Author's Note: Hello again! Let's find out what our poor injured Peter is up to, shall we?

Many thanks, as always, to everyone who has reviewed! It's so nice to know I'm not just talking to myself. :) I keep wanting to answer reviews individually, but instead I've been putting all my energy into writing the story itself. So ... please just know that I really appreciate the feedback, and it definitely helps to keep me writing. :)

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Peter proved to be an even worse patient at home than he'd been in the hospital. Particularly, that is, when Dr. Carew attempted to attend to him a week after the injured young man had been brought to Aunt Millicent's guest room.

"Keep that monster away from me!" Peter shouted most impolitely. "He wants to send me to the workhouse!"

Hands raised placatingly, Dr. Carew had insisted, "You need a doctor to mind your recovery, my young Peter." Patting his bag rather ominously with one hand, he continued, "I can help you, my boy."

"Stay out!" yelled Peter. "Stay out! I'm warning you!"

But Dr. Carew had stubbornly walked forward into the room despite Peter's words, resulting in a large silver candlestick being thrown with impressive accuracy across the room to bounce most inelegantly off of his forehead, leaving an angry red mark in its wake.

Holding a handkerchief to his forehead and cursing under his breath, Dr. Carew descended the stairs to tell Miss Millicent Tilney, "My considered professional opinion is that the boy does not need a doctor's attentions. An attentive nurse should suffice."

* * *

And so it came to pass that Wendy and Lottie were trusted to nurse Peter back to health. Wendy quite happily sat by his bedside as many hours of the day as possible. Aunt Millicent rarely saw the boy herself, sending his meals up on trays and trusting Lottie to act as sufficient chaperone, and so Wendy was free to tell Peter stories many hours each day, without any cautions against the danger of her imagination.

Determined to help him recover his memories, which were still only very vague, where they existed at all, Wendy regaled Peter with story after story about himself and Neverland and their past adventures. She told him of Neverland's high waterfalls and jungles dense with vines, its lagoons peopled with mermaids, its hulking Black Castle all made of crumbling walls and towers and turrets, its volcano continually spewing red molten lava, and the pirate ship the Jolly Roger, moored just off the coast.

She told him of the pirates. Most importantly, Captain Hook, of course, with his long curling black hair, the hook where his hand had been, and his piercing eyes, blue as forget-me-nots. Hook, she explained, liked to dress quite smartly and surround himself with fine things, fancying himself rather a gentleman even as he ruthlessly killed anyone who annoyed him or got in his way. There was also Smee, Hook's second in command, who was rather cowardly if truth be told, with his small wire glasses, his gray beard, his large belly, and his hatred for the ship's parrot who hated him equally much in return. And then there was Noodler, with his hands on backwards, who seemed rather charmingly innocent in his love of card-playing and stories, despite being a bloodthirsty pirate. And Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed, who merrily rode the complex contraption which played Peter's "Requiem Mass" at the Black Castle. And one must not forget Alf Mason, so ugly his mother had traded him for a bottle of muscat.

Peter noticed that his wounds continued to heal, continuing to respond to the stories in strange and mysterious ways. The sharp pain inside his middle slowly became less bothersome, the throbbing of his leg lessened slightly, and the terrible ache in his head gradually faded somewhat, as well.

He was still decidedly uncomfortable and driven quite mad by being so little able to move about, but Wendy's stories moved and twisted and unfurled within him such that he somehow knew that all would be well if he only listened long enough.

And it was not only his body that was healing. He was gradually beginning to remember.

* * *

Unfortunately, Wendy was not able to spend all of her time in Peter's room. Though he was not attending Peter's injuries, Dr. Carew still dined with them frequently at luncheon as a purely social visit.

Wendy was not only forced to dine politely with the horrible man, she was also upon occasion required to play the piano for Dr. Carew and Aunt Millicent in the drawing room when the meal was finished, while the doctor complimented Aunt Millicent on her niece's accomplishment in the musical arts. Wendy had a slight cold, and her coughing would upon occasion interrupt her playing, much to her aunt's disapproval. Illness was so very impolite, after all.

On some days, Aunt Millicent gave Wendy the freedom to take her luncheon upstairs in the guest room with Peter, but Wendy rather feared this kindness was only in an effort to spend time alone with the handsome doctor.

In fact, Aunt Millicent's infatuation with the doctor had seemed to grow only more intense with time. In fact, when Dr. Carew grew a rather dashing beard and mustache, Aunt Millicent complimented him quite embarrassingly much, such that Wendy was quite ashamed for her.

Wendy, however, found that with this new beard and mustache, the doctor seemed even more familiar. When dining at the table with him, she tried to examine his face as closely as possible without drawing attention or seeming rude. At length, unable to decide why he looked so very familiar, she decided that she must have at some point seen his face -- or one remarkably like it -- in some very different setting, which change of circumstance might make him more difficult to place.

And, in any case, the doctor's face seemed far less important than Peter's injuries and lack of memory. And so, unfortunately, Wendy devoted less time to the problem than she might have.

