Captains at Sea (in progress)

~~~

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.

~~~

Next (pending)

Captains at Sea (in progress)

(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.

~~~~

Next (Alternate*)
*to compensate for halloween url change

Captains At Sea (WIP)

random-nexus:

Continued from here.

Captain Holmes watched Watson closely as he replied, and wished he had spent more time with him previously; he was almost certain the man was telling the truth, but couldn’t be completely certain. Not yet. Even so, how extraordinary this fellow was turning out to be! Showing unexpected twist after predictable turn and then back to unexpected again, as well as his odd way of speaking and all the other little details that didn’t match up with what ought to have been. It was like finding a present wrapped in many layers, each one another small present in itself.

Of course, it might be that he was simply more kindly disposed in general due to this man’s discovery, considering it had broken the streak of boredom threatening to turn Holmes quite mad with frustration. Nevertheless…

It wasn’t that Watson was being challenging, there was no intentional bravado or provocation in his words – Captain Holmes would’ve wagered on that highly – no, it was that this strange man wasn’t so much refusing to surrender fully as he was offering a sort of conditional truce, in a way. Why this pleased Captain Holmes more than a simple agreement to his demands would have done, he couldn’t wholly say, but he would find out, by the Powers.

In a low, wry voice, Captain Holmes said with a slightly crooked cant to his lips, “Willing cooperation is easier, it’s true, and no, you are not in a position to argue; however, you are not precisely agreeing, either, are you?” Before his captive could comment or reply, Captain Holmes stood upright abruptly, shoulders back and chin at a rather haughty level, looking down with imperiously arched brows at the semi-waterlogged soldier bound before him. “Very well, then. Let us have a sort of truce then, Mr. Watson. You make no promises you cannot keep, and I shall do likewise. You give me the courtesy and obedience due me as master of this ship, until such time as one of my laws crosses your character or obligations; in which case, you will not disrupt the running of my ship nor the disposition of my crew, but come to me with whatever it is that has offended your honour or troubled your conscience.”

Behind Captain Holmes, Mr. Lestrade was trying to hide it, but some of his incredulous expression got out before he caught himself; this sort of compromise with a captive – at least one with no obvious wealth or position to provide a reason – was rather unprecedented. A few of the men standing on guard around them were not as good at hiding their surprise, and glances meant to be subtle were shared around; Lestrade cleared his throat meaningfully, bringing them back in line without a verbal challenge.

~~~

The pause between his response and the captain’s reaction wasn’t long, but still longer than he expected, subtly braced as he was was for displeasure that may or may not be instantly violent. It seemed the most likely response, really, given circumstance and Holmes’ own warnings attached to his demands; demands John could not agree to in honesty without caveats. Instead of harsh reprisal, however, he received a low, ironic reply, questioning the validity of his own answer. John couldn’t help feeling as if he were being toyed with and he raised his chin slightly, lips parting to respond – he wasn’t dissimulating, he was being precise and honest; wasn’t that better than lying outright to give the answer desired? – but the captain spoke over him before the response could even emerge.

Forcing his reaction and his words down, John listened as the captain parroted back his own assertion with a small but significant addition; he would bring any issues to the captain first, without taking any other measures. The demand – and though it was delivered like a request, there was no doubt it was a demand – was completely understandable, but dangerous all the same. It locked him in, removed any other option of recourse if things went badly (which he honestly half expected), removing even his ability to voice complaint openly if his treatment were ‘less than courteous’. He couldn’t imagine the captain would be easily accessible on the whims of a prisoner, even if he were earnest in his offer of fair treatment; particularly after he’d gotten what he wanted out of John.

The thought rankled, and there was something in the captain’s expression, his bearing, coupled with John’s realisation that made him want to comment, sarcasm bubbling up under the surface; however, contrary to popular belief, John did have a sense of self-preservation, and the reaction of the surrounding crew – some hiding their surprise better than others, but all displaying it – was telling enough that this gesture was a rarity; an unexpected leniency. It didn’t make his position any more comfortable, but it did allow him to force his reaction down again, recognizing this was as good as his situation was likely to get.

