The next few days passed in a blur. Greg and Mycroft continued to share a bed, and together in the morning they would bandage him up again. Or rather Greg would, because Mycroft really couldn't, lacking the ability entirely. And besides, Greg wouldn't let him do it on his own, saying it was the fault of his own team, he couldn't let Mycroft handle it on his own.
They played so many games Mycroft found they all melted together, but he joined in with them all, and at the end of the day they all sat around a long table somewhere in the forest. He'd been completely confused at first, and found the food was… Well it wasn't there.
'There's nothing on these plates.' He told Greg, who was trying to settle everybody and eat like respectable gentlemen. It was a common game of theirs, pretending to be grown up. But it was just like a kid trying, doing what they imagined boring adults were like. Walking around making up long words, staring down their noses at each other. Mycroft was quite sure the twins were imitating him, but didn't mention it. Benjamin asked to borrow his blazer so he could be the most grown up.
'Of course there is, you're just not trying enough.' Adric told him from a few seats down. 'You need to imagine it.' He said this as if it was obvious, as if everybody always imagined the food they wanted. 'That way you get exactly what you want. If we all ate the same thing, there'd be somebody who didn't like it. But if we do this, you choose, and you don't have to have proper food. You could have ice cream for dinner!' The twins cheered.
'Or pizza!' Benjamin joined it.
'Cake!' Greg grinned, knowing Mycroft was fond of the food. Mycroft scowled at Sherlock, knowing he would have told Greg, and got only a mischievous grin in return.
'So what do I have to do?' Mycroft asked carefully. 'How do I get to the food?'
'Well you think of what you'd like to be eating, you really imagine it, and it's just there.' Greg shrugged, drinking what appeared to be an empty glass. Mycroft nodded, took a deep breath, and looked down at his plate. He closed his eyes, tried with everything he had to imagine a perfect Victoria sponge cake, coated in cream of just the right consistency. It wouldn't be too dry, but it wouldn't be damp, it would be perfect. The starch risen perfectly, the correct combination of cream and jam inside, just enough to compliment the base.
When he opened his eyes, he couldn't believe his eyes. The table was covered in a wide variety of pretty much everything. It looked like Zak and Alex were eating take out, Sherlock was devouring scones by the plenty, already lathered in cream and jam just the way he liked them to be as he laughed with Benjamin, who'd chosen sausages and mash. Adric had a bowl of cheese and broccoli, talking to Jake, who was trying to pay attention around his leek and potato soup and probably warm loaf of bread. Greg had coffee in his glass, and Italian food of some type, Mycroft couldn't be sure. There were bottles of ginger beer, lemonade, pots of tea, everything that could be there and even things that really shouldn't, that didn't match any of the food on the table, and it was fantastic.
'Can you see it all yet?' Greg asked, laughing when Mycroft dragged his eyes up to him, looking completely awed. 'You see, without imagination, there's really nothing much to do in Neverland. It's difficult to come by this variety of stuff on your own. So Peter decided we could decide for ourselves. That way everybody is happy and we never run out of food as long as we can still imagine. Before long you won't even need to concentrate on it, you'll just picture the food and it will be perfect. No more disappointing meals, no more being told what to eat. If we want to eat ice cream for breakfast, we can. And every day for the rest of our time here. People in Neverland don't really get ill, so we don't even need fruits and vegetables!'
'Five a day is for grown ups.' Benjamin chimed in, grinning. 'We'll have none of that here.'
Mycroft laughed, taking a bit of the Victoria Sponge. It was exactly as he'd imagined it would be, of course. He wondered if it was possible to imagine a bad meal, but set that thought aside. He could eat this forever, and maybe he could. Nobody would stop him, would they?
Dinner was always fantastic, a chance for each Lost Boy to talk about what had happened that day. Sometimes they all split up, doing what they wanted with their day before coming home. Dinner was the only part of the day that was firmly regulated. There was no marker, but Mycroft found he, and the others, knew exactly what to stop what they were doing, like an internal alarm clock that warned him, and go to dinner. He got the seat beside Greg, so they could talk.
They talked about everything and anything. Music, books Greg dimly remembered. Greg was better at tales about Neverland, but he was also rather well knowing of fairytales, on account of Wendy telling them all a wide variety of stories.
In the evenings, after dinner, if everybody was too tired to play or couldn't settle on what exactly to do, Greg would tell a story, usually about how brave Peter was, about his adventures here. Sherlock often requested the pirate stories, the one where Peter cut off Hook's hand and fed it to the crocodile. Now they were older, Greg could include more details. He revealed how it had actually been the scariest thing he'd seen, and given them all nightmares for a little while. Peter only threw it to the crocodile because he didn't want to have to look after it, in case Hook could know where it was, because it was a part of him, and thus find their hideout. Mycroft could tell, when Greg told it, he was being Peter. Replacing 'I' with 'he' but using the same actions, like he'd seen them a thousand times. There was a sense of nostalgia about his movement, about the way he said it. His speech patterns changed slightly, probably to reflect Peter's.
The Twins would ask for stories about the Indians, but Zak occasionally asked for Hook.
Each night, after the stories or the games, once everybody had admitted once more that they actually needed to sleep in order to have fun the next day and not be too tired, Mycroft would tuck Sherlock in, kiss his forehead, and head back to Greg's room. Only now he was greeted with whispers of goodnight from the Lost Boys. It seemed like they were starting to accept him, and he was starting to accept himself.
Greg was always in his room by then, having left the others to get themselves ready for bed. What he was doing when Mycroft arrived was always different. Staring at Peter's old pipe, pouring over a map, thinking about the next day's plans, where they should explore next, or just staring absently at the wall opposite the bed, waiting for Mycroft already.
On the nights Greg was already waiting, Mycroft quickly undressed, climbed under the covers and waited calmly for Greg to return from blowing out the candles, and holding him closer as soon as Greg was close enough.
That, as well as dinner, was the one true unwavering constant in Neverland. It varied, slightly, from time to time. They didn't always sleep face to face. It depended on which way their bodies would prefer. Mycroft liked the nights when Greg slept pressed up against his back, an arm wrapped protectively over his chest, moulded against him as if they were always supposed to lay like this, as if it had been planned and there was no other way of putting it.
Mycroft found the darkness not so much stifling any more, like it was pressing it on him, more like a soft cover, draping over them both and staying with them until such time as they no longer needed it, when the nightmares had gone and it was time to be awake, to be playing again. He greeted it each night like an old friend, welcoming when Greg blew out the last candle. In fact, in Neverland, he wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that was the case. That the darkness really was a being, and it was there for them, always, just waiting. Mycroft wasn't liked at first, because he was an interruption, but now he was a firm friend.
