Trust Issues

...And into the Fire

The British guards led them through the streets, where townsfolk John recognized from his earlier years came out onto the streets to watch. He heard gunfire behind him, followed by a cannon blast, and knew something was happening with the ship. He was terrified, not for himself but for Sherlock and the others, would they be hanged? His wrists burned; although they weren’t tied they were being held so tight he worried for his circulation. The guards were bringing them to one of the structurally stand houses, where, other than a few boarded up windows and patches of burn marks, the house looked perfectly fine. It was on the other side of town, which wasn’t saying much since the whole town was barely three miles in total. The men cheered as they saw the pirates being dragged, the women shielding their children’s eyes and closing the shutters on the houses, as if the sight of pirates would lead the younger generations to be like them. They were pushed through the door, into a small, poorly lit dining room, transformed into an office that closely resembled Sherlock’s back on the ship. A man in a British uniform with a white powdered wig sat there, writing something with an eagle feather quill. He looked up and a smile broke on his face, as if the sight of captured pirates delighted him.
“Oh, this is perfect. You’re sure these are the same that raided the town?” he asked.
“Yes sir, recognized the ship.” Another man answered.
“Well, I don’t mean to be rude, sit down.” The man insisted, gesturing to empty chairs in front of him. He glared at the guards, who released them, but not the ropes around their wrists. “Send a message to the Watson family, tell them their boy has returned.” The man said. A guard immediately responded, walking out of the door to go find his parents. Perfect, they’d be able to talk them all out of this, maybe let them go free even.
“My name is Cornelius Henry, but you can just call me Mr. Henry.” Mr. Henry said, looking upon the men like they were mice caught in the trap. “Don’t bother introducing yourself Mr. Holmes, just sit tight.” He added. Sherlock scowled at him, but didn’t say anything. No one sat down, they stood in a defensive little circle, a circle, John noticed, he was in the middle of.
“I was informed that pirates raided this little town and kidnapped one of its residents, I’m not sure if you know Mr. Holmes, but this town’s safety is essential to England, so of course we had to rise to protect it.”
“I wasn’t kidnapped…” John started, but Greg stepped on his foot rather hard.
“You weren’t then were you?” Mr. Henry asked in a sort of mocking tone.
“Of course he was kidnapped. That’s what it’s called when your taken against your will you pathetic boy.” Sherlock hissed, glaring at John with a flare in his eyes John had never noticed before. John was at a loss for words, he knew somehow this must be for his protection, but he wasn’t sure what it was for.
“Or did you simply go with Mr. Holmes then? Become a pirate; fulfill your childhood dreams then?” Henry asked.
“No of course not, we had to torture him to get him to do our bidding.” Sherlock hissed. John backed away slowly, not having a clue to what Sherlock was up to. “Show him John.” Sherlock added, stepping out of the way and giving John front and center. The only real cut John could think of was the ones on his stomach, so he lifted up his shirt to show Mr. Henry the scabbed wounds from the beast’s jaws.
“You’ll find that rats squeal when you stab them with knives.” Sherlock said, shoving John out of the way with his shoulder and stepping in front of him, as if to hide him from the man’s view. Mr. Henry didn’t show much expression; John just hoped that whatever Sherlock was up to was working.
“Why do you have us here?” Greg asked.
“You’re pirates, I’m sure we have some nice rope necklaces for you and your crew.” Mr. Henry said with a smile. John’s heart stopped. They were going to be hung? No, that couldn’t happen, he might be able to say goodbye to Sherlock and watch him sail away, but he couldn’t die, that was not how this was going to end. John was just about to say something when the door was practically smashed open with a shriek. John was almost tackled by a mass of hair and fabric, his sobbing mother strangling him in a hug. The men stepped away in surprise, John fighting to breath.
“Tell me you’re okay, you’re not hurt?” she asked, giving him his space.
“Mom, I’m fine, some scratches and cuts, but I’m fine!” John assured. She looked up at the men, searching their faces before she stopped on Sherlock’s.
“You were the pirate that took my son! The one that I actually trusted to take good care of him! How dare you!” she exclaimed, smacking Sherlock across the face. His head whipped to the side and John winced as a red handprint appeared on his pale skin.
“My apologies ma’am.” Sherlock said in his normal, sweet voice.
“You disgust me, all of you!” she hissed. John was worried he was going to have to break up a fight between his friends and his mother soon, but thankfully his dad appeared in the doorway just in time.
“John! So good to see you’re okay.” He said with a smile, shaking his son’s hand as if he had just gone to the market and back. Sherlock looked on the scene with sadness, as if he missed his own family.
“Come on John, we’re going home, good afternoon Mr. Bossman, make sure these criminals suffer.” Mrs. Watson decided, steering John by his shoulder.
“Now wait one second Mrs. Watson, but we’re not done with John yet. We don’t know it he joined their crew or not, he could be just as bad as the lot of them.” Mr. Henry pointed out.
“That is preposterous; my boy would never sink to their level.” Mrs. Watson growled. John put on his best look of surprise and innocence.
“Please Mr. Henry sir, just let me go home.” He pleaded, trying to make his tears fall now. “I’ve been suffering long enough; I’m sore and tired, all I want is to go home. Please.” He added, trying to look completely helpless. To add to the scene, Sherlock scowled at him, looking appalled that something like John had ever crawled onto the deck of his ship.
“Fine, but you’re still not free to leave the town.” Mr. Henry decided.