Jaw tight, John met the other man’s eyes knowingly; focus unwavering, even though the startled, likely agitated shifting behind the captain hadn’t ceased. They both knew this put him very nearly back where he started, left him exceedingly vulnerable, but there was nothing to be done for it; he had no leverage in this. Apparent leniency or not, as he understood it, the wording of their ‘agreement’ was now vaguely specific enough to make any action not explicitly granted a potential hazard, even down to his own defense, effectively tying his hands more completely than literal bonds. Still, there was little choice – there hadn’t been from the start – John had stated his limits and intentions given the situation, Holmes had responded in kind; there was no negotiation to be had, it simply was. So he didn’t attempt to clarify further, seeing the likely end of tolerance on the horizon; merely raised his chin and bit out, “Accepted, then.”

Captains at Sea (in progress)

random-nexus:

lady-karasu:

random-nexus:

lady-karasu:

Continued from here

John could feel himself being measured, weighed in the wake of his almost flippant response. He had almost expected violence in reply – given the situation thus far, it certainly wouldn’t have been unexpected – but instead he was subjected to a focused, almost predatory gaze for several long, tense moments. The other man replied, then, rattling off facts and assumptions, reaching out to tug John’s I.D. circles free and inspect them before he finished his mindboggling assertion and topped it off with what sounded like an earnest, if misplaced greeting.

It was through sheer force of will that John didn’t jerk away this time; he knew it wouldn’t help, would likely overbalance him before freeing his chain, but it still took effort to hold himself still. Shaking his head instead, once, sharply, John pitched his voice lower, taking on an almost conspiring tone. “Listen, what are you playing at? This can’t-“ He paused, shaking his head once more; there’s almost no way this was some kind of contrived plot – he simply doesn’t have any information that would be useful enough to bother, he wasn’t that kind of officer – and even if he were, had been mistaken for one, he can’t see how this would be effective in any useful capacity. Certainly, it could throw someone off balance through sheer confusion – it had done for him – and that was a recognized tactic, but John couldn’t see how any useful information could be parleyed from this particular scenario; it was entirely too absurd. No, as far as he could tell he hadn’t been captured in the traditional sense, but what that left was… far stranger, more disturbing.

“Either you’re mad”, he continued after a moment, thoughtfully, as if he was only just now truly considering the possibility, “I’m mad, or…” his eyes started to flicker down towards his shoulder – where he’s almost certain he had been shot, but didn’t feel as if it bore obvious signs of recent trauma, now – but he stopped himself before he could complete the motion. Meeting the captain’s eyes again, instead, he finished with an almost imperceptibly more subdued tone, “The last doesn’t bear consideration.”

A slightly uneven hint of a smile pulled at Captain Holmes’ lips, though his eyes were cool and sharp, his voice velvet over steel. “I have been accused of madness many times, Mr. Watson, and a number of other less savoury things, I assure you.” Eyes tracking down and to the side, Captain Holmes tilted his head and lifted one dark eyebrow. “Intriguing. To what can you be referring? If madness is the lesser worry in comparison, I think perhaps it does bear consideration; especially when you are a… guest… on my ship.” Leaning just a bit, as much for the hint of intimidation it might lend, as well as for practicality, he lowered his voice till none of the men on deck around him could have overheard without stepping closer. “You’re thirsty, tired, perhaps hungry; furthermore, you obviously have questions of your own. Give me your solemn word that you’ll conduct yourself in a… gentlemanly… fashion, and I will see that you’re treated commensurately.” His hesitation and the slight drawling edge he gave the word ‘gentleman’ was subtle, but Captain Holmes had plenty of experience with the actual behaviour of many who claimed the title of Gentleman; in truth, he could not use the word as it was generally meant without at least an internal sneer.

