Sherlock's Interpreter {Sunday Updates}

Chapter 9: Blasted Woman!

Sherlock sat up and turned to watch the dock's lights gradually fade in the darkness while the rickety whaler made its slow cruise through the blackened water of the Osaka Bay.

He adjusted his coat collar, the damp chill from the night air already seeping into his bones as he glanced up at the light coming from the captain's cabin. Alright, there was no time like the present to make the most intolerable female he had ever met detest him even more.

He hauled himself to his feet, and his stomach rolled as he gripped the boat's splintered railing for support. Bloody well! He was already nauseous, and he hadn't been aboard the vessel for more than a few minutes — seven to be exact! He took a deep breath to calm his growing malaise, but the salty air only made him cough miserably into his collar.

"Blasted woman!"

Forcing himself forward, he gripped the scraggly ropes on each side of the steps. He slowly made his way up, one step at a time, wobbly at first, then, with a determined push, he propelled himself to the cabin door as the Kaze no Kizu laboured along. He cupped his hand over his eyes and did his best to peer through the grimy window, but all he could see was a dim light and the blurry back of a despicable blonde head. What the hell was she up to now?

Charlie pushed her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, placed the leather notebook inside her knapsack and rifled around until she grasped what she was looking for. She soon withdrew a battered handheld GPS. The display flickered to life as she thumbed Busan, South Korea, into the search box, and placed it on the console beside the captain's wheel. Her eyes traced the growing red line between the blue dot, showing her boat's coordinates, to the ink-black sea stretched out in front of her. Her knuckles whitened as her hand gripped the wheel.

"You've got this, baby. You can do it," she said as she nudged the metal throttle up and steered the boat away from the image of the shoreline into the open sea.

And when Sherlock pushed through the cabin door, he scowled at the sight of her. She knew he was there, and as he lingered in the doorway of the old whaler, his temper increased. She wouldn't even bother to face him and acknowledge the fact that she had almost gotten him killed!

He came to stand beside her, his eyes drilling into her profile. She refused to look at him.

Sherlock's stomach churned again as the vessel rocked through the black sea and the cabin's dim overhead bulb swayed side to side, casting moving shadows over her profile. Her face, resolute and ignoring him, gleamed faintly while her blonde ponytail kept rhythm with the waves, mocking his nausea with each defiant swing.

"So you plan to ignore me all night, hmm? Why am I not surprised?" he said as he leaned his hip against the edge of the console.

He studied how her gaze flickered from the churning water to the GPS, and his eyes followed that path, noting the co-ordinates: 34°N, 135°E. Interesting. His focus came back to her face, and his lips curled bitterly. Now that she was still, what better time to etch her damnable features into his mind, just as he had done when her parasitic father stared down at him in that hospital bed.

Sherlock's mouth tightened.

Refined features, delicate, high cheekbones propping up wide green eyes framed by dark lashes, full pink lips pursing as she set her sights ahead, ignoring him. There was a softness in her features, he noted, a crinkling in the skin at the corners of her eyes that could only be there from smiling often, laughing perhaps.

Sherlock's brows drew together. What did it sound like when she laughed? Her hair was golden blonde, highlights blending with the play of the overhead light, her ponytail jauntily swinging with the roll of the boat.