Sherlock was woken by organised chaos on the deck. Pirates were running around him, jumping over him as he lay, curled up on the floor like a dog in clothes that were soaked and freezing by the ice and frost from the early morning. He chose to pretend he wasn't awake yet, so he might not be moved and nobody would have to watch what they said around him.

Sharp, precise footfalls by his head alerted him to Captain Moriarty, without needing to open his eyes. 'They're on the beach, men. Stay ready and alert, no movement until I give you the signal.' He turned slightly, and Sherlock could imagine his dead eyes showing sickening excitement. 'Sebastian, move that winged thing. I want it locked into my cabin, so I know exactly where it is.'

'Yes, Captain.' A set of steps moved away, and Moriarty walked over to Sherlock, calmly running a hand through his hair. Sherlock did his best to stay relaxed, wondering what the hell was going on until the hand tightened it's grip, pulling his hair sharply. Sherlock cried out, uncurling and trying to get away from Moriarty, away from his hand.

'No need to panic, Sherlock.' Moriarty smiled emptily. 'Your help is on it's way.' Sherlock tried to feel comforted, but instead he just felt his stomach drop.

The Lost Boys hesitantly landed on the deck, standing at the corner, surveying everything warily. They knew not to speak, but to be fully alert for any sign of moment. And yet there was no movement at all.

Mycroft tensed, nudging Greg and nodding slightly towards the other side of the deck and a curled up figure by the canon. Greg caught his eye, and Mycroft knew he was trying to convey that it was a trap. He shook his head once, because he knew it very well could be a trap, even if it was actually Sherlock, but he didn't care. He wanted to protect his brother and was going to do whatever was needed to achieve it.

Hovering above the floor, Mycroft drifted towards the figure, relieved to see it was at least breathing. Landing with barely a sound, Mycroft crouched, noticing John in the tangle of Sherlock's arms. He placed his hand against his brother's face and frowned worriedly at how cold he was. Shivering, even. Had he been kept out here all night?

'Sherlock?' He shook the closest shoulder, repeating it when he didn't answer. 'Sherlock, open your eyes for me.' He tried to sound authoritative, like father did when he wanted to be listened to, but fear laced his words instead. Sherlock's eyes flickered, but he didn't respond completely. He had to be too cold. Mycroft looked back at the rest of the crew, and frowned.

Pirates surrounded the Lost Boys, seeming appearing out of nowhere while they'd all been distracted by Sherlock's prone form. They'd been just as silent as Greg had requested the boys be, and it seemed they'd been beaten at their very own game. Mycroft knew he should stand up, step back so that he could show he wasn't about to do any damage, but he didn't want to leave Sherlock's side, not when he could be in danger.

'Is he alright?' Greg asked, stepping closer to the two brothers instead of back to his crew. They'd already arranged that Mycroft and Sherlock would stay with Greg, but the others could have each other's backs and keep everybody else safe.

'He's shaking, freezing, and not responding.' Mycroft replied worriedly, feeling his own hand becoming colder as he pressed it against Sherlock's forehead. 'His clothes are soaked, too. We need to get him warm; he could have hypothermia.'

The pirates were laughing as they both looked for something to use before Mycroft started unbuttoning his shirt, intending to remove Sherlock's pyjama shirt and give him Mycroft's dry cotton one, but footsteps on the stairs halted him, causing him to look up.

'So you're the other one?' Softly Irish accented vowels crashed over him, and Mycroft took in the slightly creased, tailored suit, tie that was loose, hair that was slicked back but a little curling from the sea air. 'I saw you arrive but you didn't stay still love enough for me to get a proper look at you.' His head tilted to the side, and Mycroft stared back defiantly as the man studied him. Mycroft was being trained, back in London, to not be intimidated, so this wasn't about to work with him.

