Chapter Text
Sherlock woke to shouts of horror on deck. For several moments he lay in his cot, his head throbbing with the sway of the ship and his mind jostled by interrupted sleep. He sat up and fumbled about with his clothes before realising what was going on. Oh! Of course! A wide grin spread across his face, as he shoved on a pair of trousers. His movements were much more hurried after that.
Sherlock stormed up the stairs to the top deck, stuffing all his assorted journals and pens into his waterproof case, keeping only a small sketchbook and pen out for him to capture the likeness of the rumoured beast. The HMS Victoria and her bounty-hunting crew had spent the past month and a half ruthlessly combing the North Atlantic waters for the sea monster that had been attacking and puncturing the hulls of ships of both the British and French navy. If the crew had at long last found whatever the troublemaker of the seas was, Sherlock was going to be there to record every detail of it. He had specifically requested to the captain that should they kill or maim the beast, they would drag it on board if possible, or at least pull it as close to the side of the ship to allow him further scientific measurements and evidence.
“Professor Holmes!” a voice shouted above the howling winds as he reached the deck. Sherlock swivelled around to identify the voice and found the captain of the ship hurriedly motioning him to the railing, pointing with his other hand down into the waters. Sherlock skidded across to him, eagerly ignoring every word the captain said as his eyes scanned the roiling depths below in search of what the crew had spotted.
There, just a glimpse, hard to see against the pounding rain, was an eerie glow radiating from beneath the surface. He leaned over as far as was safe to get a better look, but the light suddenly disappeared, leaving only what to an untrained eye would be open ocean.
“It was Anderson.”
“Hmm?” Sherlock straightened up, just now paying attention to the captain, who was standing uncomfortably close to him.
“It was Anderson that spotted it. About an hour ago, but it only started glowing a few minutes before you arrived. Don’t worry Professor Holmes!” he grinned and clasped Sherlock’s arm, “We’ll get your giant narwhal for you.”
Most of the men who had gone on this journey found Sherlock’s hypothesis to be laughable at best. Everyone knew the largest sea creature was a whale, so why might it not be a whale? That was certainly what Anderson, the harpooner chosen for the hunt, believed. Sherlock spotted the man in question rushing back and forth across the deck, slipping and sliding about with his terrible harpoon in hand and a delighted grin on his face.
Sherlock still held that the round punctures that caused ships to sink where the perfect size for a giant narwhal, if the depths allowed for such a beast. Still, he would discover first hand if his hypothesis was correct, perhaps in only another hour or two, if the captain’s assurances and Anderson’s boasts were anything to go by.
Another chorus of cheers and shouts resounded from the other side of the ship as men gathered to look at an even stronger glow that was shining so brightly even Sherlock could see it from where he was standing. A chill rushed down his back, and he clutched his sketchbook closer, deciding to stuff it in his case as he wouldn’t be needing it any time soon. If the beast kept appearing and disappearing, with only an otherworldly light to announce its presence, it would take a while for them to catch it. The ruckus died down once the lights had vanished again, and for several minutes it seemed there would be no more signs of where the monster was.
Suddenly, the ship shuddered and there were screams from below deck. Sherlock gripped onto the railing as tight as he could as the ship began to lean to the side, ropes and barrels almost crashing into him as he tried to avoid the debris. Looking down, the great maw of the sea opened up before him, wave after wave spraying up and assaulting his body. It was as if he was staring into the very heart of the sea. Beneath him he saw, for just a moment, a long, cylindrical shape glowing like the fires of hell, lighting up the waters around it. All of Sherlock’s previous thoughts ground to a halt as he gawked in awe of what he beheld. This was no sea monster of any natural design. It was a steel-encased machination that could only have been created by man, and it was terrible, and it was definitely not a giant narwhal.
The HMS Victoria shuddered again and an icy cold wave roared up onto the deck, breaking Sherlock’s grip from the railing before he had a chance to understand what was going on. As if in a dream, he watched his body tumble down towards the howling abyss. It was almost peaceful, gliding through the air. Then he dove head-first into the water, crashing against something hard, and then there was no more.
