Well, it's good to be back after so long, I tell you. This is my first shot at Mystrade, and written for mystradedoodles over on Tumblr. I wrote it for NaNo so there may well be errors in continuity. Sorry about that, but I desperately wanted to get it seen as soon as possible. Once I've revised it and edited as appropriate. There's not a lot of strictly M-rated content, for while I greatly apologise, but writing that stuff on a stict daily word count is actually rather difficult.

I'll be posting it all up in one hit, but feel free to review whenever you feel you need to/want to! Greatly appreciated, of course.

It's all happened before, and it will all happen again. And on this occasion, it happened to Mycroft Holmes, aged 16. He wasn't exactly what could be considered an obvious candidate. He wasn't exactly a child any more, more at that awkward middle age, when being a child seems ludicrous but being an adult is too daunting to comprehend.

His father was at that stage in a father's life when he tries to mould his eldest son into who he wants him to be, rather than who the son would prefer to be, and Mycroft had no choice. Ever since he was young, Mycroft was sent to boarding school, Dinesford School for Boys, to 'teach him how to manage alone'. Though why a seven year old boy should have to manage alone, he never understood.

Mycroft was by no means a 'slow' child. Quite the contrary, he often outwitted teachers, knew all the answers, and was able to read people, as if their lives and secrets were written out in front of him over each person. Lies and love melted together, clinging to their skin like an extra layer, moving with them as they passed him.

One this particular night, a late Friday at the end of August, with London quiet at the hour nobody is supposed to be awake, Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, working silently. It was always going to be a Friday, after all. The sky was still dark, but he knew it to be 3am, when the roads were at the emptiest, which was never very empty at all, in London. Father and mother had retired a long time ago, and his little brother even more. Sherlock was only nine, and not nearly old enough to stay up with him. Not that it stopped him trying, of course. He was a Holmes; he never simply took things at face value.

Sighing, Mycroft tried to make himself focus on the words in front of him. He had essays to write, and father had already secured him a place in the government, of all places. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful – it was good to know he had somewhere to go after school, an internship of sorts – but it wasn't what he wanted to do with his life. However, he'd never been allowed to think about what he really wanted, so he supposed this was the best choice.

Try as he might, he just couldn't bring himself to concentrate on the variations of prose available in the 18th century. His mind kept casting back to Sherlock, in the nursery that was once his bedroom too. He'd heard father say Sherlock needed to grow up, for he was less than half a year away from progressing to double digits in age. But Sherlock didn't want to grow up, because what if Peter Pan didn't want him? Mycroft remembered that very conversation himself, a hazy memory that he had trouble thinking about due to the ache it created.

His eyes passed to the unlatched window. Each day, his father would close it up and lock it, and each night Mycroft habitually unpicked the lock and pushed it open again. He wasn't sure why he did it any more, Peter would never come for him, he was too old. But perhaps he would come for Sherlock, and Mycroft could meet him? There was nobody better suited for Neverland than his brother, he was sure.

But that would have to mean Peter was real, that Tinkerbell, Hook, Neverland was real. He knew there was no set 'second star to the right', for which counted as the first star? He knew the first 'star' in sight in the evenings was in fact a planet, so did that count, since Peter had been around since before that discovery? Or had the coordinates changed to compensate for it? First star next to the planet, and straight on until Neverland perhaps, for who knew what time Peter would come, so morning was surely a bad time scale.

This was exactly what he didn't want Sherlock to become; calculating, analysing… adult. As soon as he stopped believing in Peter, surely he wouldn't come. It stood to reason that he only came to those who believed.

Did Mycroft still believe? He'd certainly been thinking about him as though he did. Looking away from his window, an old book caught his attention. Stuffed haphazardly between a book on politics and another on mathematics was a fairly thin sea blue book. Darker blue capitals stood out on the spine between the worn creases, and against his will he found himself reaching for it above his desk, holding it carefully in his hands as if it might move or fall apart. He'd certainly read it enough times. As he opened it, his keen senses caught that old smell of books that he'd long associated with this book in particular. The silhouette on the front, classically resting his hands on his hips and legs set apart, surveying a golden beach, a ship on the horizon, pirates on one side of him in the distance and a girl and two boys in their pyjamas on the other. It all resonated in his memory so very well.