'My brother needs medical assistance, Captain.' He stated, knowing there was no careful way around it. 'Let me help him, and then I'll do whatever you want.' He ignored the shouts from the Lost Boys that he was making a terrible decision and held the man's staring contest, painfully aware of how much time he may or may not have.

Eventually, Captain Moriarty nodded once. 'Sebastian, take them through to my cabin. Little Sherlock may sleep on the floor. Stay with them, though. I don't trust Lost Boys.' The final sentence was spoken like a curse, and Mycroft felt insulted and irrationally angry despite not really being a part of it.

'I'm going with you.' Greg stepped forward, glaring at any of the pirates that tried to block his way. 'I don't trust adults.' It sounded as much of a curse and Captain Moriarty had made his own statement, and Mycroft was pleased to notice the irritation in the Irishman's eyes. Evidently this somebody who didn't like to be reminded of their adulthood. Mycroft filed it away for information he may later need, and scooped Sherlock up into his arms, cradling him close to his chest and trying not to worry too much about how cold he was, how he was clutching onto John but didn't seem able to let him go.

Sebastian lead the way to the door but made them go in first, standing directly in front of it as soon as they were all inside. Mycroft held onto Sherlock and Greg put a few covers that were in the corner down on the floor. Greg looked up at Sebastian as Mycroft rested his brother on the floor and started pulling his shirt off him, peeling it from the skin and grimacing worriedly.

'Don't suppose we'd be granted any privacy?' He asked. 'For Sherlock's sake?' Sebastian shook his head silently, folding his arms. 'Right, then.' He sighed and draped an old heavy coat over Sherlock while Mycroft removed his trousers and looked for somewhere to hang them to dry.

Having neatly put them over the still warm fire, Mycroft returned to his brothers' side, using the sheets to dry him off and tucking him in so he could stay as warm as possible.

Greg and Mycroft sat with their backs against the end of Moriarty's bed, a fire blazing that Greg had cooked up to raise Sherlock's body temperature. He wasn't so cold any more, and Mycroft dared to hope that he'd be alright.

Until Sherlock woke, though, the two had something else to deal with. Dimmock, and Sebastian. Sebastian didn't seem to be leaving any time soon, but if they needed guarding, or rather guarding from, Dimmock must surely be in the room.

After an hour or so, Jim shouted for Sebastian to get onto the deck, and the first mate tried to argue that he needed to stay on guard, Jim told him not to be an idiot and get to his side stat, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone, waiting for Sherlock to stir.

'So, before he gets back from whatever it is Jim is making him do.' Greg stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans and looking around the room. 'I think we have a fairy to find, Mycroft. And who knows, maybe he'll be able to help wake up Sherlock.'

Mycroft nodded and stood up, looking around. The room was dimly lit, meaning the far corners were difficult to see, and the place was a neat mess of a room, containing all manner of charting equipment, books, and parchment, as well as a few jewellery items Mycroft didn't want to look at too closely, lest he recognise it and work out where some missing jewels have gone fro London.

There were hundreds of places that a bottle might be able to hide, or a jaw or even just a small box. The hiding places for a fairy were limitless, he realised. Even underneath a floorboard, were Sebastian feeling up to it. 'This is going to be nearly impossible, Greg.' He whined. 'What if he can't find him?'

'Then we keep looking, of course. We all came here to rescue Dimmock, and that's what we're going to do now. It's like a treasure hunt, Mycroft. Just look everywhere, even where you think you can't possibly fit a fairy.'

It took ten minutes of endless searching, by the end of which Mycroft was beginning to feel like giving up, shouting, and sweeping everything onto the floor in the hopes of smashing whatever Dimmock was in, when Greg gave a shout of enthusiastic pride and produced a small jar, with a cloth screw top lid. Dimmock was sat inside, legs crossed, arms folded at them.

'Yes, I know, it took us a while.' Greg unscrewed the lid and Dimmock stood on the edge, flexing his wings experimentally and glaring at Greg. 'But we were a little caught up in things. I'm sorry.'

