"Your... you and... and Holmes...?" A gaping Lestrade gave up trying to articulate what to him must have seemed unthinkable, and tried out a new thought. "Doctor Darling?!" A somewhat hysterical snicker slipped out.
"And now you know why I changed it before going to medical college," Watson sighed, trying not to scowl, if only for the sake of his poor wife, who appeared equally stunned. "I'd like to see you try living with a constant chorus of 'John, darling!' everywhere you went, especially at school! As for poor Holmes, I don't know why Sherlock seemed so much better than Peter..."
"It was our father's name, actually," Mycroft retorted, looking faintly insulted.
"But I couldn't blame him in the least!" Watson went on, as if he hadn't heard. "I'm so sorry, Mary! I never wanted..."
"You lied to me!" Mary burst out. "You said your only brother was called Harry, that he died in Scotland! Was any of that true?"
"Well, yes and no..."
"And what the deuce does that mean?" the bristling woman snapped.
"It was not his... their brother who died, Mrs. Watson, but the older sister," Mycroft hastened to interject. "My apologies, Doctor. I know this is painful for you, but I do believe it is vital that we should all be completely up to date on past events. Michael Darling, the youngest son, is alive and well, and I believe still working at London Zoo as a keeper, if you are of a mind to meet him."
Mary merely replied with a scathing glare.
"And, er, your sister?" Lestrade asked Watson hesitantly, as if fearing to earn Mary's wrath next. "How did she...?"
"Pneumonia," Watson replied shortly, frowning down at the floor. "She caught cold from a sudden shower, and died a week later, coughing her lungs out. No one could do a thing to save her, not even Pete... not even Holmes."
"Well, he... he couldn't have, could he? He was only a boy back then, just like you!"
Watson could only shake his head, lips twitching in spite of himself.
"I'm so sorry, Watson, I had no idea! I suppose that's partly why you became a doctor, eh? What was her name?"
The doctor gave Lestrade a sad smile. "Gwendolen, after our grandmother." Despite his chagrin, Watson's gaze was irresistibly drawn to where his wife still stood by the balustrade, Mary's expression clearly torn between growing sympathy and lingering righteous indignation. "But we all called her –"
"Wendy?!"
Four astonished adults turned as one towards the guest room door, Watson's heart leaping in his chest. "Holmes! Oh, thank God!" The detective still looked alarmingly pale and hollow-eyed, the hook wound on his neck neatly bandaged, feet bare beneath a clean, oversized nightshirt, clutching the lintel for support; but he was conscious again, and speaking, and right now that was all that mattered... Wait... 'Wendy'? Oh, dear heavens...
"Wendy! You're better, I knew you would be!" Holmes let go of the lintel and stumbled towards Mary, beaming. "Those stupid grownups, I told them! All you needed was that glass thing in your mouth! Now we shall have some fun!"
"Hol... Peter, wait!" Watson stepped forward, much too late. Still unsteady, Holmes tripped on the edge of his nightshirt and tumbled to the floor.
Laughing joyously, spirits entirely undampened, he rolled over onto his back and looked up... into the face of a grown woman, as pale as himself, kneeling beside him with tears in her eyes. "W-Wendy?"
"Oh, Sherlock!" Mary gasped, beginning to weep in earnest.
Holmes didn't seem to hear what she had said, staring at the tall, lovely creature before him in growing consternation and distress. "You... You grew up? Without me? But... But you promised! You promised not to!"
"Peter!" Watson said urgently, gripping Holmes's shoulder. "Peter, listen to me! That's not Wendy!"
But he might as well not have spoken. Holmes scrambled to his feet and looked wildly around the group of faces – all adult faces, Watson realised with a pang, feeling absurdly guilty over the fact. And then...
"Mister 'Olmes!" "Guv'nor, yer awake!" "Told yer I 'eard 'im!" Wiggins and Charlie came charging along the hall and up the stairs, faces alight with joy and relief. Lestrade and Watson exchanged alarmed glances, and moved quickly to intercept.
Holmes gave a yell of rage, and sprang at the two men from behind, sending them sprawling. "Up, boys, and at them!"
"John!"
Watson had just managed to catch hold of the bannisters before he plunged downstairs. Shuddering at the narrow escape, he looked up to see a horrifying sight. Holmes, heaven alone knew how, had sprung up onto the balustrade and was balancing there on his toes, hands on hips. Of course, the poor fool didn't remember he couldn't fly anymore!
A faint groan to Watson's right told the doctor that Lestrade was in no shape to interfere, while Mycroft was still staring at his younger brother in utter disbelief – he'd be no help, either! As he struggled to rise, the doctor could see Wiggins and Charlie edging closer, gathering themselves for a rush, but how on earth were they going to bring Holmes down on the right side?
"Sher... Peter, please!" Her face streaked with tears, Mary stretched out her hands to Holmes imploringly. "Please come down, it's not safe!" Oh, hell, that had been exactly the wrong thing to say...
Holmes's eyes gleamed with devil-may-care, and he opened his mouth wide, chin lifting. He was about to crow, Watson knew... and then he was going to dive off!