"Mary!" Watson shouted desperately. "Mary lady, tell us a story!"
Holmes appeared to prick up his ears, crowing forgotten for the moment, and glory be, the Irregulars saw it. "Yeah! Tell us a story, missus!" "Tell us a story, please!"
"W-What story would you like, boys?" Thank God, Mary had also understood and was now moving very slowly away from the stairs, back towards the guest bedroom, with the two Irregulars following.
"Snow White!" "No, 'Ansel an' Gretel!" Charlie managed to elbow Mycroft as they went by.
Finally snapping out of his stupor, Mycroft hesitated a moment longer, then joined in, doing his best to sound as enthusiastic as the others. "No, Blackbeard!"
Holmes perked up even more at that, hopping lightly down off the balustrade and hurrying to catch up. "No! Tell one about me, Mary lady!"
Behind Holmes, Watson caught Mary's eye and nodded, mouthing: Later.
Mary smiled warmly at Holmes, if a trifle shakily. "You shall have a story about you, Peter dear, but you must wait your turn." She patted him on the shoulder as he pouted. "It'll be all the better for the wait, I promise. Now, come along, all of you, and make yourselves comfortable..."
Watson let out the breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding as the rag-tag group disappeared through the door, then hurried over to Lestrade. The Inspector appeared to have smacked face first into the bannisters when Holmes had tackled him, but was slowly coming round, wincing in pain, a livid red mark across one cheek that would be a magnificent bruise very shortly.
"Just lie still a bit longer, Inspector," Watson muttered, casting around for his medical bag. At last, he spotted his Gladstone under a small table, where it must have been shunted during the scuffle. The vials and syringes were all mercifully unbroken, as was the bottle of sleeping pills...
"...then Hansel and Gretel found their way back through the woods to the woodcutter's cottage. Their father was overjoyed to see them. 'Oh, my dears,' he sobbed, 'your stepmother is no more! It was the strangest thing, but this very morning, she suddenly screamed, then vanished in a puff of smoke!' For you see, the new stepmother was really a faithful servant of the wicked witch, brought to life by dark magic. All along, the plan had been to let the children get lost in the woods and be drawn into the witch's garden. So the very moment that Gretel pushed the witch into the oven, that was the end for them both!"
"I knew it," Charlie nodded in satisfaction from his spot on the windowseat. "Two evil ladies in the same fores'? They 'ad to be workin' t'gether!"
" 'Ow come all the stepmothers in these stories are so 'orrible, anyway?" Wiggins frowned.
Holmes snorted, curled up in a nest of pillows on the floor. "Don't you know anything? All mothers are like that!"
"Oh no, Peter," Mary exclaimed. "There are plenty of kind mothers in the world, I promise you! I know your mother was, John told me so."
"John's a fool, then," Holmes announced to the room, sitting up and folding his arms. "So is Michael. And Wendy went and grew up without me, so there you are!"
Mary cast an uneasy look to where Mycroft was stationed in a chair by the door, but the elder Holmes could only shrug his eyebrows helplessly. "Well, er... Mycroft, I believe you wanted a pirate story?"
"If I might cut in first..." Watson appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray full of steaming cups and a plate of biscuits. "I believe it's time for refreshment. Hot chocolate, anyone?"
There was a general chorus of "Me! Me!", and a rush towards the tray. Wiggins and Charlie reached it first, eyebrows raised meaningfully at Watson now that the strange man-child behind them couldn't see.
"Careful, there's plenty for everyone!" Watson touched the nearest cup with his left thumb. "And two biscuits each."
" 'Ere, Peter, this un's yours! Ever 'ad 'ot choc'late before?"
Holmes took the cup and sniffed it warily, then broke into a wide grin, gulping it down.
Watson had to chuckle at the very familiar table-manners. "Better than make-believe?"
"No," Holmes answered carelessly, a chocolate moustache now painting his upper lip, and grabbing half of the biscuits off the plate. "You can eat make-believe things all day long, and never be ill."
The boys snickered, and Watson shot them a warning look. "There you are, Mycroft."
"Much obliged, Doctor."
"Mary?"
"Yes, please," Mary smiled, moving over on the bed to let Watson sit beside her, and kissing him on the cheek.
"Why did you do that?" Holmes's head was cocked like a bird.
"That... That was a kiss," Mary stammered, reddening.
"Oh, that's not a kiss," Holmes replied scornfully. "That's a thimble! Girls don't know anything!"
"Mary doesn't know very much about you, Peter," Watson said quietly. "Perhaps it's time for your story now."
"Hurrah!" Holmes bounded onto the bed and wrapped his arms around his knees. "Will you tell it, Mary lady?"
"No, no, it's time someone else took a turn. John?"
"John can't tell stories!" Holmes scoffed.
"And how d'you know that, Peter dear?"
"Neverland, of course! Wendy always told the stories, and John always just sat there with his mouth hanging open!"
"And that, young man," Watson answered sternly, though secretly delighted at another piece falling effortlessly into place, "is how one learns to tell stories – by listening. Will you do the same, so the others can hear?"
Holmes pouted, but muttered something like an assent.
"Very well, then, I'll begin." Please, please, please, let this work...