A/N: The idea for this story would not (I repeat WOULD NOT) leave me alone. I was talking to my sister about how Peter Pan (despite being the main protagonist of Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie) is a pretty awful dude, and she said "Sort of like Sherlock Holmes." And although I disagree that Sherlock is as bad as Peter, it did plant the seed of this story in my head. (Thanks a ton Sis, as if I didn't have enough stories locked up there as it is.)

So, here it is in all of it's fantastical AU glory: Neverlock, the Sherlock and Peter Pan franchises combined. Updating will most likely be slow as I'm working on several other multi-chapter fics right now. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

God bless and a warm handshake in thought,

~Millie

Disclaimer: Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, J.m. Barrie owns the places, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own any modern day tidbits. Basically, all I own is the blender used to mix all these things up.

...

"Tell us a story, Aunt Harry."

Harriet Watson grinned at the three restless children in front of her. Each lay in their own respective bed, but upon hearing Jean (the oldest of the three) suggest what so alluded them in their state of presque vu they all joined her on her bed and stared bright-eyed at Harry.

"Please." Adrian, the youngest, begged.

Dennis, the middle child, took a more strategic approach. "We won't tell Mother or Father."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. The kids should've known by now that she was a sucker for little kids. "What story would you like to hear?" She asked in the soft voice she reserved only for her small charges. Normally she was a blustering and ridiculing mess (admittedly odd traits for a nanny) but she had a soft spot for children. It was a shame she never had any of her own.

"The one you told us yesterday about the pirates!" Adrian cried.

Dennis begged to differ. "No way! Tell us something new."

"A mystery." Jean interjected.

"That's boring." Adrian complained. "Something with adventure."

"But it has to be romantic."

"And interesting."

Harry chuckled, pulling up a chair to the foot of the bed. "Alright, alright. Cool it." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "Have I ever told you the story of Sherlock Holmes?"

"No." They said in unison.

"Well," Harry said, leaning forward while the children did the same with wide eyes. "You all are in for a treat."

She made herself comfortable in her chair. "It's definitely my favorite story by far. It has mystery and adventure and it's certainly a romantic tale."

"Pirates?" Adrian inquired eagerly.

"Tons of pirates." Harry promised.

"What's it about?" Jean wanted to make sure that this was a proper story.

Harry smiled. "It's about a boy named Sherlock Holmes who would never ever grow up."

"Why wouldn't he want to grow up?"

"He thought grown-ups were boring." Harry rolled her eyes, making the children laugh. "But it's not just about him; it's about another boy named John Watson who ran away with Sherlock. What's more romantic than that? Two boys running away from the life they once knew for the sake of adventure and excitement?"

Jean nodded thoughtfully in agreement. "Where did they run away to?"

"Neverland, of course." Harry said, grinning mischievously. The kids all smiled in understanding: not a child alive hasn't heard the rumor of the island called Neverland.

"So what happens?"

"Well," Harry began, glancing out the window at the dark sky speckled by stars beyond. "It all started like any good story . . . with a sword fight."

Sherlock ducked under the impending slice of the blade and lunged backwards; unarmed.

"Come now, Jefferson, aren't you growing a bit tired of this game." Sherlock taunted, almost dancing out of his attackers reach. "I know I am."

The man only snarled and leapt forward, slashing wildly with his sword. "I'm going to skin you alive, Holmes."

"Dull." Sherlock said, jumping above the blade, avoiding it once more. On second thought he added, "And doubtful."

The two of them were in one of many caves on the Neverland Island. Jefferson was bigger, stronger, and had been armed but Sherlock was smarter. He'd long ago memorized the extensive and elaborate pathways of the caves in his homeland.

He smirked provocatively at his attacker, then turned tail and took off running deeper into the dark tunnel.

"Face me like a man!" Jefferson shouted, following Sherlock.

He was standing right ahead arms crossed, chuckling humorlessly. "Well that's the point." He said as Jefferson charged blindly forward. By the time Jefferson realized that Holmes' feet weren't touching the floor and that the floor wasn't truly a floor but a placid body of water it was too late to backpedal.