He still wanted to believe, much like children desperately want to believe in Santa Claus, but his belief was becoming more of a thin, weak hope. A hope that something would pull him out of this life before he was set to go back to boarding school on Monday. That somebody would stop him submitting to his fathers life plans, living the existence he'd desired through his son, and whisk him away to Neverland.

And those were his last thoughts as he rested his head on his arms at the desk, intending to simply rest his eyes before getting back to work. They were thoughts he often had before falling asleep, more often than he'd ever admit to himself or anybody else.

In the early hours of Saturday morning, not so long after the eldest Holmes brother fell asleep accidentally, a figure silently landed on the windowsill.

This was a strangely regular occurrence. Each night, the figure would open the window, sit inside for a while, and just look around. He'd attempted to make sense of the marks on the papers sprawled over the desk, but while he understood maths, this was far too advanced.

Tonight, there was something different. The figure wasn't simply here to sneak around. He usually visited a lot earlier, listened to the stories the boy at the desk told his younger brother. They were always fantastic, all about pirates, usually, or sometimes Indians. And Peter Pan was always the hero. It was refreshing to hear stories about Peter, for it had been such a long time since he'd been to Neverland and had those adventures, and to hear them from somebody else, to know Peter's legacy lived on in this house, well it was nothing short of fantastic.

He hadn't meant to discover these two boys. In truth, he'd been intending to visit Peter, but time moves faster in Neverland, and sometimes it doesn't move at all. He'd got it wrong, and instead of visiting Peter, he'd found the Holmes family, right where the Darling's had once been. Oh, if they knew the hero they spoke of so highly had run these halls, slept in that nursery, told those same stories.

But tonight, he was here to collect something of his. Ironic, really, that two shadows should have been lost in here when most houses go their entire existence without bodiless shadows roaming them. Luckily, his was a little less immature than Peter's, and had been smart enough to hide until he could collect it, lest he upset and disrupt the family in trying to retrieve it.

The window was always well oiled, and made hardly a sound as he pushed it up and stepped inside. Being in here always made him feel like he should have made more of an effort with his appearance, what with the boy always wearing a suit. If he wasn't careful, that boy would grow up. A horrible notion that must be avoided at all costs.

'I'm here.' He announced, barely above a whisper. There were the first words he'd uttered in these walls, and he realised if the boy was to wake up now, it would be somewhat of a shock to him. Carefully, he stepped back into the shadows, in hope to not scare him should he wake. 'Come on, I've come to get you.' There was no movement, but he kept looking anyway, unmoving until he had to, dirty shoes resting lightly on the floor so as not to make a mess but still give the idea of standing, not flying.

There! Of course… It was hiding under the desk, behind the boys legs. How on earth was he supposed to get to him now? Without waking the boy and kindly asking him to move, there was no way. 'Come on, you don't have to hide, we have to go.' He crouched, extending a hand in a friendly manner, trying to coax his shadow back over to him. 'Go home, yeah?'

And it was then that the boy stirred, squeezing his eyes shut and slowly opening them. The boy who shouldn't be there froze, biting his lip. This could have gone a little better.

Mycroft opened his eyes, trying to determine what had woken him. Blinking, sitting up slowly, he noticed a boy, about his age, crouched on the ground. He wore old jeans, covered in patches and sewn up haphazardly, torn off below the knee, with old black converse that had seen many a better day, but no sign of socks. Of course, he was probably wearing trainer socks. Nobody just wore trainers over bare feet. The laces that were once white were now a dull grey, the rubber was wearing away badly, but what caught his attention was the dagger tied with some old rope, what looked like the rope from a pirate ship, around his ankle. His tee was torn off at the shoulders to prevent sleeves, and torn again at the bottom, making it shorter than it maybe should be.

His hair, despite his age, was a shocking silver, spiked up with gel or grease, it was tough to tell from here. A gold earring in his right ear stood out beside his hair and lightly tanned skin, chocolate brown eyes staring worriedly at him.

'I'm not here to hurt you.' The boy stated, voice nicely rough, not as smooth as Mycroft's own.

