It was a beach. It was a beautiful beach, even if Sherlock was squinting slightly against the sunlight that bounced off of the water. But God, it was beautiful. It was better than Tortuga. And no train. No sign of anyone from the train. Would they be staying here?
"Do you think we've been thrown off the train?" he asked, letting John sit him down on the firmer sand, turning his head away from the sun. "Do you think we're going to be staying here? I know you can't answer that-" Sherlock gazed over at the plane. At the bodies. Bodies. God. There were dead people scattered. He nodded (wincing at the movement) towards a few other figures picking around the beach. "Other people." Well, there was something reassuring about that. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Sherlock knew John well enough to know that he would put his own injuries last. Especially where Sherlock was concerned. "I think I have all of my appendages."