There was something under the captain’s words, in his tone, that was not quite a threat but spoke of a dangerous line not to be crossed. It was subtle, and it’s that very subtlety that alerted him to the truth of it; a man who told you how dangerous he was is the last one you have to worry about – one quietly confident in himself, however… John stiffened slightly at the initial reply and the posture that came with it – an almost-grin and cold, dispassionate eyes that held no madness /he/ could see, but every bit of will that told him any threat given could be expected to be carried out – for the moment biting his tongue, but raising a brow all the same at the other man’s dubious use of ‘guest’.

Holmes leaned in slightly, almost without pause, and John fought the urge to lean away again, to gain space, bowing to the impulse only so far as to turn his head slightly away, never breaking eye contact. The low tone carried easily at this distance as the other man finished his firm-handed ‘offer’. This time John couldn’t help the small, reactive snort, and he muttered, “Explaining that one would bring us back to my probable madness”, to himself in an undertone before inhaling, bracing himself further.

Head tilted away, still, John canted it slightly back, just enough to meet the other man’s eyes more squarely while maintaining what personal space he was able. He’s sure this sort of ‘offer’ would sound good to a panicked, hopeful captive, but he could see the barbs in it, the possible hooks under the bait that was never expressly offered. Lips tight, back straight, he let out a long, controlled breath that hitched faintly with the hint of an ironic laugh once or twice in its stream. Probably best to keep quiet and go with it, there’s really not much to be gained by calling the man on it – John was aware of just how precarious his position was, assuming as he had to, that this was really happening – but he had never been one to bow meekly to circumstance. His own voice low, but meant to carry his reply this time, John asks evenly, “That sounds reasonable enough, but was mostly a statement of fact, letting me assume what your ‘commensurate treatment’ might mean.” His lips turned up in a faint, wry smirk. “So what does it really mean, and what exactly do you expect me to trade for this… kind treatment?”

To his surprise and delight, Watson didn’t react at all the way Captain Holmes expected; though, in point of fact, the man hadn’t been entirely predictable from the moment of his capture – well, perhaps something of a mix between a rescue and a capture. If this trend continued, Captain Holmes thought he just might have to find a way to keep this fellow around even after he had satisfied Holmes’ curiosity about his origin, as well as his anomalous clothing and fascinating accoutrements.

Watson’s muttered words, clearly meant for himself, alone, were curious, as was his mostly-subtle smothering of humour at Holmes’ offer; but his actual answer, which was in the form of a question, had Captain Holmes’ brow arching before he could stop himself. Was he being mocked or was Captain Holmes’ captive cleverer than he seemed? Perhaps both!

Intrigued and entertained – and wasn’t that simply wonderful after the deadly boredom of the last few weeks – Captain Holmes considered his answer briefly. Several of the men standing guard shifted a bit restlessly; though used to their captain’s oddities, curiosity could only be tamped down so long.

First Mate Lestrade, standing with arms crossed about an average man’s height behind his captain, turned and muttered a slightly-growling, “Oi! Look sharp, there.” After which, the men straightened up and ready hands returned to sword hilts.

Seemingly ignoring this byplay behind him, Captain Holmes spoke in the same ‘just between us’ tone, watching his prisoner closely, eyes sharp with curiosity of his own. “What it means is you receive the courtesy of being treated more as a guest than a prisoner; food and water, dry clothing, and a bed in a cabin of your own. If possible, I’ll try to ransom you back to the Royal Navy, or possibly to your own people. In trade, you accept that I am the commander of this vessel, that my word is law here, and that you are subject to it as long as you’re aboard. I will expect you to answer my questions and give me your oath that you will not seek to cause trouble amongst my men or with my ship.” Pausing for just a moment, Holmes’ voice then took on the slightest hint of an edge beneath the quiet rumble as he went on. “If you go back on your oath, if you do not cooperate, then it’s to the hold with you. There you’ll be stripped and chained, given the bare minimum to keep you alive until such time as we reach a port where I can make some profit on what’s left of you by then.” Flicking his brows up almost playfully, though his expression remained unsmiling, Captain Holmes spread one hand graciously, the other resting on his sword hilt. “I should much rather you choose the former than the latter, myself, but the choice is yours, Mr. Watson.”