'I should hope not. How on earth did you get in here without the alarm sounding? And what do you want?' The chances of him dreaming were high – he was rather sleep deprived – so he settled for just playing along.

'This is rather embarrassing, actually.' The boy stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, giving Mycroft clear view of the thin muscles he had. 'I… I lost my shadow in here a few days back, when your father locked the window. I got out, just in time, but my shadow didn't. Sounds cliché, I know.' He laughed hesitantly. 'It's… hiding under your desk.'

'Hiding…?' Mycroft scooted the chair back, and a shadow, matching the unnamed boy, crawled out, almost apologetically. 'Good lord.' It was making sense. 'Are you Peter Pan?' He had to be dreaming. Peter didn't look like this anyway.

'God, no. Nobody could be Peter Pan. We all just wish we are.'

'…We?'

'The lost boys and I.'

Mycroft blinked a few times, trying to understand. 'Right. I'm dreaming, clearly.'

'What makes you think you're dreaming?' The boy frowned absently, stepping forward, trying to coax the shadow back to him. 'Am I the boy of your dreams, or something?'

Mycroft couldn't fight the sudden blush that crept over him. He couldn't deny the boy was handsome, in a roguish way. The punkish element did wonders for him.

'Don't be absurd.' He laughed slightly. 'I just…. A lost boy. Really. Here. Why here?'

'To be fair, I wasn't here for you.'

Mycroft felt his stomach drop, like a Jolly Roger had just weighed anchor inside him. 'Oh.'

The boy's eyes widened. 'Oh, no! Not like that! I mean, I came to this house looking for Peter, actually. The Darling's used to live here, and Peter lived here too.'

He did remember something about a Darling family here, now. He'd dismissed it, at the time. Coincidences.

'But… You and your brother believe in him, and I liked hearing the stories, so I stuck around.'

Mycroft shook his head bemusedly and looked around at his room, at the book on his desk, and back to the boy wrapping his arms around his shadow.

'And we're certain I'm not dreaming?' He asked carefully. Trust his luck to have this fantastic dream and wake up just before they left for Neverland. The boy grinned cheekily, reaching forward. 'What're you- hey!' Mycroft rubbed his arm, glaring at the boy. 'Some warning, please.'

'If I warned you, you'd know and be able to dream up the reaction. So there. Not a dream.' He kept hold on the shadow's wrist and extended his arms. 'I'm the real thing,'

'You're a…. A lost boy.'

'Yes.'

'And you live in Neverland.'

'That's where lost boys live, yeah.' He frowned. 'Are you alright? You seem a little slow, and I know that's not normal.'

'Yes, I just…..' Carefully, Mycroft dipped his head to rest in his hands. 'You're real. After all this time.'

The boy made a sound that agreed with him wholeheartedly, and went about patting his pockets. 'Would you happen to have a few safety pins?'

'Why?' The boy gestured at his shadow, and lifted up the sole of his faded converse pointedly.

'Because I know soap doesn't work.'

That did it. Mycroft dissolved into laughter. Or, more to say, giggles. Yes, of course. Because Peter had used soap. Poor boy. The shadowless boy in front of him started laughing too, glad to see the suited house member laughing for once. It was so rare that he got to hear it, let alone see it.

'Yes. Yes, I think I do, hold on a moment.' Mycroft stood, smoothed his suit out of habit, and slipped out into the hallway, going to the bathroom to root through their mother's sewing box.

Back in his room, the boy from Neverland lifted himself into the air, crossed his legs, and landed silently on the bed. So this was a bedroom, properly. This was where regulation happened. Every night the boy would sleep here. He would work over there. He'd wear his different clothes in here. Oh, to have different clothes. To have this regulation.

He didn't quite share Peter's hatred for adults, but he did have a certain amount of distrust. It was a good job he got here now, judging by the suitcase near the door. Soon, he would go away again, wherever he always went. And so would his brother. And when he came back, he'd probably be grown up.

A shudder fell through the boy on the bed. He couldn't let that happen. That was a horrible fate he wouldn't wish upon anyone.