Dimmock ignored him, flitting over to Sherlock and resting on his chest, looking up at the two boys confusedly as a stream of light sounds, like bells being chimed in a soft breeze, filled the air.

'He came here to get you on his own.' Greg explained sadly. 'Jim found him, of course, and made him sleep on the deck.' Dimmock looked shocked, and started tapping Sherlock's face, trying to wake him up. 'We've warmed him up a little, he should be waking up soon if we're very very lucky.'

Dimmock explained what had happened while they waited for Sherlock to wake, telling them both how he'd been on his way to the dance when Moran had stepped in out of nowhere and taken him, stashing him into a jar and nearly permanently damaging his wings.

Mycroft sat cross-legged by Sherlock's limp form, and invited Dimmock to settle on his arm so he could get a closer look at his wing. It was creased, but not so bad that they couldn't heal it with a few days' rest.

Half an hour later, Mycroft shushed Greg, who in the middle of an explanation concerning how they were all going to get out of Sherlock didn't wake. He'd felt movement, and was sure Sherlock's dark unruly curls had brushed against his leg for a moment. The two Lost Boys and the fairy stared at him without daring to breathe, breaking into soft smiles as Sherlock's eyes opened slowly and he looked around confusedly.

'What… What happened? Myc?' He frowned up at his brother. 'You're not supposed to be here. Moriarty-'

'It's alright, he knows we're here.' Mycroft smoothed the hair from his face as Greg attempted to look a little frustrated but could only manage relief.

'You idiot, Sherlock. You shouldn't have come here alone without telling anybody. We were so worried.' The lack of venom behind his words earned a tired smile from Sherlock.

'Sorry. I couldn't sleep, and I wanted to find Dimmock.' He sat up slightly. 'He said- He said Dimmock would be in his cabin, so we have to find him now.' Sherlock seemed to be rather stressed for a boy who'd only just woken up, and tried to stand. Before either of them could stop him, Dimmock for there first, hovering in front of Sherlock and spreading his arms as if to say the it was alright, he was here, and Sherlock didn't need to worry.

Sherlock's eyes lit up, and he grinned. 'So, really, by falling unconscious like that and needing to be taken into warmth, I helped you find Dimmock?'

Laughing, Mycroft nodded. 'That's an incredibly skewed way of looking at it, but yes, I suppose that's true.' Dimmock landed on Sherlock's shoulder, settling against his neck, and the boy picked up John, cuddling him close and fussing over how cold he was.

'Hang on.' Looking down at his bare chest, Sherlock looked suspiciously up at them both. 'Where're my clothes?' Mycroft explained the condition they'd found him in, and how they'd needed to get Sherlock as dry and warm as possible in the shortest time they could. Sherlock nodded understandingly and looked over at his clothes resting near the fireplace. 'Can you get my clothes for me, please? I'd like to stand up, but with at least my trousers on.'

Mycroft nodded, checking how dry and warm the clothes were before handing them over. They were incredibly warm to the touch, and Mycroft knew that they'd probably managed to get through the worst of the potential danger without much of a problem. 'Sherlock, even though you're awake, we're nowhere near getting off the ship. Moriarty's men have got the Lost Boys surrounded, so we might need to fight our way out. Do you think you can do that?'

'Of course I can, I can fence.' Sherlock grinned, pulling on his pyjama trousers and humming contentedly at how hot they were. 'But I have no sword.'

'When I was looking around, I found one.' Greg stood, looking around the corners of the room and returning a few minutes later with a thin sword. Sherlock took hold of it and weighed it up in his hand, testing the heaviness and cutting through the air and trying to re-learn the moves he'd learned so very long ago in classes. 'Well you weren't joking; you really do know about fencing.'

Sherlock flashed him a smile, cheeks starting to heat up as he moved. 'It'll be good to finally use this stuff I've been taught.' He commented, tucking John under his arm and rolling his shoulders in preparation.