Hi Everybody!!
Crazy life and weekend so Molly happens to have been frozen for a while.
Oops. :)
Okay... time for more lame and bad fanfiction your way!!
Spoilers: Who doesn't love some Boatswain Lestrade?
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Over the next day the Scarlet Letter was quiet. In the afternoon one would find the four
in the captain’s cabin still. Moriarty was propped on a stool facing Molly
whilst in the lagging middle of a seemingly endless monologue. Molly was
half-dozing, having tried to listen in mock-politeness, but her head had lolled
forward on her chest long ago and, though the rival captain had noticed, he had
glanced away casually and let her sleep. John was unconscious where he was
tied, his head lolling back at an uncomfortable angle and the blood from his
shoulder covering and staining his white shirt. Then there was Seb, soundlessly
whittling a stick and staring at the doctor, not even choosing to listen to his
captain, whose story he had no doubt heard many times before.
There were the four of them. And then
there was a curse from outside and the sound of someone yelling, “Oh for
Christ’s sake!” and then there was a bang of someone landing on the deck
outside of the double doors.
Molly started awake and Moriarty froze. He
exchanged a glance with Seb, who gave him a grim look and tossed his stick to
the side. There was a moment of tense silence. And then the door was kicked
mercilessly in and someone jumped in. They instantly went for Moriarty, as he
was closer, and tackled him, managing to down him with a single blow to the
face. Seb was almost upon him when he grabbed Moriarty and spun to face Seb
whilst holding a gun to the captain’s head.
“Greg!” Molly cried, more out of relief
and pain than anything, but Lestrade didn’t turn to greet her as he scowled at
Seb and held Moriarty ever tighter. The captain only laughed.
“Hello, Molly’s boatswain!” He made an
attempt at cheerfulness even as Lestrade pulled his headlock even tighter.
“That was rather a bold move on your part. What are you going to do now? Stand
there until we reach the shore?”
Lestrade was going to make some kind of
reply, but the captain beat him to it. “I mean, you could do that, or I don’t
know, sod off?”
He gave some kind of signal to Seb, who
casually pulled a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it at the unconscious
John.
As Lestrade’s eyes widened, Moriarty
giggled, “Tell me, do you like your doctors dead? I like them alive,
particularly this one, he’s a great damsel in distress.” Anyone in the room
could see Lestrade’s brain going at a million miles an hour. Finally Molly made
up his mind for him.
“Greg, don’t.” He instantly pushed
Moriarty away, but retained his position in front of Molly. Moriarty forgot
about him, however, for the moment, for he had gone over to John and now patted
his head.
Both Greg and Molly tensed at his touch,
but he again seemed to take no heed and simply took the moment to straighten
out his coat from the previous scrape he had just been in. He looked up at the
two and then laughed.
“Look at you, you’re both so funny.” He
giggled as they scowled at him. “SO serious.” And he made a mockingly serious
face. Suddenly they heard a cry from above deck that sounded like a cry of
“Land!”. Moriarty grinned at the two and held his hand out to Seb, who
delivered a gun to him. He looked directly at Lestrade as he pointed it at
John’s head. “Make a sound, and I shoot.” He warned, and nodded to Seb who
sneered and approached the boatswain with a rope.
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The cry of land was taken up and Sherlock
grinned into the sun as it set. His sunburnt face had taken on a grim
determination and his windswept hair almost looked red from the long and restless
days spent in pursuit. But now, they were at America, and he could only hope
against hope that John had kept to his word and that Molly, as well as Greg,
were safe. He took a deep breath as a fresh gust of wind blew in from behind
and hardened his resolve to catch up.
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It was dark by the
time they pulled into swimming distance of the land. Everyone on the ship was
carefully quiet as they stared at the Scarlet
letter whose sails were up and whose lights were out. They dropped anchor,
having seen a party heading onto the beach and into the forest, and Sherlock
quickly gave orders for them to get into a boat and follow in close pursuit. He
left two guards over the boat, and swam out for the Scarlet Letter himself.
As soon as he stepped
on board, something felt wrong. There had obviously been some kind of scuffle
on board, as he could see scratches in the worn wooden deck. He peered down
closer, spying blood. He would have liked to further investigate but an eerie
sound to his left drew him away. He followed the sound cautiously, coming out
onto the helm to see, on the deck, a small device that trailed a string all the
way across the deck into the hold. Sherlock evaluated the device for a long
while before taking a cautious step forward.