“Of course, I never want to leave here again.” John insisted. For show he gave Sherlock a soft kick in the shins, but they both played it up as if it hurt. Sherlock looked enraged, and John, for once, was having trouble deciding if this was an act. Mrs. Watson practically dragged John out of that building, hugging him once more and rambling about life without him. But as soon as John got out of there his mind was already racing about how to get back in, to break his friends out before they were hung. He would never allow it, never in his wildest dreams would he allow something like that to happen. As they were walking there was commotion, even some screams of civilians. John rounded the corner and saw the rest of the crew being dragged off of the docks, their wrists bound and connected by a long length a chain. They were all growling, fighting back, but they were at least outnumbered by twice their numbers by armed guards. John’s stomach dropped when he saw Anderson in the mix, but he wasn’t resisting, he was glaring right at John, as if saying this was all his fault, he knew their fate, he knew the only thing coming were the gallows. John gave him an equally determined look, as if trying to promise a rescue from a distance away.
“Don’t look at them John, that’s all behind us now. I can’t believe that sweet boy was a pirate, a captain no less!” she squealed.
“Mom seriously, I’m fine!” John insisted, pushing her arm off of his shoulders.
“No you’re not; you must be traumatized, poor baby.” Mrs. Watson whined, leading John farther and farther from being any possible help to the crew. His Father opened the door, letting the two in. John sank into the dining room chair, looking around the house. He wasn’t going to sit around and remember the good old days, think with a smile that he was back home with his good memories. That would be lying to himself, he wasn’t properly home until Sherlock, Greg, and the rest of the crew were properly safe. His mother dug around the cabinets, filling a kettle with water and putting it on the burner.
“We were so worried, we thought you were dead!” Mrs. Watson squealed. Mr. Watson sat in the chair at the head of the table, smiling at his son as he lit his pipe.
“The bloody town was raided, those pirates took everything, but for some reason our house was untouched.” He said, puffing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. John took a deep breath, he couldn’t tell his parents the truth about the crew, if he did they’d suspect he would want to break them out. No one could know except him, if so much of a word was whispered that John cared for them he’d be thrown into prison too.
“Just lucky I suppose.” John muttered. The tea kettle got to a boiling point, screaming out steam as Mrs. Watson poured three cups.
“What did they make you do?” she asked, handing one to John.
“They needed a scythe made, some weapon or something, I don’t know the details.”
“That’s why he needed to see your craftsmanship then.”
“How’d they get you on the boat? You put up a fight I hope.” Mr. Watson said. He was judging John even in mortal peril.
“Of course, but you can’t do much with the barrel of a gun pointed in your skull.” John pointed out. At that Mrs. Watson squeaked, covering her mouth with her hands to prevent from crying.
“I’m so sorry John, if I’d known he was a pirate I’d never make you go with him, I thought you could make a friend.” She exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. For the second time John was almost strangled by his mother, who was convinced to back away by Mr. Watson, who wasn’t nearly as emotional as she was.
“It’s fine mother, you were doing the right thing.” John assured.
“Well,” Mrs. Watson said, smoothing her dress, “They’re all locked up now; I assume you want first row seats at the hanging.” At that John’s heart seemed to harden, and he had to work overtime to keep himself from bursting into tears. The thought of Sherlock, Greg, Moran, even Anderson hanging by the gallows was too much to bear. John wouldn’t let that happen, even if it was suicide it was better one person die than an entire crew. He glanced out the window, where the ship still stood in the water. He was surprised they hadn’t burned it, the British might have thought it was useful or something. As John sipped his tea he plotted about just how to get the men out of this terrible situation, his father had a gun upstairs and of course a surplus of swords and weapons. John never thought he’d have to ever use one of his or his father’s craftsmanship, but know he seemed to need one every hour or so. John slipped his hand into his pants pocket, where Sherlock’s compass still sat. He was surprised the guards hadn’t taken it or even searched him. He could’ve had a knife or something stashed in there for all they knew. He rubbed his thumb across the cool metal, Never Forget. He won’t forget, he can’t forget, he had to get Sherlock out of that prison if it was the death of him.
“I’ll get dinner started; you can go up and get a shower dear, I’m sure you need one.” Mrs. Watson said. John smiled, taking the hint that he smelled like the deck, seaweed and dirt and sweat, not something you’d like to eat around. He nodded, walking up the stairs to the bathroom. He took as long as he wanted in the shower, treasuring clean water for a change. When he got out he felt better than a million bucks, he felt clean, which was worth his soul and more. Once he was in fresh clothes he walked back down stairs, where he smelled the brilliant smell of baking pork.
“Thought I’d make your favorite John.” Mrs. Watson said with a smile. John smiled back, his stomach growling for real food, as much real food as he could eat without being sick. When dinner was ready John ate at least three plates full, maybe more. He was absolutely starving, he hadn’t realized that though. It made up for the torturous days in the temple, eating only the black goo that was almost responsible for Sherlock’s death. The whole meal consisted of Mrs. Watson looking over at her son and looking either overjoyed or seriously depressed, then looking away as if nothing had happened. John didn’t blame her, this must all be very traumatizing for her, even though he had been kidnapped they were the ones that had to sit here and wait for him to return, if he even was alive. They didn’t ask much about what happened, as if just telling them would make his break down. Instead they told him of the efforts to rebuild the town after the fires and destruction. John listened, but in reality his mind was in some dirty cell, where Sherlock sat on a bench and watched the sunlight disappear behind the metal bars. That night John excused himself from the table and went to bed early, needing to think about what exactly he was going to do to get these idiots out of prison. If they died it would be entirely his fault, and he knew that, yet another reason why they simply couldn’t die. As long as John was alive and free he would make sure that Sherlock and the rest of the boat was as well. He lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling with the faint light of the moon that broke through his curtains. Finally, at around midnight or one o’clock, he had a plan all worked out, one that he could only pray would work like it should.