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The Captain watched him closely while he got the circulation moving into his hands again, but John didn’t allow himself to react any differently for the attention, only keeping a portion of his own on the captain in return.  The knife was returned to its sheath as the other man took another step back, but it wasn’t the gesture that caught his eye – lesser, unthreatening.  Instead he immediately noticed the subtle movement of hand to sword-hilt when the shift was made, but didn’t react outwardly.  It seemed a comfortable, almost absent motion, but John got the feeling Holmes never did anything without purpose, and took note of his own relative position and disadvantage, as he suspected was the point.  

Shifting his legs slightly, testing for that telltale prickle of oxygen returning to starved muscles, John wondered vaguely how long he could take being on edge like this, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop while remaining functional and combat ready.  He’d seen other soldiers retrieved after too long in captivity; everyone handled it differently, but there was always a breaking point.  He didn’t expect to escape enemy territory any time soon, after all.  Presently there was no option at all, nowhere to flee to unless he grew gills overnight.

The time to consider didn’t last long. 

As if merely conducting business – and he supposed that was accurate enough – the captain’s countenance shifted in an instant, authoritative and businesslike again as he gestured for Lestrade’s attention, giving orders after his care while still addressing John directly, remarking upon his ‘luck’ in this situation.  John managed to hold in the snort, simply inclining his chin somewhat in acknowledgement, and shifted his attention to his apparent keeper when Lestrade addressed him directly.  He took a moment to properly look the man over, now that he wasn’t fighting for his liberty or – at least for the moment – expecting execution, tentatively choosing to take the captain at his word. 

He was perhaps a few years John’s senior, though it was hard to tell for sure; thirty five? Perhaps up to forty, but he wouldn’t guess any higher than that.  The man was of a medium build – lean, though John had reason to know the modest, but well defined muscles he carried were more than serviceable – with dark brown eyes set in a slightly hawkish face; sharp, watchful, and entirely too keen for his tastes.  Longish black hair was pulled back in a short ponytail that seemed to be the prevalent style at a glance over the rest of the crew, as well as the garb; coarse trousers, a shirt that was likely meant to be white at one time, and an open waistcoat. 

The attention was brief – assessing, but unchallenging – then ostensibly slid back to what he was expected to be focusing on; blood flow, and his ability to move. 

It only took a few minutes before his body was able to support him again; not comfortably, but reliably enough, since he didn’t want to show any further weakness than he already had.  Lestrade had already moved to the side, making a somewhat pointed show of waiting on him, though nothing so obvious as to be considered outright rude after the captain’s vague censure.  Holmes’ attention had already turned elsewhere, flitting away as soon as he’d dismissed John, and John’s focus was necessarily split between the man at his side and the captain’s next focus: addressing the unhappy bearers of wounds he’d inflicted earlier in his struggle.  John didn’t try to quell the small satisfied smirk that pulled at his lips, but he did duck his head slightly as he rose so it would not be as obvious.  His expression slid back to neutral by the time he had taken his feet again – the first time, properly, since being fished out of the water – and he tilted his head in Lestrade’s direction to imply his readiness, waiting for the other man to move so he could follow.

Or, that was his hope.  Lestrade, for his part, was not so green, smiling pleasantly but coolly and stepping back to wave John on in the proper direction, and, in the lead.  Without hesitation – there was nothing to be gained for it – but less surety that he might have had, had he been certain of their destination, John started walking in the direction indicated.  He had no real desire to have the other man at his back, but at the moment it couldn’t be helped, so he simply stayed alert and moved towards the only obvious doorway visible.

He supposed, as they moved, that their intended destination could have been one of the hatches strategically peppering the deck, but no correction stopped him, and the relatively short walk was taken with straight spine, forward eyes, and likely far more curious glances than the captain would have preferred.  The door opened under his hand without correction, though, and he entered the small, narrow hall accompanied only by the sound of footsteps behind him, and an itching between his shoulder blades that told him – unhelpfully – that he was being watched. 

There were three doors visible in the dim light cast by the partially open door, and he moved towards them – the span of perhaps 5 meters – one on either side of the hall, and one at the termination, though all were at the very end.  Stopping when he could move no further, John waited a moment, but was given no immediate direction.  Turning his head to his shoulder to indicate his attention as well as the unspoken question – though not turning far enough to actually look back – Lestrade finally uttered a gruff, “Right”, and John nodded, opening the door to his right and stepping through just as he heard the external door click fully shut. 

Most people in this sort of situation – the almost oppressive silence in close contact with another – would feel some urge to make small talk, to ramble, fill up that quiet space.  John was having no trouble fighting that small, human urge.  What would he even say?  ‘I’m sorry for putting up such a fight?  Hope the bruising doesn’t last too long?’  It would be completely insincere, anyway, so he held his tongue and moved further into the room to allow the other man entry behind him, stiff-backed and still head high.  Whatever pretty name it was given, whatever the trappings, he was still a prisoner; a soldier stripped of his liberty – he would abide by his word, but he didn’t have to look happy about it.