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There was no movement. No light. Barely any noise, except for the peculiar thudding coming from both sides of wherever he was. Sherlock lay on his back on a cold, hard surface and stared up at nothing. Had he truly died? After years of studying the sea, had that been what took him in the end? He scoffed, then his mood soured. He had heard many tales as a child of burning hellfire and searing flames, but if this was his fate it was truly a cruel act to make his eternal resting place one of sheer boredom and utter stagnation.
At the sound of his scoff something moved in the dark to the left? right? of him.
“Where are you? Speak, foul demon!” Anderson shouted.
“While I grant you your guess is not far from the truth, I assure you we are both mortals stuck in this afterlife together.”
“I think I’d rather share this darkness with a demon.” the whaler grumbled.
Just then, a door opened and the room flashed into focus as a beam of light poured in. Sherlock and Anderson both winced, shielding their eyes, but after a few seconds Sherlock lowered his hand and looked up, just as two men entered the cell they had apparently been locked in.
The first man was about as tall as Sherlock and had strong shoulders and a defined jawline. His uniform further exaggerated him to appear formidable and commanding. He was sharply dressed, neat, and had silvery grey hair. When he entered the room, Anderson sat up with obvious intent to speak to this man as the captain. Yet something about him didn’t quite suggest leader; more like loyal assistant. Second in command perhaps?
Then the second man stepped in and Sherlock forgot wherever that line of thought was going. His brain instantly rushed through a flurry of deductions. Military man, no tan, has been in charge for at least two… no three years, short but firm, compact but with a slightly muscular build, nicely dressed but doesn’t put much regard into appearances, unassuming, definitely a leader.
This was most certainly the captain of whatever ship they were in.
Before either of their prisoners could speak, the two men whispered to each other, and in a language which sounded vaguely bizarre yet somehow familiar. It was the type of familiarity of a language which he had never heard before, but it sounded so nice that he wished he knew it anyway.
“Excuse me, sirs?” Anderson spoke up, and the men quieted but did not give any appearance of understanding him. Anderson continued on, becoming increasingly nervous at their blank stares, “I’m afraid neither of us understand your language, but… emm…” He looked to Sherlock for help, and Sherlock sighed, standing up to face the men.
He said a few greetings in French, looking for any sign of recognition, and gave a brief overview of how they had been on a ship seeking out a sea monster troubling international waters. He cited his reasons as purely scientific interest, while generally avoiding stating anything about Anderson being a very eager, very dedicated harpooner. His story grounded to a halt when the last of his memories fell into place. What had he seen in those waters, just before he fell overboard? But… it couldn’t be…
Anderson spoke up again when Sherlock faltered. He had known enough of Sherlock on the previous ship’s voyage that whenever Sherlock got that puzzled, almost trance-like look on his face it meant he wouldn’t be talking for at least the next couple of minutes. So instead he tried explaining their situation in broken German, but again neither men showed any sign of comprehension. At last he gave up and shuffled back to the corner of the cell, mumbling to himself and cursing his fate.
Just as he had finished, Sherlock’s eyes blinked rapidly and a wide grin of elation overtook his face. He clasped his hands together, “Ah, yes! I have it now, we are underwater! Just before I fell off the Victoria I saw a large metal tube swimming through the water. And are we not surrounded by metal now even as we speak.” He grinned, turning towards the strange men, who still looked at him with little interest. He pointed at the taller man, “Chief Officer. Second in command.” He then pointed at the other, “And I believe this is the captain of this fantastically impossible vessel!”
“But how can that be? Where are we?” Anderson scratched his head.
