Sherlock's Interpreter {Sunday Updates}

Chapter 12: Trust Me

The engine roared again as the boat glided through the dark water. Charlie ran a tired hand over her face and moved in front of Sherlock. Taking hold of the wheel, she fixed her eyes on the water in front of them.

Sherlock studied her. She had gone pale since the Mayday call, her hand barely gripping the wheel, while the other curled, cradled against her chest. And despite his attempts to rationalize her behaviour, something about her disregard for her well-being bothered him.

He wasn't supposed to care. And yet. . . 

His eyes drifted to her hand. She hadn't listened to him, of course. But what did he expect? That she would actually follow his directions and apply the ointment to her burn?

He reached out and grasped her wrist, scowling as he tilted her hand in the lamplight. The streak of burned skin along her palm was raw and pink-puckered, and he shook his head in exasperation.

Was this deliberate defiance or simply fatigue? Either way, it irritated him beyond reason.

"Where's the damn ointment?" he barked suddenly.

Charlie blinked. "What?"

"The first-aid kit." He continued to hold her wrist as his eyes searched the cabin. "Where is it?"

She let go of the wheel and lifted her tired arm in a slow motion, pointing toward the small metal box behind the marine radio. "There," she murmured.

Only then did he release her hand to grab the box, and snapping it open, he rummaged through until he found a tin of ointment and a small roll of gauze.

"You don't have to. . ."

But he was already beside her.

He took her wrist firmly again in his hand. She tried to pull away, but the strength had gone out of her. She was too exhausted to argue with him. Silently, he smoothed the ointment over the angry red welt, and when she winced, his eyes darted to her face, and his finger moved more gently over her skin. Then he wrapped her palm in gauze, with swift, almost surgical movements.

Charlie watched through half-lidded eyes. The warmth of his hand, the medicinal ointment's faint scent, and the boat's rhythmic movement all blurred together, and when he tied off the bandage, she swayed slightly on her feet.

"Go below and sleep," he said, his voice softer this time.

She shook her head, fighting the heaviness dragging at her eyelids. "No."

His jaw tightened. "Charlie Magnussen, I know where we're headed."

Her eyes snapped open. "I-I never told you."

"You didn't need to," he said evenly. "I don't need a tour guide. You entered coordinates into your GPS earlier. I saw them. Thirty-four point nine-seven north, one-thirty-five point four-three east."

He crossed the small cabin with deliberate steps, his fingers grazing the counter where she had brewed the ginger tea the night before. He opened the narrow cabinet beneath, the hinges creaking, and withdrew a folded marine chart tucked neatly beside the tin of tea.

"Tea, a first-aid kit, and marine maps. What else would you need on a journey across the sea, hmmm? Perhaps an engine mechanic."

He snapped the map open with a practiced flick, the crisp paper spreading under his gaze into a web of coastlines and coordinates. He laid it on the console beside the wheel and smoothed his palms over it, his eyes squinting under the lamp, until a satisfied smile curved his mouth as he tapped the map.

"That trajectory takes us to South Korea. Most likely, Busan."

Charlie stared at him. "You understand nautical maps?" She shook her head, caught between disbelief and the faintest flicker of amusement. "Of course you do," she muttered.