'Who are you?' A small voice demanded from the door. He turned his head in alarm, subconsciously floating into the air, ready to escape. 'Oh. You're Peter Pan, aren't you? You don't look like Myc says you do.'

'Oh, no. I'm Greg.' He landed himself on the floor, legs still crossed, in front of the little boy, marvelling at how easily he seemed to be taking this. 'Aren't you scared?'

'Why would I be scared? Peter must have sent you to take me and Myc to Neverland.' The boy smiled, curly auburn hair setting contrast to his pale skin and blue eyes. He hugged a sandy coloured bear, clad in a cable-knit sweater, to himself, and the smile turned to a grin. 'Can John come, too?'

'I don't see why not.' Greg laughed slightly. 'Would you like to come with me and be a lost boy?'

'Yes please!' The boy's eyes lit up. 'I'm Sherlock. And my brother is Mycroft.'

Greg frowned. Had he missed something? Were these normal names now? Was everybody called this or were the Holmes family just a bit odd?

'Well hello Sherlock. I'm afraid Peter isn't with us any more, though.' He smiled apologetically as Sherlock's expression fell.

'Why not? Is he okay?'

'Of course he is. You see…. He left Neverland, to be with Wendy, John and Michael. In fact, he came here. To this very house.' He watched Sherlock's eyes widen almost comically. 'Do you know the previous owners of this house? Care to guess at their names?'

'Darling.' He breathed excitedly. 'You mean Peter was here? Actually here? All this time?'

Greg nodded, resisting the urge to coo over the boy. 'We all used to come and visit. He stayed in the nursery.'

'That's where I sleep!' Sherlock looked around, as if yearning to tell Mycroft. 'Myc?!'

Mycroft appeared in the door, gently pushing Sherlock inside and closing the door behind him. 'What, Sherlock? And don't shout like that, you don't want to wake father, now, do you?' Sherlock quietened immediately. 'Now what did you want?'

'Greg told me Peter Pan used to sleep in the nursery! Maybe he was where I sleep!'

Mycroft smiled. 'Yes, maybe.' His face tilted towards Greg. 'Greg? That's your name? Not very…. Lost boy, is it?'

'If we're starting on names, Mycroft….' Greg teased, happy when it cut off Mycroft's remarks. 'Now, those pins.' Once they were in his hand, Greg shook the shadow, lining it's feet up with his, and carefully secured them in place with the safety pins. Once done, he stood, lifted himself off the ground enough to flick his shadow onto the wall, and experimentally lifted an arm, tutting when it took a few moments to be followed. 'Come on, now. Don't play about.' He scorned. This time, the shadow copied his movements exactly, as if fearful of what would happen if it disobeyed.

'Right. Um…. Sherlock, can I talk to your brother for a moment?' Greg turned to smile at Sherlock in what he hoped was a winning fashion. The little boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

'You're not planning to leave without me, are you?'

'No, of course not. I don't offer for people to be lost boys and run off without them. I'm not cruel.'

That seemed to be enough, and Sherlock ran off, presumably to get some shoes. Greg turned to Mycroft, keeping his voice low. 'Mycroft, Neverland has… Well, it's changed, since Peter left, since the stories you know. Have you ever read Peter Pan in Scarlet?'

Mycroft frowned. 'A long time ago. It was too painful and I haven't gone near it since. Neverland was so broken.' His eyes widened, much like his brother's. 'Neverland is broken?'

'Not so much broken. I take it you've noticed I'm not exactly the same age as Peter. I had to change the barrier to get into Neverland, and the age we all are. Being ten isn't enough any more. We can't handle Neverland at ten.' He bit his lip. 'What I'm saying is that I'm not sure about Sherlock. If you think he should come with us, fine. I'll go with that. But I don't want to bring him into it without warning. It wouldn't be fair. More to the point, are you sure you want to come away?'

Mycroft nodded immediately. 'Yes. Of course. I don't care what state it's in, I need to see it. So what's changed?'

'Well. Hook, for one thing. He's left, now. He got taken over not long after Peter left, but this guy called Jim Moriarty. And he isn't as easy as Hook. This guy means business.' He shook his head, remembering how scared they'd been when he'd taken over. 'I think he killed Hook, too. We found his hat, some of his clothes…. Some of him.'