He asked a few more tedious questions, but Sherlock wasn’t listening. He had been wading in and out of his own mind palace, gathering information from his memories and storing them in a new room he had built specifically for this… whatever it was. But then a motion caught his eye, and he looked over to see the captain staring back at him. Something had changed. Up until this point the man’s face had remained neutral, but with the sight of Sherlock bouncing about making deductions, a faint glimmer of recognition slipped through his mask. Sherlock grinned but decided to keep this little fact tucked away to himself.
He spoke up again, “It’s quite a shame these men cannot understand us or I should ask them if we may explore such an amazing creation. The engineering for this machine must be several years ahead of anything we have seen on land.” Sherlock said in his deepest, warmest tone of voice, glancing at the captain to see if his words had any effect. Judging by the barest hint of a smile, it had.
The two men then left without another word, shutting the door and leaving their prisoners in the dark, perhaps to discuss what would be done with their new captives. Anderson groaned but Sherlock smiled, content that he had at least briefly connected in a meaningful way. He could only hope now that the men’s decision would be a merciful one, and they would be allowed to get off at the nearest dock possible with little consequence to either party.
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It was several hours (or at least it felt like it) before the door opened again. This time however, two of the crew came in and dragged Sherlock and Anderson out into the light, pushing them down hallways and through doors before either of them could get a proper look at their surroundings. When they finally were able to see again, they were both sitting in the captain’s office in front of his desk, and the captain stood behind his chair, back rigidly straight and fists held tight at his sides.
The room was silent for many moments. Then the captain sighed and his posture eased.
He cleared his throat, “I hope our first meeting did not startle you or make you feel threatened. We did not know who you were at first, only that you fell off the ship that tried to destroy us. You must surely understand then that we would need time to come to an informed decision.”
“Wait, you understand English… all this time?” Anderson sputtered
“I speak English, French, and German fluently. However, I command an international crew, all of whom shared no common language before boarding.”
“So you invented a new one for them?” Sherlock asked.
The captain hesitated, “In a way, though I must confess I used a simplified language from my homeland and tweaked it to my needs. The men still speak to their comrades in their native languages. We are quite a multilingual group here, so you should not fear speaking whatever language you feel most comfortable with to my men.”
“And just how long will we have to spend with your lovely crew in this metal contraption?” Anderson gritted his teeth. Sherlock would have perhaps taken a more civil approach to asking for their freedom, but there was little use pretending Anderson’s words hadn’t meant exactly what he himself was wondering.
The captain straightened up, glaring back at Anderson with equal force, “Your stay on my ship is indefinite.” He glanced at Sherlock with an odd look in his eyes, “I’m truly sorry, but I cannot allow the truth of my submarine to reach land. If any of my men or myself were to step back onto solid ground we would be instantly tried several years labor, or in some countries, certain death. You must understand that I cannot risk the safety of my men on the word of your honour.”
“This is madness! You cannot keep us here indefinitely without charges or evidence!” Anderson said.
Any kindness that had been in the captain’s eyes instantly fled, “Do not speak to me of supposed rights you may have. I am well aware of the justice systems on land, but here on my ship we have our own set of laws and follow none which were created by civilisation. As a prisoner of this ship you cannot leave to go to shore nor may you in any way spread news of our existence.”
Sherlock spoke up before Anderson could reply, “I am afraid, sir, that your presence is already known to the general public of both Britain and France, and perhaps several other nations. Your submarine has sunk or caused injury to multiple ships and I doubt they would let these acts go unpunished.”
“Which was why your ship was hunting me down?”
Sherlock winced, “I confess that is true, though I myself---”
“I heard your story, Professor Holmes, I am well aware of who you are.”
Sherlock looked up, “You… you are? How?”
The captain relaxed, settling into a more comfortable position. He gave Sherlock a faint smile, reaching behind him to pick out a small book from his stuffed shelf. It had been read many times, earmarked and bookmarked, and only a faint layer of dust graced its binding. When the man turned the cover towards him, Sherlock gave a startled laugh. It was titled “The Depths of the Sea”, and his name was printed in small lettering at the bottom. He had written that study a few years back when he was still attending university, but obviously his knowledge of the ocean had expanded since then.
