It was strange, hearing this fishman trying to talk in his English accent, though even he had to admit that he'd spent the last 4 years in Trinidad (when they weren't on the sea) and his accent was tinted with just the tiniest bit of the way the locals spoke.

Sherlock was surprised at the sadness he felt with the fishman was gone. Maybe he felt more secure with him around, or at least he was someone to talk to.

Now he was utterly, utterly alone.

He sighed and waded onto the beach. The first thing he did was take off his soaked clothes, found a vine, and tied it around two trees. He hung the clothes on the vine, hoping maybe they would dry overnight.

Being stark naked meant that he had to stay on the edge of the forest and the beach, he couldn't risk going into the forest with no protection. That meant he had less to work with.

The very first thing he did was drink greedily from the water. He had no idea if it was safe, but no water at all would kill him, so he h ad to take the chance. It was hot and tasted a bit odd, but to his parched throat it was heaven.

When that was done, he found some vines and branches and leaned them against the trunk of a great palm, and used the fallen palm leaves to cover the branches and vines.

It wasn't a real shelter, it only covered his head and upper torso, but it was better than nothing. He gathered up some leaf litter (being sure to check it well for critters first) and made a makeshift pillow.

He was so exhausted that despite everything he was out within minutes, as the moon was still climbing into the sky.