* * *

"Tell me about how I killed Hook!" demanded Peter one morning after his breakfast.

Wendy grinned with surprise. "Why, Peter, you sound quite cheeky this morning! What happened to the hesitant fellow I met on Oxford Street so many weeks -- nay months -- ago?"

"Hesitant? Me?" Peter scoffed, for indeed, much of his youthful attitude had been returning to him along with his health and memories. "You must have been imagining things."

Rubbing his head -- for it did still ache rather atrociously upon occasion, as did his leg -- Peter repeated, "Tell me how I killed Hook!"

"Well," Wendy said ironically, "since you asked so nicely..." but Peter was completely immune to her tone, and simply sat up eagerly in his bed, waiting for the tale to begin.

"Well, you see, Hook had captured myself and the boys, and he wanted to know how you had taught me to fly."

"How did I teach you?" Peter asked, though he already knew the answer, because Wendy had told this story before. And, in any case, he had begun to remember some of it, if only vaguely.

In truth, he just wanted to hear it again, as Wendy told it.

"I said only that you think happy thoughts and they lift you into the air, but he wanted to know the rest, and so his hook was at my throat and my smallest brother Michael was frightened in the extreme that I might be killed. 'Fairy dust!' he cried. 'You need fairy dust!' Hook wanted to find out if unhappy thoughts would make you unable to fly, and so he shouted, 'How if his Wendy walks the plank!' Oh, Peter, I was so very frightened! But I did not weep or cry out. And when I at last fell from the plank, you caught me!"

"Of course I caught you!" Peter bragged.

"Yes, Peter, of course you did. But then Hook caught hold of Tinker Bell and sprinkled her dust upon him and just the thought of killing you was enough to send him soaring up into the air! And so the two of you flew all 'round the ship, clashing swords with a mighty clanging, over and over again. You spun and soared and it was really quite amazing!"

"That's me!" Peter grinned, making Wendy laugh.

"But then Hook somehow brought you down, and sent you crashing to the deck!"

"How?" asked Peter. Wendy was never able to answer this question, but he always asked, on the off chance that this time she would know. He had not been able to remember this part, himself.

"I'm afraid I don't know, Peter. You never told me, and I was rather occupied in a sword fight with another pirate at the time, so I did not hear."

Nodding with disappointed acceptance, Peter asked, "So what happened next?"

"Well, you were on the deck, Peter, and you weren't even moving! You just lay there, and Hook raised up his arm, and his eyes began to glow red, and at the last moment I broke free from the pirate who held me prisoner, and I grabbed his arm, the one with the hook attached, and stopped him. But then he threw me to the deck beside you. And I ... I kissed you. And ... then there was the most wonderful explosion and the pirates were blown into the air and the sea, and you flew again, and fought Captain Hook so gallantly, until he became horribly discouraged, quite losing the ability to fly, and at last was swallowed whole by the crocodile."

"You kissed me?"

"Yes, Peter, I did." Wendy blushed slightly at discussing this so frankly.

"I wish I could remember that part," Peter said pensively.

"Well," Wendy was blushing a bit more now, "I'm sure you will remember everything eventually. You've already remembered much more than you did when I first saw you on Oxford Street."

Peter nodded absently, apparently deep in thought.

"Wendy, I think you should kiss me now."

"What?" gasped Wendy, shocked by this sudden pronouncement.

"It helped before, so maybe it will help now, too. Maybe I would be completely healthy and have all of my memories if you kissed me again."

Thinking back on when she had kissed him while he was still unconscious, Wendy admitted apologetically, "I do not think that would work, Peter."

"Well, where is the harm in trying?" Peter's smug grin clearly said that he was certain he had won the argument.

Shaking her head slightly at Peter's recovered arrogance, Wendy could not help but smile. Though somewhat grown-up, he was so much like the Peter she had first known!

Glancing first back at the doorway to be sure they were unobserved, even by Lottie, Wendy then leaned accommodatingly closer to the bed, and Peter raised his face toward hers, his lashes fluttering closed as their faces drew near together. Their mouths met gently, her lips soft against his, both their eyes closed, her hand resting lightly upon his arm, Peter's hand reaching up to lay flat against her cheek.

The kiss lasted a long moment, and then Wendy pulled away, blushing in her chair beside the bed.

"Well?" she asked shyly. "Do you feel any different?"

Peter frowned in thought, paying attention to each part of his body in turn. "I feel sort of ... tingly ... and ... maybe a little warm. Do you think that means anything?"

Wendy blushed more deeply, for she felt a bit tingly and warm, herself. "I don't think so, Peter. I'm afraid it will still take you some time to heal."

Putting his hands behind his head and reclining back upon his pillow, Peter reasoned, "Well, it was worth trying." Maybe it needs to be done more than once, in order to heal me, Peter thought to himself. But he wasn't going to ask again. Let Wendy ask next time. In any case, he was still pleased to have gotten his way in getting Wendy to kiss him.

Staring up at the ceiling, Peter thought that this kissing thing might be nice again, even if it didn't heal him, but he certainly wouldn't say so to Wendy.