Instead, he took in what would be his cage – albeit, a more comfortable one than the captains initial threat – for the foreseeable future, or at least until the other man tired of putting on this particular act.  The room was small, but serviceable, though likely large for its location, given the premium of space on a ship.  A narrow bed lined the far wall, linen and duvet absent, but, given circumstance, probably tucked away where it would not be tossed with the waves.  One large multi-paned window was set into the back wall, a small table and two chairs nestled under it – weighted, roughly hewn from heavy wood, but serviceable and worn smooth with use – nothing on its surface but a few gouges and stains.  The near wall held a chest of drawers coming up roughly to chest height, a small, imperfect mirror affixed to the wall above it, and the wall opposite the window held a respectable wardrobe. 

The initial inspection was clinical, detached – necessity only, he could look around more thoroughly once he was alone, though John didn’t expect to find much past perhaps some bedding, or loose odds and ends – and he turned back to the other man shortly after he entered the room behind John, waiting for whatever additional direction he was sure to issue.

There was nothing at first, just another assessing look, then Lestrade pulled a face, nose wrinkling in disdain – whether at John, or the musty smell of the room, he wasn’t certain – crossing the expanse to unlatch and prop open a section of the window.  “Been a few months since these quarters were used regularly,” he said, looking about more sharply once the task was complete. “I’ll have the bath brought shortly, per Captain’s orders. And that trunk of clothes.”  Keeping a wary eye on John, he went back to the door, pausing with one hand on the handle; clearly ready to be done with him, though he stopped to ask, “Have you any questions, sir?”

There was that little telltale pause before ‘sir’ again, an addition he clearly did not part with easily, only for the sake of grudgingly following orders.  John had to fight the urge to snap, ‘we both know I’m no ‘sir’, here’ – but they both had their part to play, so he kept his mind his own, even if they both knew the score, already. 

He had watched the other man’s movements, but at the ‘parting’ question and his own quelled response, John directed his more obvious attention out the window.  In a flat, almost neutral tone, he asked, “What do I need to be aware of to…” His lip curled slightly, but he controlled that response as well, leaving it a subtle twitch of a reaction, tone remaining even as he finished, “stay in line?”

In his peripheral vision, he caught the rise of Lestrade’s brows as he considered the question, scratching lightly at his slightly stubbled chin. “If you stick to what the captain asked of you, you’ll do well enough.” He replied at first, then paused again, seeming to debate further before adding bluntly, “Don’t bother lying to him, he’ll know. Don’t flout him in front of the crew…” he studied John a little more knowingly. “He’s given you leeway he doesn’t accord to anyone, as a rule, let alone – pardon me speaking frankly – someone hauled up like flotsam. Someone who might possibly be an enemy, to boot. But, because of that, if you challenge him in front of the crew, he’ll have to make a show of disciplining you.” He shook his head, lowering his voice. “He can be a cruel bastard, make no mistake, but he’s a good man.” 

It hadn’t really been what John was asking, looking more for some kind of procedural outline – an overview of anything off limits that might not be readily apparent – but he supposed it was more than he’d really been expecting by way of an answer, anyway.  “Figured as much”, he said to himself in a distracted undertone, then pulled himself back from his thoughts, shifting to face the other man fully, again.  “Point taken”, he said, accepting that as confirmation of what he’d already suspected from the earlier discussion with the captain.  “That’s all pretty well covered in the agreement made."  He shrugged, confirming his own intentions by adding, "I’ll abide by my word.”  

It came out stiffly, but that did nothing to detract from the truth of it; he’d made an agreement, and, as he told the Captain out there, until he was given cause not to, he would keep it.  Still, there was a slight stress on ‘I’ll’, faintly hinting at his somewhat dubious – and reasonably so – acceptance of the current offer; it was difficult to believe, particularly given the crew’s response to it, and Lestrade’s own words only minutes earlier. 

Apparently, that slight stress didn’t go without notice or offence.  A frown crossed Lestrade’s features almost immediately and his voice hardened. “See that you do, sir. I can assure you, Captain Holmes is a man who keeps his. Give a shout for the cabin boy if there’s anything you require, Mr. Watson. Good day to you.” He nodded with bare courtesy, stepping back and out of the room without further delay; movements sharp and abrupt. 

Given his own suspicions and the initial threat so casually made – chaining him in the hold and keeping him barely alive until port – John couldn’t help but take that clipped assertion as a menacing reminder rather than any sort of assurance.  Regardless, it made no real difference, and John made no effort to address the topic further, or the man firmly closing the door behind him.  “Oh, I’m rather sure he does”, John muttered darkly to himself, instead, just in time to have his words punctuated by the telltale snick of the lock being engaged.

He could muster absolutely no surprise for this.

~~~

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