(Continued from here)
The captain’s obvious and increasingly irritating satisfaction only grew with his agreement (he had to have known it was coming, perhaps it was just John’s recognition that pleased him so), and John’s jaw clenched a little tighter while Holmes started snapping orders with regards to his treatment. The other man never looked away, however, merely shifting and gesturing to acknowledge his men as he spoke, and John refused to break eye contact first, knowing, somehow, this in itself was its own sort of challenge.
Nonetheless, he paid careful attention to what was being said and the reactions to it, needing every possible edge he could have. The prospect of a change of clothes was… almost distracting, and he fought the urge to squirm uncomfortably now that his mind had been brought back to the still-damp and bunching fabric he wore, but his focus never fully shifted, and his ears perked at the unexpected bone of contention when it came. The special attention given to the prospect of giving him a razor didn’t click at first, then he realized – if everything else was… period-accurate, then any razor to be had would likely be a straight razor; a serviceable, if not ideal weapon. This did cause the slightest raise of an eyebrow, but also, in the pause and tension he could feel from the other man – this ‘Mr. Lestrade’ who had had a hand along with several others in getting him… under control – a grim smile pulled at his own lips. Lestrade’s reaction – the long look in his own direction – was noticeable, even without more than a small space in his peripheral vision, and John couldn’t help but to take a grim sort of satisfaction that he had left that much of an impression with the man, and probably several other of the crew who would be sporting bruises by morning at the very least.
Then the discussion moved back to clothing him by way of topic change, the order clearly accepted if not liked, and John let his self-satisfaction shift to the back of his mind, giving proper attention to what was being said, again. He was sure there was some backstory to this byplay as well, but not so much that it mattered to him; didn’t seem to have any bearing on his situation, anyway, just something regarding their recent exploits, and dear lord he was using words like exploits in his own head. The internal groan that bubbled up with that thought was suppressed more easily when Holmes drew his knife, drawing all of his attention from other thoughts to one, deadly focal point.
John didn’t move away when the other man leaned in, but neither did he shift his focus away from the blade as it moved nearer. This intense concentration on his weapon seemed to amuse the captain, prompting a vaguely chiding question about his concerns that did nothing to pacify him. “Something to break the monotony?” John asked almost flippantly but quietly at the attempted logic, then more seriously, but still the tone of a rhetorical question, “What sense is there fishing me out of the ocean if only to take me captive and waste supplies on me?” John didn’t tense – whatever instinct might suggest, tensing was a mistake in situations like this – instead staying loose and ready to move if he needed to. “Agreement or not, any man in my position would be a fool not to stay very conscious of weapons in the hands of his capt– I’m sorry, hosts." The grim smile was back, pulling into something more of a dark smirk, and John’s eyes finally left the knife (though he kept it in his periphery), rising back to meet Holmes’. "Not much I could do just now, but at the very least, I could get few strategic kicks in before I bled out." Some of those strategic kicks were likely the reason he’d had more than one set of ropes applied to his legs when he was moved for this ‘audience’ with the captain.
Holmes, for his part, raised an eyebrow in response, hint of a smirk pulling at his lips – and what should John take from that? – but didn’t immediately speak, making the smart move and cutting the bindings to his legs, first (never kneeling as would be easiest, only bending to keep the dominant position), before moving to lean around him, cutting the ropes binding his hands. Regardless of the other man’s apparent ease, his assertion that there was no reason, presently – and presently really was the proper perspective for John to keep in mind – to attack him, he was fully aware of the subtle tension, much like his own – ready to move, to react – that Holmes carried as he finished his self-appointed task.
John knew better than to make any abrupt movements with Holmes tense, close and armed – or even to move at all, immediately after being freed – holding his position as if the bindings still kept him in place until the other man pulled back and put space between them once more. Only then did he slowly bring his arms forward, rolling his shoulders – hearing a multitude of small cracks that came more from shifting strained tendons than joints – as he shifted to rub hand over wrist in his lap, working out some of the soreness and casually inspecting the abrasions left in the scuffle to secure him.
It hadn’t been a pleasant thing, though it got a bit better once Holmes deigned to grace him with his attention – initially he had fought hard enough that the crew resorted to hog-tying him. He could still feel the strain in his shoulders and hips, back, even, making their complaints known; John attempted not to make the lingering effects too obvious, however – he could lick his wounds in private, later, if this captain did, indeed hold up his end of the bargain. If he didn’t, then the remaining discomforts of his capture would be the least of his worries, anyway.
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Lady Karasu 