"I'm not." Sherlock said coldly as Jefferson was submerged in the frigid water below him. Being able to fly had its advantages.

He broke the surface with a shout. "HOLMES!"

"Do keep thrashing, it makes an easier task for the fish to find you."

He trembled for the near glacial water surrounding him. "Fish?"

"Carnivorous fish. They hunt in packs and can smell human flesh from over two miles away and judging from the fact that you're just five feet above their nest, they'll be arriving soon." He hovered just out of Jefferson's reach.

The man swore loudly and continued to flounder about. "Help me. Oh God please, help!"

But Sherlock wasn't listening, he flew to the water's edge and then walked back into the passage through which he came. Jefferson's shrieks echoed against the walls long after his body had been submerged.

"Well, did you find him?" Greg Lestrade asked when Sherlock approached his team's make-shift camp. The bounty hunters were about as close to an authority as the Neverland had; they were called on by a variety of people (from pirates to mermaids) to help right wrongs and achieve justice etcetera, etcetera . . . for the right price, of course. However, the whole of them, in Sherlock's opinion, were bumbling fools who often had to consult the boy.

"Yes." He drawled, walking straight past Lestrade and towards Sally Donovan.

"Then where is he?" Greg said in exasperation, removing his hat and running a hand through his hair.

"Pipe." He commanded.

Donovan rolled her eyes. "Freak." She muttered, but handed the boy the pipe and match all the same.

He lit the pipe and took several deep lung fulls of the smoke, blowing each breath out slowly. Then he said with a grimace, "This is absolutely horrid. You should see what people smoke in London these days with all those lovely chemicals."

"Sherlock."

"Honestly, the least you could do for me now that I've solved your damn case is let me have a halfway decent smoke."

"Sherlock." More persistent this time.

"And for God's sake next time you tell me you have an interesting case for me: actually have an interesting case."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade finally shouted.

"What?" The boy looked scandalized.

"Tell us what happened with the case." He said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "If you had half a brain you would be able to tell for yourself what had happened by just looking at me."

"Enlighten me." Lestrade said, rubbing his forehead.

"If I must." Sherlock drawled indignantly. "Well, for starters, there are blond hairs on my shirt." And yes, there they were on his white button down; blond hairs. "The only suspect with blond hair had been Quince Jefferson, thus he was the man I was chasing and therefore the thief of your client's fortune. My trousers are wet which means I was around water, but not the ocean or lagoon because of the type of moss on my shoes. Cave river it is, then. Which one? Well, the aforementioned moss on my shoes is mostly found in caves west of the lagoon, and if it contains a river than that narrows it down to one particular cave: Eaux Cavern."

"Oh for God's sake." Anderson, another member of the team, murmured to Donovan. "He's just making this stuff up."

Lestrade shot them a look and said. "Alright, then. But where is Jefferson now? And where's the treasure?"

"Jefferson has been, ah . . . taken care of." Sherlock waved his hand as if to banish the thought, much to Lestrade's horror. "As for the treasure."

He detached the burlap sack from one of his trouser's belt loops. "Nicked it off Jefferson during the fight." He threw it to Lestrade.

Greg opened it to find more than three dozen rubies glinting up at him in the firelight of their camp. "I suggest you take a few for yourself and your team as your employer isn't intending to pay you." Sherlock advised.

"How did you- oh, never mind." Lestrade tucked the rubies into his bag. Sherlock had finished his smoke and slipped his pipe into his pocket. "So this man wasn't one of Moriarty's, then?"

Sherlock visibly tensed at the mention of the name. "Doubtful. He was just an idiotic, greedy man acting on his own resolve."

There was an awkward pause where no one said anything and Sherlock just stood there.

"Are you planning on staying with us for supper, Sherlock?"

His team's heads all snapped to Lestrade, eyes wide with horror. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Ah, no. Must get back to the hideout, need to get up early tomorrow so I can search for my coat. I must've lost it somewhere in the lagoon during the chase." He quickly strode away.

Lestrade pulled something from his bag, shot a glare at his team and followed. "Sherlock!" He called.

Sherlock turned to face him; the camp fire was just a speck now from their view. "Yes?"