“I was unaware you paid attention to awkward ramblings of my youth, sir.”
“No, not at all, it’s quite good.” he handed the book to Sherlock. When he opened it and flipped through, he saw numerous notes and markings, correcting what he had at the time believed to be scientifically-sound data. Apparently not. He raised an eyebrow at the captain and the man chuckled, scratching his beard.
“It is admirable for someone who has only been on land before. I obviously have more experiential knowledge of the ocean than you.”
“Obviously.”
Anderson sighed but said nothing, reclining further in his seat and taking the moment to look at all the bizarre things in the office. Most of it was aquatic-themed of course, although he noticed a portrait of a woman and her child sitting on the desk. He pointed, “Is that your wife?”
The captain startled for a moment but then shook his head, “No, no that would be my sister and her little boy.” He addressed both of them again, “And I’m afraid I’ve failed to introduce myself. I am Captain John Watson, and the vessel you are currently sitting in is a submarine of my own design and creation… The Casse-cou .”
Sherlock smirked. He knew French well enough to understand the ship’s name. Daredevil. Thrill seeker. What might that say about the captain of said vessel?
“What are the terms to be for our stay on board?” Sherlock asked in the politest manner he could.
“You may move freely about the submarine as you please. I believe, Mr. Holmes, you will be quite pleased at the vast knowledge I have acquired inside my library.” he glanced at Anderson, “I do not know you so well, but my Chief Officer Lestrade recognised the tattoos on your arm so we knew you were some form of sailor, long time in service. Judging by the story you reported you are also an experienced harpooner. Am I correct?”
Anderson’s mood lightened a bit, even if it was mostly due to surprise. He simply nodded. Sherlock on the other hand felt like an entire avalanche of question were ready to fall out of his mouth. He had been staring at Watson the entire time and had not seen the man retreat into any form of memory technique. He did not see the same look of keen observation and deduction that was evident in his older brother Mycroft’s face when they were younger and he was teaching Sherlock how to lift the very intimacies of a person’s life from their fingers and frown lines. Perhaps this captain was far more than he appeared to be.
“So… what, no standard issue uniform? I don’t have to wear one of your… actually what are you wearing?” Anderson pointed out.
Watson looked down as if he had just remembered he was wearing clothes, “The main fabric is my uniform from my time in the army. Lestrade has a similar uniform from the navy. They have kept in good condition for these past few years, but alas, even minor tears are bound to happen.” he indicated a previous rip in his sleeve, “I’ve sewn it and patch it up with sea silk from mollusks. I think you’ll find, gentlemen, that much of our resources come directly from the sea.”
“Will we be allowed to visit port at any time?” Sherlock quickly added, “Only, I will run out of supplies eventually and if I am to stay here I would like to record as much of my findings and experiments as possible.”
Watson seemed to genuinely appear sorry over his next words, “I’m afraid not, Mr. Holmes. While I’m sure your word of honour is true, I have been lenient before and it nearly cost me my life. I assure you I have plenty of ink and paper for your studies and we have quite the array of scientific equipment at your disposal. Do not despair yet gentlemen,” he finished with a gleam in his eyes, “The ocean is a wondrous place to behold! You will not regret your time here. I will take you to see marvels beyond your imagination.”
Sherlock’s heart stuttered at that. For a moment he was in his mind palace, looking at the dusty shelves and familiar clutter of 221B Baker Street, his flat in London… his home. It was not a gateway to the wonders of the world, but it had his memories embedded in the mantlepiece and in the piles of books for his studies and in the warmth of his plush chair that he would sink into after a long night and fade into sleep. In this space, a part of his brain creaked and groaned with the weight of realising he might never see his home again. And Mrs. Hudson would surely have to lease the place after he didn’t come back after a year or two. That place, that small shelter where time could stop and wait for him, would be gone, most of his rubbish thrown out or donated to some stuffy museum. Could he bear to know that he had given that up?