Mycroft hid his repulsion well enough. 'So… It's really quite different, now.'

'Yes. We've had to move base a lot of times, since he keeps finding us. But it isn't all bad, honestly.' He rubbed the back of his neck. 'We still have treasure hunts, mermaids, Indians. We still play games all the time and just generally have fun, but I felt the need to warn you.'

'Well, thank you for the warning.' Mycroft smiled. 'I think I'll risk it. And I've no doubt Sherlock will, too.' As if waiting for the right moment, Sherlock slipped back into the room, dressed now in a purple shirt and black trousers. His shoes were supposed to be smart and black but were covered in mud, as were his trousers.

'No point ruining a new set of clothes, so I picked out the ones mummy made me put in the washing.' He smiled proudly, holding the paw of his bear tightly. 'I'm ready.'

Glancing at Mycroft, Greg lowered himself to Sherlock's height. 'It's not like the stories, Sherlock. Neverland is darker, more dangerous. You might be hurt, or worse.'

'I don't care.' Sherlock lifted his chin slightly, trying to look taller and older. 'I can handle anything those pirates throw at me.'

Greg smiled. 'Alright, then. Hold on.' He ducked his head out of the window, whistling once, sharply. Moments later a ball of light no bigger than a fist flew into the room.

'Is that Tink?' Sherlock asked excitedly, jumping when the light stopped inches from his face. 'Oh. I'm sorry.' He apologised.

'This is Dimmock. Tink came here with Peter, and Dimmock took over.' Greg gestured the little figure to land on his shoulder. Now he stopped moving, Mycroft could see he was dressed in brown, in a long sleeve shirt with lightly brown cuffs and what almost looked like suede trousers and shoes. 'Dimmock, these two boys are coming back with us.'

Mycroft and Sherlock grinned at each other. They were really going to Neverland. They were leaving this behind to go and have adventures, and not grow up. It was more than Mycroft had thought possible. Not only was it real, but the lost boys wanted him.

Dimmock nodded, and hovered above Sherlock first. A low sound, like a bell being rung, chimed out, and Sherlock closed his eyes. Mycroft realised then that it had been Dimmock talking, and Sherlock seemed to understand him.

'Appears you already speak fey.' Greg sounded as surprised as Mycroft felt. 'Nobody's been able to instantly understand like that.' Sherlock shrugged as the gold dust began to fall over him, landing on his skin, his clothes, disappearing into his hair and then fading within moments. 'Now, you know what to do.' Greg stated and Sherlock began floating. He laughed happily, hitting the ceiling, and spun to sit on it, craning his neck back to look down at the both. 'And now Mycroft, please.'

Closing his eyes, Mycroft tried to remember what this felt like. Surreal, for one thing. But also…. Like when you walk into a spiderweb by accident. It clings to you, fits your skin easily, rests on you like another layer. It was like that, but nicer, since there was no fear of spiders joining the fun. Opening his eyes, he shook his head slightly, laughing at the gold and silver dust, finer than anything he'd seen before, as it drifted around him in a shimmering haze.

'Well. Are you ready to go, then?' Greg smiled, standing by the window.

'I think we are.' Mycroft looked around his room one last time, and thought of his mother. What would she say? He found he didn't much care. Not any more. She was just as bad as his father, trying to force him to be somebody he wasn't.

'Okay then, here we go!' In a completely showman fashion, Greg lifted himself off the ground, onto his back, and managed to glide effortlessly through the window, looking back at them.

'Show off.' Mycroft laughed, hanging onto the happiness inside and letting it rise him, noticing Sherlock doing the same to his right. He climbed out of the window, looking down at the street below, and let himself fall.

Except he wasn't falling. He was flying. Over the houses opposite, to wards the figure encased by moonlight just ahead, laughing and spinning like an expert aeroplane show. A Red Arrow performance. The wind was in his hair, intimately combing through it, the cool night air holding onto him, keeping him up, allowing him to simply cut through the air. Beside him, Sherlock was laughing, flying up and over, then around Mycroft in a barrel roll. No matter what Neverland had in store, it would be so worth it.