Peter awoke to the feel of someone dabbing a wet cloth on his face and he groaned.
"Looks like the lad is coming to," he heard a voice say. "How are you feeling, young man?" Man? He still hated that word. He shook his head and the dabbing stopped. He saw a bright light shine through his eyes and he groaned again.
"Tink, stop it," he muttered.
"Can you open your eyes, lad?" He heard the voice again. It was kindly but gruff. Peter's eyes fluttered open and he saw a heavyset man with a bushy mustache leaning over him, holding some sort of light close to his face.
"Well, good, you're awake. Been sleeping for almost two days now."
"Two days?" Peter repeated, his voice sounding cracked and dry. He swallowed but found it painful.
"Ah, I'll be back in a moment." The man disappeared and returned in moments with a glass of water. Peter gratefully took it and touched the glass to his dry lips.
"Now then, do you know who you are?" He was about to answer but he feared the man would lock him up in the madhouse.
"Peter Darling, son of George and Mary." The words spilled from his mouth and he looked shocked as soon as he had said them. The man wrote something down and looked at him again.
"How old are you?"
"Um." He couldn't exactly tell the man he was ageless. And he had no idea how old he truly was or even how old he seemed to be. A little boy was all he knew.
"Th-thirteen?" The man chuckled, his belly shaking immensely as he did so.
"Oh dear me, lad. You're at least sixteen, I wager." Peter stared at him in shock. Sixteen?! No, he couldn't be. That was almost a man. He shook his head.
"I can't be," he said quietly. Luckily, the man hadn't heard him. He was checking Peter's vitals and he nodded.
"Everything seems to be in order. You were found on the lawn of The Royal Ballet School, unconscious. You were brought here, to Great Ormond Street. We couldn't find anything wrong with you really except that you wouldn't wake up. Do you remember what happened?"
"I had…really bad pain. In my stomach. Well all over. I must have…passed out from it."
"Pain will do that," the man nodded. "We'll get some blood work and run some tests. I'll be back shortly." Peter nodded and watched the man leave. He twisted around to see his room but it was pretty bare; there were a few pictures on the walls and a fake plant on the table but that was it really. Peter leaned back in the bed and shut his eyes.
The doctor returned with a nurse and they pushed a tray of lots of things that terrified Peter. His eyes widened when he saw the needle the nurse pulled out and he grimaced openly. The doctor patted his arm.
"Don't worry lad, it'll only hurt for a moment." Peter let out a scream as the needle entered him and the nurse lay a calming hand on his shoulder.
"Breathe, lad, it'll be over soon." Why were they taking his blood? Were they trying to weaken him? Were they holding him hostage? What was this place? The doctor had seemed kind but now he wasn't sure. He wanted Tink. He wanted the Lost Boys. He wanted Neverland.
The nurse finished and quickly bandaged his arm. She hurried out and the doctor patted his arm again.
"I'm going to wait for these tests before I give you anything to eat. Perhaps one of them will tell us why there was pain. Would you like to call your parents?"
"Um…they're out of town. On holiday," he quickly lied.
"Do you have any other family? I would hate for you to be here alone if you needed to stay a few days." But Peter shrugged.
"I'm used to being alone," he replied. The doctor's brow raised and he nodded.
"Very well. My name is Doctor Darlinger, if you need anything. I'll be back shortly." Peter leaned his head back on the pillow and felt sleep tugging at him, which he gladly succumbed to.
When he awoke again, the nurse was rolling in a tray of food and Peter heard his stomach rumbling.
"Here you are, dear. Doctor Darlinger says it is safe for you to eat something. Your blood pressure is a bit high but apart from that, you're healthy and fit."
"Does that mean I can go home," he asked as he eagerly dug into the meal.
"Not just yet," she said gently. "He wants to monitor you in case you have any more fits."
"They weren't fits. I just blacked out for a moment," he said grumpily.
"Be that as it may, he wants you to stay overnight. But if you would like to finish your meal, you can hurry on down to the Peter Pan Ward for story time. I daresay you are a little old for a bedtime story but Miss Darlinger tells wonderful stories. Even the staff loves to hear them." Peter's head was spinning.
"Peter Pan Ward? Miss Darlinger? As in Doctor Darlinger?"
"As in Doctor Darlinger's daughter. And yes, the Peter Pan Ward is our childrens' ward. Miss Darlinger likes to visit the wee ones and tell them stories. Here is a plain set of trousers you may borrow if you like." She handed him the clothes and hurried from the room. Peter stared after her, his jaw agape. He was pretty sure he would lose his mind if he discovered anymore. Nevertheless, he threw back the covers and put his feet on the cold floor. He felt a little shaky at first but steadied himself and glanced down at the hospital gown he was clad in. He shivered as a cold breeze wrapped around him and he quickly donned the clothes in his hands. Wishing he had shoes for the floor was quite cold, he slowly made his way out of the room and down the long hall.
Peter was already an impatient boy and getting lost in a hospital did not help his temper much. He angrily stopped by the help desk to ask where he could find the Childrens Ward (he couldn't bring himself to say the real name) and the smiling lady pointed him in the direction. As Peter walked, he found his strength returning. He still felt a small amount of pain lingering around his chest but he shrugged it off and continued on his way.
As Peter traveled down several flights, he looked around curiously, taking in the sights and sounds. He had never been around a hospital and decided he didn't like it one bit. Too many crying children, too much coughing and pained moans. Not enough smiles and laughter. No, he hated hospitals, he decided. He was ready to leave this place, that was for certain. But a sight on the other side of the window made all thoughts leave him and he froze. Very slowly, he made his way to the window and pressed his hands against the glass. For there in the garden was a bronze statue of a boy who seemed to be in mid-flight. He was bare-chested and wore trousers made of leaves. A tiny fairy was clutching his finger, which was held outright, with a look of mischief on his bronze face. Peter's jaw dropped as he looked at the statue of himself, completely awestruck. It did look like him, he had to give them that. He wondered if Wendy had given that Barrie chap a detailed description of what he looked like. He then started to wonder about the adjectives that she might have used. Had handsome and extraordinary been a part of her vocabulary? He grinned at the thought. He turned away and caught sight of himself in the mirror near the window. He gasped and moved closer. His hands went to his face and he seemed to be feeling if he was real. His face was more defined, his jawline more chiseled and he had rippling muscles on his bare chest. He turned his face this way and that, making faces, to be sure it was really him.
"I'm a man," he whispered.
"Not really," came a voice from behind him. He whirled around to find a young girl with deep brown eyes, sitting in a wheelchair. But she was smiling and she wheeled closer to him.
"You have a few years before you're a man, don't you worry. I'm Charlotte, by the way."
"Peter," he replied. Charlotte giggled.
"I suppose you'll feel right at home in this hospital then. It has Peter Pan things all over the place."
"So I've been told," was his reply. She cocked her head.
"Well, speaking of, would you like to accompany me to the Peter Pan Ward? My friend is telling stories to the little ones."
"Ok." She wheeled backward and lead the way down the hall, Peter following.