Mycroft watched as Sherlock laid down on the expanse of grass, tucking John under one arm and staring up at the sky.

Cloud busting, as it was known to them, was one of Sherlock's favourite pastimes back home. He loved staring up at the sky, at the clouds, trying to make shapes out of them when he didn't have anything else to do, but wanted to be a little creative in some way. His favourite thing was to try to find Neverland, since it was in the sky anyway. How ironic, Mycroft thought. He'd found it, and now he was cloud busting again.

'Mind if I join you?' He asked, walking over and laying beside Sherlock when all he got was an absent hand being raised. He knew not to really interrupt Sherlock when he was doing this, because if he looked away, concentration would be broken.

The aim of this task, as well as finding the clouds that resembled other things, was to choose one cloud in particular and concentrate on it, imagine it being pulled apart, busting it. It seemed in Neverland, just like everything else, this was more fun than it used to be. Sherlock had perfected the skill of busting the cloud rather literally. He could stare at a cloud and make it break into many little pieces, or only in two, depending on how much he was trying. Sometimes he made sound effects, little 'boom' noises like an explosion. Other times, to accompany it, he would point at the cloud just before it busted, and then add the sound effect, like he could break them by simply pointing up at them.

As Mycroft settled, Sherlock did just that, pointing at a particularly big cloud and making the sound just as it split into four. Then he set to work on one of the pieces. It was a game that never ended, but could only be played when the skies weren't the wonderful pure blue that they naturally were.

'I'm glad we came here.' Sherlock murmured once he'd destroyed the cloud he'd focused on. 'I'm so glad Greg found us and we get to live here.'

Mycroft frowned. 'Sherlock… Are you truly happy here?' He asked. It was sort of what he'd intended to ask anyway, and now seemed a good moment, when nobody was around. 'Don't you want to go home?'

'Home?' Sherlock turned on his side, holding John to his chest and frowning. 'But we are home, Myc.' He reached out, pressing the palm of his hand to Mycroft's forehead. 'Are you feeling okay?'

'Yes, I'm feeling fine.' Mycroft smiled at his concern, but it turned to a frown of his own as he thought over those words. 'And no, Sherlock, this isn't really our home. Don't you remember London?'

'Well of course I remember London.' Sherlock looked a bit disgusted that Mycroft had assumed he didn't. 'But that wasn't home. This is. London's just somewhere to visit.' He shrugged, deeming the conversation over, and retracted his hand, turning to look at up the sky again. Mycroft sighed. He had no idea himself how long they'd been in Neverland, but it felt like they really did live there, so he couldn't imagine how Sherlock must feel, being younger. Maybe he didn't even remember mother and father? Mycroft had to admit he had almost forgotten their faces, but sometimes, just before he fell asleep in Greg's arms, he'd remembered them. Nothing completely real, more like a dream he'd had a long forgotten dreamt hat he could barely remember no matter how much he tried. Lately it was only feelings, a slight sense of disgruntled thoughts when he thought of his father, an affectionate feeling for his mother. Were there others? He couldn't remember if he had a brother, couldn't remember if he had other friends.

If it was difficult for him, on the cusp of adulthood, to remember what life had been like before Neverland, surely Sherlock was having even more trouble than him? Maybe Sherlock didn't want to remember, because here he had all the things he could ever need. He had Mycroft, John, his friends, he was a Lost Boy. He played Pirates in the evening, he could fly, this was everything he wanted. This was everything Mycroft had wanted once upon a time, everything he was desperately trying to remember wanting. You only got once chance to be in Neverland, what if he grew up despite Neverland's wishes? Would he be thrown back to London, would Jim claim him as his own?

'So… You want to stay here, for ever?' He asked carefully. 'You never want to leave?' Sherlock looked at him again, frowning, spreading his arm that wasn't holding John out to show Neverland below them, with the Indian's settlement above him further up the mountain that was more like a hill. You could see everything from here, the Mermaids Lagoon, the cave they'd found treasure in a few days ago, the skull cave that Tiger Lilly had been trapped in all those years ago. Mycroft wondered if Tiger Lilly was still with the Indians, if Indians aged like Lost Boys. Did the chief begin life fully grown as the Chief? Would Tiger Lilly still be young, would she remember Peter, like Greg? He wasn't sure so many questions were supposed to be asked in Neverland. Questions suggested a desire to learn, and no Lost Boy cared for schooling.

'Why would I want to leave?' Sherlock asked. 'It's boring back in London, and so old. I don't want to grow up like that, I don't want to be forced into society like that. No, I'm happy here, with the Lost Boys. They don't laugh at me or try to take John away from me.'

