped the wound as best he could, tightly and with as much fabric as he could spare. Sherlock turned when Moran entered.

"I found some clothes sir. They're not very good, old even, but they should last him for a while."

"Thank you Moran, you may go."

"Sir if I'm not being too forward, why are we helping him?" Sherlock turned his gaze back to the unconscious man.

"I don't know."

Blackness was all John knew of for long moments. Then he remembered the burning, icy pain, but it was gone now, only a trace remaining at the point of entry. Senses came back to him slowly. Feeling first, focusing on his shoulder and the pain held within, but his fins felt weird, wrong, placed where they shouldn't be. Hearing and smell came back simultaneously, creaking and muttering along with the smells of…things he couldn't quite identify. Sight was the last, and he had to blink several times to get his eyes to focus. Everything was bright and…was that wood? Wood was rare; you wouldn't make an entire room of it. Shifting his head took more effort than it should, and he wondered if the current was off, making everything feel completely different. There was a merman floating, no, no, not floating sitting, but that was weird because sitting was hard and…then John noticed the legs: a human. He sat upright very quickly, but everything blurred and things hurt. A hand pushed on his chest, making him resume lying down. "Don't get up; you've been pretty out of it." John took a proper look at the man.

He was tall, very much so, and thin, pale, and almost sickly looking, with dark hair and pale blue eyes. Human though, definitely human and John felt like he was going to be sick because humans were supposed to be legends, not real. The man looking at him with the crease between his eyebrows though, was very, very real. "We found you some clothes on board, since you seem to be missing them." Everything was wrong, very wrong, and all John wanted to do was swim away because he couldn't handle this, not now. Trying to speak, to be civil, only resulted in strangled nonsense syllables. The man frowned and John was at least that there facial expressions where the same as his kind. How was he breathing? Why did breathing feel so strangled? "You're not a village idiot are you?" John shook his head. What was happening? The man studied him for a moment. "Probably due to trauma then, I assume then that you'll need helped getting dressed." What? Oh, clothes, humans where those, but why would John need those? John watched the man with doe eyes, following him as he took off the blanket and…oh…GOD. Legs, he had legs and John let out a strangled cry because everything was too much, way too much. Using his hands (he could trust those), he pushed himself backwards, his legs twitching and it was almost more terrifying that he could feel it. The man frowned again. "Calm down, I don't care that you're naked."

The man's hands were large, with long fingers and he used them precisely. John flinched when cool fingers tips touched his leg but the man just huffed and ignored it, slowly working John into clothes entirely. John felt warmer afterward, if not more comfortable. "I'm Sherlock," said the man. "You should probably sleep; it's been quite an ordeal for you. Watch the shoulder." Shoulder? John looked at it as the man called Sherlock left. The pain, that's where it was coming from, but someone had patched it up, probably the Sherlock fellow. How had he survived? The only explanation that made sense was his magic going into self-defense mode, trying to save him, but it was highly unlikely thanks to the iron. Despite trying to puzzle out everything, John slipped quietly into sleep.