"John? John!" Mary appeared in the study doorway, flushed and breathless. "Charlie's at the door, he says we're needed urgently at Mycroft's rooms!"
"Mycroft's?" Watson hesitated in the act of reaching automatically for his medical bag. "And... both of us? Is it about Holmes?"
"He wouldn't say, but... oh, John, I think it must be for Sherlock, the poor boy looks terrified!"
Watson was already hurrying along the hall to the open front door, where the Irregular anxiously shifted from foot to foot, a four-wheeler waiting on the street below. "Charlie, what's happened? No, never mind, you can explain on the way. Mary, do come on, love!"
"I'm coming!" Mary came out, wearing her cloak and carrying her husband's hat and coat. "I had to tell Sarah not to prepare dinner for us. Let's go."
"...an' the Inspector was jus' 'eadin' over when I left, 'e looked pretty sick, too! 'E called out when 'e saw me, but I couldn' stop jus' then, could I?"
"Lestrade's there, too, you say?" No doubt in response to recent events, but the Inspector surely couldn't think Holmes responsible for what had happened! "Well, I'm sure Mycroft's told him to expect us." Watson just wished he had any light of his own to shed on the matter! Poor Holmes... Witnessing such a ghastly murder, close enough to get a faceful of gore – that would be enough to turn even the strongest stomach! But Holmes's reaction... There had to be much more to such an extreme withdrawal... Something to do with Moriarty's visit, perhaps? Heaven only knew what the Professor might have said to his friend between those four walls. The knives that devil could so easily have twisted in the great heart with his serpent's tongue...
"John?"
Watson started as Mary took laid a hand on his knee, only then realising how tightly he was gripping the handle of his medical bag. He took her hand in his with a rueful smile – she looked as concerned as he felt. He didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed that Mycroft had requested his wife's presence as well... but Mycroft never did anything without a damn good reason.
Charlie dashed up the steps ahead of them as they alighted from the cab, but the front door was opened by Lestrade before he could reach for the bell.
"Doctor. Ma'am. Good to see you."
Watson fancied he could detect fresh lines on the Inspector's face. "How is he?"
His heart sank as Lestrade shook his head grimly. "Hasn't said a word since the boys brought him in. I've never seen him like this, Watson, not on his worst days with the needle. I don't think he knows where or even who he is! D'you think you can...?"
"Well, Mycroft seems to think so," Watson attempted to answer cheerfully. "And far be it from me to argue with the greatest intellect in the Empire!"
Lestrade managed half a smile. "He's upstairs, guest bedroom. Mycroft's with him. And Wiggins is in the kitchen, young man, which is where you're going!" he added sternly, snagging Charlie by the collar as the boy attempted to slink past him and up the stairs. "The staff could use some extra hands with all these people to feed!"
"The Inspector's right, Charlie dear," Mary said gently as the boy scowled, twisting out of Lestrade's hold. "Wiggins needs you most just now. We'll call you if there's any change, I promise."
Charlie muttered something inaudible, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and stomped off.
"Ah, Doctor, Mrs. Watson." Mycroft had appeared at the top of the stairs. "Please come up. Thank you for coming so quickly."
Watson was already ascending, leaving Mary and Lestrade behind in his haste. "Charlie's filled us in, as much as he was able. Mycroft... Why didn't Holmes tell me he was so close to bringing down Moriarty? We've heard nothing at all from him for weeks, much less regarding a case!"
"No doubt the pig-headed idiot thought he was acting for the best," Mycroft answered wearily. "You must know how protective he is of you, and your good wife." He gave Mary a wan smile as she reached the landing with Lestrade. "He was adamant that neither of you should be embroiled in such a perilous endeavour unless there were no other option. I did warn him that you would not take kindly to such high-handed behaviour..."
Watson suppressed a snort. "Not that he needed telling! Well, never mind that now. May we see him?"
"All in good time, Doctor. There is a matter of... of the greatest delicacy that we must first discuss." Good heavens, was the man actually avoiding eye contact? "Heaven knows I would not pry into the darkest corners of my brother's past if I did not have excellent reason... and I believe that you are the only man alive who is able to assist me."
Watson blinked, trying to ignore the hair raising on the back of his neck. "Surely, Mycroft, you know your brother's history far better even than I!"
"Come now, Doctor... We both know that that isn't true."
The utter conviction in Mycroft's words sent a chill down the doctor's spine, however kindly phrased. The older man had always treated him kindly, though Watson had believed it was merely for his brother's sake, as his acquaintance with Holmes had blossomed from mere flatmates to partners in solving crime to a solid friendship... He should have known, should never have assumed that Mycroft would look no further!
"...How long?"
"Since before the Jefferson Hope case. I can well understand the name change before attending St. Barts, but your misfortunes in Afghanistan did not alter you so very much that I could not recognise the young man who had attended his parents' funeral with his younger brother. Or I should say, Dr. Darling, our brother."
"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!
"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...