That was a rather good point. Back home, their mother had been trying to take John, saying Sherlock needed to be able to make friends on his own, he needed to maybe get some real friends. Sherlock had always insisted that he didn't need new friends, because John was enough for him, John listened to him and didn't tell him off, he didn't tell him he was being silly, he played with him and never stopped him, always backed up his actions. Why would he need anyone else? They'd overheard their mother talking about therapy, about getting him 'medical help', just because of John. But John had been quiet, calm as always, comforting. John was everything Sherlock would need when Mycroft wasn't there, and even when he was. But he'd never been an idiot, he knew John was an inanimate object, but that didn't matter, because Sherlock wasn't exactly normal either.

'But you must want to, to see mother again, to see father and… well, just to go home? To your old things?' Mycroft pressed. Not every body stayed in Neverland. Even Peter had left, after he met Wendy, John and Michael. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to go home. He didn't right now, by now means. He was only just getting to grips with being a Lost Boy, with being a child again, not having to grow up, but he imagined that eventually he would. Maybe Greg would come with him, if he wanted to give up the position of being the leader, if he thought somebody else would be able to take his place. But how would he explain to his parents that he'd taken fondly to a punk boy with shock grey hair and a different way of thinking to him, to the Holmes family collective, entirely? Maybe that would be worse than if they never went home. Besides, how much time would have passed by the time they returned? Maybe their parents would have moved house, because they memories of having their sons vanish was too much. Perhaps their father would just be disappointed, and nobody would believe the stories they had to tell.

'Oh, no. Not at all.' Sherlock grinned, hugging John to his chest. 'I never want to leave Neverland. I mean, I only just discovered cloud busting is actually possible here, there's so much to learn, so much even Peter never found!' His eyes were shining now with the possibilities of it all. 'If I went home, they might never be found, and that would be so sad.' He shrugged some. 'So I'm going to stay here, I think.'

Mycroft nodded, sighing. He knew there was no reasoning with Sherlock, mostly because he didn't even believe his own side of the argument. If he were Sherlock, he'd never want to leave either, and even as himself he wasn't sure why he was thinking about it. Neverland was quite literally his dream, there was nothing he wanted more than this. He didn't actually want to go home, but he wasn't settled here yet, still wasn't sure of himself in this middle world between adult and child.

'What about you?' Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes widening. 'You're not thinking of leaving, are you? I don't want you to grow up.'

'I don't want to either, Sherlock, honestly.' It was the first time he'd openly admitted this, and he noted the relief in Sherlock's face. 'I really don't. I don't want to leave but I'm not sure what I'm really trying to achieve by being here any more.'

'Well you just need to rediscover your childhood!' Sherlock stated, as if was just as easy as finding that second shoe that you know is somewhere nearby. 'Here, come on, we'll try cloud busting, that should keep your imagination going, right?' He pulled Mycroft to stare up at the sky, resting their heads close together to focus properly on the same clouds, and pointed directly upwards. 'That one, the one shaped like a steam train, try to bust it!'

Mycroft nodded, staring determinedly up at the sky, trying to imagine the cloud bursting apart, disintegrating and disappearing. And… It worked. He laughed as the cloud split into smaller pieces, drifting apart. Sherlock grinned, cuddled up closer to him. 'Perfect, My!' He declared. 'Now, you have to point at it, make the sounds. Otherwise you're not doing it right.' He spoke as if it were the complete truth, no negotiating, and he supposed they were. Sherlock had discovered this game here, so they were his own rules.

'But I'll feel silly.' Mycroft argued weakly. 'I don't know if I can.'

'Of course you can, and being silly is part of being a Lost Boy!' Sherlock told him confidently. 'It's only me here, Myc, I'm sure you can do it.'

Laughing slightly, Mycroft did as Sherlock told him, picking a section of cloud and focusing on it, imagining it exploding and busting apart. Just as it did, he got a sort of feeling, he couldn't really identify it, but it was clearly telling him that it was going to break, and he pointed up at the sky. It was tempting not to make any sound, but Sherlock was trying to help him, and he was so very grateful for it.

So he did it, he make a sound like you would when imitating something exploding, and the result was fantastic. It felt like he'd been entirely responsible for it, more than before, and he felt laughter bubbling up. Sherlock laughed too, next to him, overjoyed that Mycroft had let himself go, that he'd relaxed and given in to childish impulses, because that's what Neverland was for.

Mycroft realised he might be Neverland's toughest opponent, it was going to have to try to keep him happy, keep him as a child despite his own barriers.

'Welcome to Neverland, Myc.' Sherlock grinned. 'Welcome to being a Lost Boy proper!' Mycroft grinned back. Yes, he thought perhaps, if he was lucky, he could do this. He could be a Lost Boy like he'd always dreamed, and he could be truly happy here.