But then he looked at John Watson’s face and felt another part of his brain ease, and fidget with excitement. Here was some source of warmth too, perhaps not as familiar as the fireplace in 221B, but it was there, buried somewhere within the promise of a lifetime voyage, and the kind, glowing smile he was offering Sherlock at the moment. Watson nodded towards him and leaned a bit closer, “I believe you mentioned something about the engineering of my ship?”
Sherlock blinked several times before mumbling, “Um, yes, I’m not sure how this complex machine works. I’m afraid I had dismissed any rumours of underwater travel as fantasy.”
“Yes I… I noticed that.” he chuckled and tapped on Sherlock’s book, “In that case you’ll be needing your sketchbooks back, I believe?”
Sherlock nodded and Watson said a loud command from that odd language he spoke. If Sherlock was expecting Lestrade to enter he was surprised to find a member of the crew open the door and hold up his case, still preserved from the waterproofing, thank god. The crewman was a friendly-looking sort. After his temporary stutter over Watson, he gladly took the opportunity to deduce rapid-fire who the man was. Ship’s doctor, a bit nearsighted judging by his squint, but steady hands to sew up wounds when required, had been on board for nearly as long as Lestrade but with little medical training, mostly practical knowledge. Honest, open, maybe a bit too trusting, knew more than he let on. Possible ally should he need someone on his side.
“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Anderson, this is my good friend Dr. Stamford. He’s patched up quite a few of my men, even did a miracle on my shoulder. He’ll be taking you to your assigned rooms for the voyage.”
“Pity, I was beginning to enjoy the cell.” Anderson grumbled, but Stamford just laughed good heartedly and handed Anderson a bundle of clothes, patting him on the shoulder as he led him out the door.
The doctor, barely reaching Sherlock’s shoulders in height, looked up at him for a few moments and then smirked and handed him his case, “Good to have you here, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
Ah yes. His indefinite stay, apparently. Sherlock frowned at that but attempted his best fake smile for the sake of appearances. It seemed to please Stamford because he then left without another word, not waiting for Sherlock.
“Is he.. should I?” Sherlock turned back around towards Watson, but the captain wasn’t listening. He was staring down at the picture of his sister and nephew, his mouth a thin line and his forehead pinched. Sherlock tried again, “Captain Watson, are you quite all right? Should I leave? I think the doctor left without me.”
The captain snapped back to attention, his posture immediately one of confidence and ease, “Oh yes, sorry about that, I told Stamford I would be dining with you before you went to your rooms. Would you like some breakfast, Mr. Holmes?”
Normally Sherlock would have said no. He sometimes went days without eating, much to chagrin of the estimable Mrs. Hudson. However, he had not eaten in quite a while and his hours in the cell and being battered about deck had made his body quite bothersome. As if on cue, his stomach grumbled and Sherlock, without thinking, squeezed his middle, wrapping his arms around him as if hugging himself would muffle his body’s demands.
Watson laughed at that and gestured towards the door, “That settles it then. After you.”
He lead him out of his office, down a brightly-lit hallway towards a bigger room. There were few doors at all in the submarine, Sherlock noticed, allowing sound from other parts of the ship to filter through the halls, and somehow Watson has managed to install wooden inner walls instead of steel to give a more comfortable resonance. Indeed, where he had expected metal and bolts he found rugs covering great stretches of the hallways and numerous paintings adorning the walls. His awe was not lost on Watson, who said nothing but watched his reactions like a painter stepping back to allow an art critic to value his work.
None of this, however, could have prepared Sherlock for the sight he would behold as he walked into the bigger room. When his jaw dropped in shock, Watson just chuckled and, for a brief moment, looked as if he was going to reach over and close Sherlock’s mouth, but he quickly aborted the movement and stepped into what must have been the dining room, gesturing around in pride.
Truly, Sherlock thought, this would be a marvellous voyage indeed.