Sherlock's Interpreter {Sunday Updates}

Chapter 10: You Make Me Sick

Sherlock stared at the lamp hanging above his head as it swayed to and fro with the movement of the little boat. The creak of the cot he lay on and the loud drone from the boat's motor did nothing to stifle the churning wheels of his mind as he stewed on the latest events.

He had no idea where they were headed, no clue where he'd find himself in the coming hours. He was solely reliant on the whims of Charles Magnussen's hellion offspring until he could contain her long enough to hand her off to Kuma Taoka.

He curved his arm under his head, his gaze drifting across the wood beams above him. There she sat on her little stool, taking them to who-knew where? And he couldn't do a damn thing about it . . . or could he? He flung himself from the cot and paced the claustrophobic confines of the below-deck cabin.

How could he have been so stupid as to follow her onto the boat? He stroked his throat, grimaced, and pulled Charlie's photo from his front pocket. He smiled grimly as he stared at her.

"What's your next move?" He tapped his chin with her photo and continued to pace the cabin. "Why risk your life? The world is a big place. Surely someone like you could easily disappear."

He pulled the letter from his pocket and held it up to the light of the swaying lantern. "Why make yourself vulnerable for an insane woman's letters?"

He flipped the letter in his hand and made a clicking sound with his tongue as he pondered. It would be easy to open the letter, read the contents, and seal it up again without her being any the wiser. It was a lead, after all, a clue that would surely give him answers. But the letter wasn't meant for him...

Of course, that hadn't stopped him before. When it came to solving a case, he needed to have all the facts before he could make his always logical conclusion.

But this wasn't a case. It was a babysitting mission.  And his task in bringing back the irritating brat of his most despised nemesis was turning out to be harder than he had thought.

With a frustrated cry, Sherlock yanked open the lower deck door and launched himself up the few stairs from the belly of the boat. But when he got to the main deck, he paused his steps. His chest tightened as a sickening sensation filled the back of his throat. With shaky legs that had yet to learn the deep sway of the sea, he shuffled across the deck and, holding onto the railing, stared out at the blackness all around him. Other than a long line of moonlight that glimmered on the fathomless waves, the water stretched into endless nothingness.

Why did he follow her again? He cleared his throat, swallowing down the bile as he watched the waves rapidly building. The splashes of seawater rose over the railing and increased the spray on the deck as the waves found their strength.

The wind beat against Sherlock's face as his breathing came in short gasps, his pulse quickening. He slowly backed up to the narrow stairs that led to the captain's cabin. Other than the moonlight and a sprinkle of stars that tried to peek through the covering of clouds, the light coming from the cabin was the only indication that he hadn't stepped into infinite hell.

And that's when he heard it, a gentle, beckoning sound that cut through the claps of waves and distant thunder. What was it? Singing? One step up the stairs, and another, and another, Sherlock gripped the ropes with both hands as his stomach rolled and whatever food he had eaten on the plane ride to Japan curdled in his throat.

He continued pulling himself up the steps. The music, the singing, blessedly began drowning out the building storm, and he strained to make out the words. Was it Russian? Obviously, some Eastern European language. His stomach sloshed like a half-filled bucket, and a cold sweat slicked over his palms as he gripped the ropes and pressed his ear to the door.