The look of surprise his reply apparently brought was strangely satisfying, but John held any reaction to it in, attention drawn away to the men surrounding them when a sharp order was given, resulting in a shifting of stances and weapons; it reminded him, again, that there were others present, other factors to keep in mind, each a danger of its own.

Still, it’s only a flicker in his attention before the captain had his full focus again, just in time for the other man to respond in a similar tone and volume to his last, though his eyes were sharper with it, tone little more foreboding as he got to the ‘stick’ end of his ‘offer’. Snorting sharply when the other man finished – he couldn’t help it, and didn’t try – John shook his head ever so slightly, faint smirk pulling at his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you would”, he agreed almost amiably, knowing tone in his voice, “much easier to get everything you want out of me to start, cooperation is so much simpler…” That certainly didn’t mean any kind of pleasant treatment was guaranteed to be his reward, or at least would continue to be once his usefulness ceased and their curiosity was sated.

At the very least, he knew what punishment might look like, now. (He didn’t regret that; it was better to know.) Huffing out a small breath of a laugh, John let his gaze drift past the other man, only distantly taking in their surroundings again. “Well, I did ask”, he muttered wryly to himself, the hint of an ironic grin pulling at his lips.

If it was madness – and that looked better for the answer the longer he thought about it (could you be self-aware about your own insanity?) – then it didn’t matter all that much what he actually did. If it weren’t… well, it still mattered very little what he did; the options were few and stark. He wondered briefly where he was, really, if this was all a creation of his mind – and what was wrong with him, precisely, that this would be the scenario it would choose – then let it go. Whatever this was, in the end, all he could do was see it through, now.

“I’m not in the habit of making promises I don’t intend to keep”, John said after a moment, eyes still distant, clearly thinking; considering everything the captain had said and how he said it. Even with the explanation, it still required him to make an ‘oath’ almost blindly, with no safeguards in the agreement; the terms were vague enough that he could literally be asked for anything. Not that John expected the terms really mattered – they were only for his edification; he had no leverage in this at all. All the same, he considered what his agreement could mean, and also what disobeying would bring him, on the balance deciding to be entirely honest.

Expression shifting to something more neutral, John met the captain’s eyes again, replying firmly: “I will decline any ‘law’ that goes against my character or obligations, but I won’t turn on you if you don’t give me reason to.” He was almost certain that wasn’t the answer desired, and he’d accept the consequences if it came to it, but John wouldn’t cross his own lines. There were few enough choices available to him at the moment; this was one he had, even if the results would be less than ideal. “If that’s not good enough…” he shrugged, tilting his head slightly with the movement in something like an aborted headshake, “then do what you feel you need to. I’m not exactly in a position to argue.”

Captains at Sea (in progress)

random-nexus:

lady-karasu:

Continued from here

John could feel himself being measured, weighed in the wake of his almost flippant response. He had almost expected violence in reply – given the situation thus far, it certainly wouldn’t have been unexpected – but instead he was subjected to a focused, almost predatory gaze for several long, tense moments. The other man replied, then, rattling off facts and assumptions, reaching out to tug John’s I.D. circles free and inspect them before he finished his mindboggling assertion and topped it off with what sounded like an earnest, if misplaced greeting.

It was through sheer force of will that John didn’t jerk away this time; he knew it wouldn’t help, would likely overbalance him before freeing his chain, but it still took effort to hold himself still. Shaking his head instead, once, sharply, John pitched his voice lower, taking on an almost conspiring tone. “Listen, what are you playing at? This can’t-“ He paused, shaking his head once more; there’s almost no way this was some kind of contrived plot – he simply doesn’t have any information that would be useful enough to bother, he wasn’t that kind of officer – and even if he were, had been mistaken for one, he can’t see how this would be effective in any useful capacity. Certainly, it could throw someone off balance through sheer confusion – it had done for him – and that was a recognized tactic, but John couldn’t see how any useful information could be parleyed from this particular scenario; it was entirely too absurd. No, as far as he could tell he hadn’t been captured in the traditional sense, but what that left was… far stranger, more disturbing.