BANG! Somehow the device snapped to life.
A couple levers whirled about, a small hammer hit home, and a spark appeared at
the end of the string. The string ignited and the spark paused there. The pause
lasted only a second before the spark began racing down the string on its way
to the hold. It went so fast that Sherlock, knowing its purpose could never be
good, had to run to catch up before it disappeared down the steps to the hold.
Sherlock ran down after it as it wound down the steps, burning out as it went.
He raced after it as it twisted around them, and down the next set of stairs
leading to the next deck. Sherlock was nearly upon it by the time there were
down those stairs and winding around to the next flight down. These led into
the hold, and even at the top Sherlock could see what was happening down there
and the fuse’s destination. For a moment, he paused in disbelief, and realized
what was about to happen. That moment was all it took for the fuse to burn down
the stairs.
He realized his error in pausing and made
it down in one leap, landing painfully hard on his feet and rolling. He gave
himself no time for recovery, however, and dashed forward. The fuse had just
barely reached its destination when Sherlock whipped himself around and slid in
to kick the flare out. He jumped up, forgetting about his now sore hip and
ankles and ripped the very last strand of string off of the pack of dynamite,
lying directly in front of an unfortunately and securely tied John Watson, just
in case. The doctor was very awake and his eyes were wide with fear as he
stared at Sherlock, who threw the burnt-out fuse aside and began searching for
any back-up flares or anything that the cunning Moriarty should have planted on
the poor man who had an entire magazine of gunpowder all lined up for the
massive explosion.
After making absolute sure that the danger
was over, Sherlock untied the gag from around John’s head. As soon as it was
out, John gasped for air and in his next breath, blurted, “Sherlock, thank God,
I’m so sorry, they’re on the mainland, they have Molly and Greg, and I tried so
hard to keep her safe, but he hurt her and I’m sorry I broke my promise and-”
Sherlock was instantly shushing him as he
struggled to untie the ropes binding him fast to the wooden pole. “It’s
alright.” Sherlock shushed him, “We’ll find them, alright?” John’s eyes were
still wide as he pursed his lips and shook his head.
“I told you I would protect her.”
“And you did. She’s not dead.” Of course,
they didn’t know that for sure, but it seemed to calm the doctor a little. He
sniffed and leaned his head back on the post behind him, still gasping in
relief.
“Thank you.”
Sherlock didn’t answer and watched John
carefully when the doctor closed his eyes.
“John.” John gave the smallest shake of
his head as it lolled farther back. Sherlock gave him a last glance before
returning his gaze to his work. John was obviously in bad shape and Sherlock’s slender
fingers held as much urgency as he felt as he quickly untied the ropes holding
John. It didn’t take long for the first mate to slacken the ropes and John
sagged as soon as the support holding him up left him. Sherlock caught him with
one arm, using his other hand to finish undoing the knots at his feet before he
finally finished and gently cradled the unresponsive doctor.
Sherlock didn’t even try to wake him and
scooped his free hand beneath his knees before hoisting him to his chest and
standing. The task was no small feat, and as Sherlock slowly waddled around, he
huffed with John’s weight. He checked the ship for more booby traps or signs
that it was rigged to blow, and then readjusted John so as to sling him over
his shoulder and climb overboard.
Though the swim back to the ship felt
long, Sherlock had an easy enough time of it, using an old back stroke
technique solely for the purpose of carrying injured mates through the water.
One arm he kept around John, who uselessly sagged against him, and the other he
used to paddle hard for the other boat. He managed to make it there, and was
greeted by the rather unwilling guards he had left there, Donovan and Anderson.
They didn’t bother helping the poor man with his load as he struggled onto the
ship with John weighing him down. Sherlock had to lay John on his back as he
gasped for air and looked up to give the two a threatening glare.
“Once, uh, once he wakes up…” He began,
still gasping for air, “Give him water and as many rations as you can… He’s
going to bleed out soon so if you could bandage him up that would be good.” He
finally seemed to gather some of his breath back and stood from John’s side.
“Please take care of him. If he dies when I get back…” He stared hard from one
to the other for a very long time and didn’t even need to finish the statement.
The two nodded rather dejectedly and while
Anderson glared at Sherlock, who began to climb back into the water, Donovan
stared sadly at John, obviously regretting this new assignment.
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