"Almost forgot. We pulled this out of the lagoon earlier, looks like you won't have to go fishing after all." He handed him his now dry great coat.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, eyebrows raised in surprise. He slipped it on. "Well, I'll be off."

"Wait, Sherlock." Lestrade began and soon found he had no idea what exactly he wanted to say when Sherlock turned his calculating blue eyes on him again.

Sherlock had been fourteen when he came to Neverland. This was highly unusual not only because people rarely found Neverland but because the only people who did were scarcely more than toddlers. Lestrade himself had been born and raised here; he'd been twenty-eight when Sherlock had arrived. Now he was forty and Sherlock still had the same features with the exception of a few scars. Same gangly, boney form, same icy almost reptilian eyes, same curly black hair, same high cheekbones and so on.

Usually Sherlock gave off the aura of being much older than he actually was but suddenly under the darkening sky, he seemed to radiate a sort of restless exhaustion. Lestrade finally found his voice. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock stared at him like he was crazy. "Of course. Honestly, you're wasting my time. . . ." He began to ascend but Lestrade grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

"I'm serious Sherlock, you've just seemed a bit out of it lately." Lestrade insisted.

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "It's just these cases, Lestrade. Everything has just been so dull lately, even the cases I would usually find riveting are hopelessly boring."

Lestrade paused, weighing his words carefully to put his idea in the best lighting as possible. "Have you ever considered getting an assistant?"

"What good would having a bumbling fool of an accomplice do me?"

"Look, Sherlock." Lestrade decided the best way to do this was blatantly, or else they would be standing here all night. "I have never seen you as happy as you were when you had that little boy in tow a few years ago."

"John." The way Sherlock said his name, even when in disbelief, made Lestrade smile a bit. The most affection he had ever seen shown by Sherlock was towards the little seven year old, John Watson. "I hardly think–"

Lestrade cut him off. "Well, I do. The kid loved Neverland and you loved having him here, admit it. I don't see why you shouldn't invite him back."

"I deal with murder on a daily basis: how is that a suitable environment for a child?" Alright, now he's just grasping at straws, Lestrade thought. Since when did Sherlock care about the inhumanity implied by a murdered body?

Instead of saying this, he decided to play a different card. "You might forget sometimes, you know not ageing at all and everything, but most of us do get older." He figured to his own silver hair. "John is probably well into adolescence by now."

"That just makes it worse; he probably doesn't even remember me." Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade chuckled. "Sherlock Holmes, how could anybody forget you?"

After that Sherlock agreed grudgingly to think about it and bid Lestrade a good night. He took off flying into the night sky, and Greg soon lost sight of him for his black coat made him one with his inky background.

For a while Lestrade just stood there silently imagining what John's return to Neverland might entail.

As Sherlock flew over the extensive and shadowy forest that coated Neverland he couldn't help ponder what Lestrade had said. The temptation of going to see John again was overwhelming, but he had become accustomed to working alone after all.

He tightened his coat as a chilly north wind blew his way. He wondered where John Watson was right now.

The gun shot was deafening, the pain in his shoulder was sudden and blinding. The muddy street suddenly pressing against his face. The whole of his being was in agony. He was shrieking, his only condolence was that it would soon all be over . . . .

John Watson woke up with a start in his bed. He gasped for air and clenched his eyes shut while willing for his heart to stop palpitating. The nightmares lingered with him still, years after the incident. The therapist his father was making him see was absolute rubbish, he knew that, his sister knew that, even the therapist knew that. Everyone except his dad, but if it John hated one thing more than those dreaded sessions with Ella, it was making his dad worry.

Even now with tears in his eyes, John couldn't help but bitterly chuckle at Ella's latest idea to save John from the loony bin.

"Write down what happens to you in your day to day life." She had said. "It will help you become more accustomed and comfortable with it."

What was he to write? Wake up, eat, walk to school, sit in school, walk home, eat, sleep, repeat, and work on weekends? John couldn't see what that would do but make him depressed.

So he had replied to her suggestion as honestly as he could. "Nothing happens to me."

Little did he know that Sherlock Holmes (and the adventure of a life time) was waiting in the wings.