“Either you’re mad”, he continued after a moment, thoughtfully, as if he was only just now truly considering the possibility, “I’m mad, or…” his eyes started to flicker down towards his shoulder – where he’s almost certain he had been shot, but didn’t feel as if it bore obvious signs of recent trauma, now – but he stopped himself before he could complete the motion. Meeting the captain’s eyes again, instead, he finished with an almost imperceptibly more subdued tone, “The last doesn’t bear consideration.”

A slightly uneven hint of a smile pulled at Captain Holmes’ lips, though his eyes were cool and sharp, his voice velvet over steel. “I have been accused of madness many times, Mr. Watson, and a number of other less savoury things, I assure you.” Eyes tracking down and to the side, Captain Holmes tilted his head and lifted one dark eyebrow. “Intriguing. To what can you be referring? If madness is the lesser worry in comparison, I think perhaps it does bear consideration; especially when you are a… guest… on my ship.” Leaning just a bit, as much for the hint of intimidation it might lend, as well as for practicality, he lowered his voice till none of the men on deck around him could have overheard without stepping closer. “You’re thirsty, tired, perhaps hungry; furthermore, you obviously have questions of your own. Give me your solemn word that you’ll conduct yourself in a… gentlemanly… fashion, and I will see that you’re treated commensurately.” His hesitation and the slight drawling edge he gave the word ‘gentleman’ was subtle, but Captain Holmes had plenty of experience with the actual behaviour of many who claimed the title of Gentleman; in truth, he could not use the word as it was generally meant without at least an internal sneer.

There was something under the captain’s words, in his tone, that was not quite a threat but spoke of a dangerous line not to be crossed. It was subtle, and it’s that very subtlety that alerted him to the truth of it; a man who told you how dangerous he was is the last one you have to worry about – one quietly confident in himself, however… John stiffened slightly at the initial reply and the posture that came with it – an almost-grin and cold, dispassionate eyes that held no madness /he/ could see, but every bit of will that told him any threat given could be expected to be carried out – for the moment biting his tongue, but raising a brow all the same at the other man’s dubious use of ‘guest’.

Holmes leaned in slightly, almost without pause, and John fought the urge to lean away again, to gain space, bowing to the impulse only so far as to turn his head slightly away, never breaking eye contact. The low tone carried easily at this distance as the other man finished his firm-handed ‘offer’. This time John couldn’t help the small, reactive snort, and he muttered, “Explaining that one would bring us back to my probable madness”, to himself in an undertone before inhaling, bracing himself further.

Head tilted away, still, John canted it slightly back, just enough to meet the other man’s eyes more squarely while maintaining what personal space he was able. He’s sure this sort of ‘offer’ would sound good to a panicked, hopeful captive, but he could see the barbs in it, the possible hooks under the bait that was never expressly offered. Lips tight, back straight, he let out a long, controlled breath that hitched faintly with the hint of an ironic laugh once or twice in its stream. Probably best to keep quiet and go with it, there’s really not much to be gained by calling the man on it – John was aware of just how precarious his position was, assuming as he had to, that this was really happening – but he had never been one to bow meekly to circumstance. His own voice low, but meant to carry his reply this time, John asks evenly, “That sounds reasonable enough, but was mostly a statement of fact, letting me assume what your ‘commensurate treatment’ might mean.” His lips turned up in a faint, wry smirk. “So what does it really mean, and what exactly do you expect me to trade for this… kind treatment?”

Captains at Sea (in progress)

Continued from here

John could feel himself being measured, weighed in the wake of his almost flippant response. He had almost expected violence in reply – given the situation thus far, it certainly wouldn’t have been unexpected – but instead he was subjected to a focused, almost predatory gaze for several long, tense moments. The other man replied, then, rattling off facts and assumptions, reaching out to tug John’s I.D. circles free and inspect them before he finished his mindboggling assertion and topped it off with what sounded like an earnest, if misplaced greeting.