* * *

Several days later, after Wendy had coughed for the third time during luncheon, Dr. Carew turned his shrewd blue eyes in her direction, commenting, "You should let me examine you, Miss Darling, for that cough."

Not wanting this man near her any more than absolutely necessary, Wendy assured him with a polite smile, "Thank you for your concern, Dr. Carew, but it is only a cold."

"One cannot be too careful with such things, Miss Darling. Be sure to have no fire in your room tonight, and stand about a while in evening dress with the windows closed. That should help the cough to clear. If it has not dissipated within the next week, you really should submit to an examination."

Gritting her teeth, as was so often the case in the doctor's company, Wendy smiled stiffly.

Before she had chance to answer, however, Aunt Millicent declared, "Oh, we should be so very grateful to you, Dr. Carew. It is so kind of you to be concerned of Wendy's delicate health! Perhaps we should set an appointment for Thursday afternoon, lest your schedule become filled?" Since Thursday was one of the days when Dr. Carew did not as a rule come to luncheon, Wendy knew that this was merely a ploy to bring the man into the house an additional day of the week.

But, being a polite young lady and unwilling to shame her aunt before company, Wendy did not object, and only smiled silently, betraying no visible indication of the decidedly unfriendly thoughts within her head.

When they stood to adjourn to the drawing room, where Wendy would no doubt be pressed to play the piano for their enjoyment, Aunt Millicent noticed the front of Dr. Carew's vest, and its lack of watch chain.

"Dr. Carew," she began in some confusion and concern, "you do not wear the watch I gave you as a gift. Has it been lost or broken?" Wendy had, in fact, noticed that the doctor had never worn the watch in her sight, and had wondered at the reason.

Hesitating a moment, Dr. Carew replied, "I rarely have need of a watch, Miss Tilney. It was an exceedingly thoughtful gesture, and very much appreciated, but I simply prefer not to carry a watch. It is something of a ... personal eccentricity, you might say."

In truth, the watch had been smashed and discarded with the rubbish on the very day it had been given him, but Aunt Millicent and Wendy had no way of knowing this, and it would have been exceedingly rude of Dr. Carew to say so. It was, in fact, exceedingly rude of him to have even done so, whether he admitted it or no.

Aunt Millicent, however, had no need to know the full extent of Dr. Carew's ingratitude. His purposeful failure to wear the watch was, in and of itself, a grave slight to her. She had given him a token of her affection, perhaps rashly, perhaps imprudently, and he had spurned it. If he thought kindly of her at all, he would have worn it simply to honor her thought in giving it to him.

Of a sudden, Aunt Millicent found herself questioning Dr. Carew's debonair charm, suddenly wondering whether she had been embarrassing herself in believing that such a young and handsome man might enjoy her company. Had she made herself ridiculous, in believing that some gentleman might at last court her? Had she become the topic of gossip? Had she made quite a fool of herself?

"I am afraid I have a prior engagement this afternoon," Aunt Millicent lied stiffly, her mind racing and her heart aching rather sore. "We shall not have the time to enjoy Wendy's lovely piano playing today."

Dr. Carew knew when he was being asked to leave, and so he began his way to the door. "I shall see you both on Thursday next, to examine Miss Darling's health," he smiled, knowing that his hold on the elderly spinster had most likely slipped, but determined to make every effort to regain his grasp.

After he had been ushered from the house with every false politeness, Dr. Carew stood beside his carriage and looked back at the closed door, and then up at the window, and as he looked his eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, glinted with a ruthlessness which, had she seen it, would have made Aunt Millicent's blood run cold in her veins.

And if Wendy had seen it, she would have at last realized where she had encountered this face before.

* * *

Once Dr. Carew had gone, Aunt Millicent silently retired to her own private bedchamber to be alone with her forlornly disappointed thoughts, and to weep -- if truth be known -- more than a few lonely spinster's tears.

Wendy, not knowing the extent of her aunt's current emotions, quite cheerfully went up to Peter's room, glad that the unpleasant part of her day was finished, and she might now look forward to spending the afternoon and evening with Peter.

She had not expected, however, that Peter would cry out when he saw her, coming quite near to climbing -- or perhaps falling -- out of the bed, even with his leg encased in plaster. "Wendy!" he cried.

Wendy ran to the bed, taking Peter in her arms and asking frantically, "What is wrong, Peter?"

"I remember!" Peter looked into her face, and his eyes were shining with unshed tears. "I remembered what happened to Neverland, Wendy." His words flew so quickly that Wendy almost had difficulty understanding him, but she watched his face anxiously as he spoke.

"I remember," Peter moaned piteously, "I remember ... Neverland died, Wendy. I don't know why, and I don't understand how, but ... it ... it ... it died. Neverland died." And at that, his tears slipped from his eyes, sliding down his cheeks, and Peter buried his face in Wendy's shoulder, and she held him as he wept.

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Author's Closing Note: Fear not! Some good, happy things happen in the next chapter! There's still plenty of danger and drama to come, too, but it's not all near-death experiences. :)