It was through sheer force of will that John didn’t jerk away this time; he knew it wouldn’t help, would likely overbalance him before freeing his chain, but it still took effort to hold himself still. Shaking his head instead, once, sharply, John pitched his voice lower, taking on an almost conspiring tone. “Listen, what are you playing at? This can’t-“ He paused, shaking his head once more; there’s almost no way this was some kind of contrived plot – he simply doesn’t have any information that would be useful enough to bother, he wasn’t that kind of officer – and even if he were, had been mistaken for one, he can’t see how this would be effective in any useful capacity. Certainly, it could throw someone off balance through sheer confusion – it had done for him – and that was a recognized tactic, but John couldn’t see how any useful information could be parleyed from this particular scenario; it was entirely too absurd. No, as far as he could tell he hadn’t been captured in the traditional sense, but what that left was… far stranger, more disturbing.

“Either you’re mad”, he continued after a moment, thoughtfully, as if he was only just now truly considering the possibility, “I’m mad, or…” his eyes started to flicker down towards his shoulder – where he’s almost certain he had been shot, but didn’t feel as if it bore obvious signs of recent trauma, now – but he stopped himself before he could complete the motion. Meeting the captain’s eyes again, instead, he finished with an almost imperceptibly more subdued tone, “The last doesn’t bear consideration.”

random-nexus:

roane72:

sherlockxjohnrecs:

http://jlazuline.deviantart.com

What is—that shouldn’t—but—

*stares*

“So, tell me, Stranger, what brings you to be adrift on the open sea? You must have recently come from Bermuda, but what is the meaning of this peculiar uniform? I deduce that you are a soldier of some sort, but I wager there’s more to you than that.” Captain Holmes smiled down at his rather stunned-looking captive. “Mmm… I do so love a good mystery.”

~~I don’t even care; I will accept time travel as a reasonable option – regardless, I approve; someone fic it? *looks pointedly at Random* (What, you’ve already started… *innocent smile*)~~ Edit: (And then this happened)

John jerks his head away when the – captain? He presented himself as one, set adrift in time. Perhaps a madman who’d watched too many films – grips his chin, lifting his head up to look him over. “That makes one of us”, he all but growls, pulling against bonds he knew were secure; he couldn’t help it, he was never one to accept capture, regardless of the circumstances.

He hadn’t quite gotten a handle on those, yet, in any case. John eyed the other man over suspiciously; this couldn’t be some sort of elaborate scheme, it couldn’t, what would there even be to gain from it? He was pretty sure he wasn’t dead, but that was only pretty sure, at this point. “If you figure it out, tell me, yeah?” It’s just shy of challenging – he may be at a disadvantage, a pretty severe one at that – but he had no intentions of submitting. This could be a fever dream for all he knew, but he had to treat it like reality until he learned otherwise.

John took a look over the ship again, just a brief glance, then met the other man’s eyes, firmly. This was ridiculous, made no sense at all; it was strange enough when he woke in that strange room, all alone, but it only got stranger since his escape, such as it was. He should be with his troop – had been with his troop – but the last thing he remembered before waking was pain and blood, screaming and confusion and a queer, screeching noise in his ears. He’d been shot, he was sure, was fading fast even as he’d heard an unfamiliar voice muttering ‘too soon’, and ‘this isn’t right’, and an abrupt jerking dragging him away from where he’d lain. He had started to consider this was some sort of dying dream when he tumbled out the door to find himself on the ocean without a wound or a clue how he’d gotten there. He’d thought the ship passing, hours of staying afloat later would be his salvation – even if it was a strange, classical design; wooden, of all things – but he had been handled roughly, searched for… something, and bound, to be shoved aside on deck. No one paid him any mind, then, until… this. Whatever this was.

~~(Ball’s in your court, now, my dear~ *smirk*)~~