"Once upon a time, there lived a loving husband and wife. Their names were Mr. and Mrs. Darling, and they had three children, Wendy, John and Michael."

Wiggins grinned, putting two and two together. "Yer can jus' say it was you, Doctor, we ain' gonna tell!"

"Don't interrupt." Watson glanced over at Holmes, sitting immobile at the end of the bed, arms locked around his knees. The look on his face wasn't precisely detached, the odd flicker of eye movement proved that he was listening – partly, anyhow. What Watson wouldn't give to know what his brother was thinking...

Once upon a time, there lived a loving husband and wife, who had a beautiful little boy. He had hair as black as shadows, and grey eyes the exact colour of morning mist. His parents loved him very much, and doted on him day and night. Every evening, his mother would tell him as she tucked him into bed about all the wonderful things that were in store for him as he grew older: school, college, a shining career, a loving wife and children of his own. It was only what all parents wish for their children... How could they realise that his frightened tears at night were for that very reason, the terrible, growing knowledge that he could not stay a little boy and have fun forever? The grownups in his world were such sad, solemn figures, bent and broken by care and hard work, faces growing ever more like the wrinkled skin of the oak apples in autumn, hair turning white and brittle as frost, until at last they stopped breathing and were shut up in long wooden boxes, never to be seen again...

"...Neverland is a place that most people will only ever visit in dreams. By the time Wendy was born, our parents had all but forgotten about it, and the magical creatures and people who lived there. But Wendy, Michael and I would visit the island every day as we played in the nursery: swimming with the mermaids, playing tricks on the fairies, and hunting for pirate treasure. And the most wonderful person of all in Neverland was a young boy, who called himself Peter Pan..."

Out in the park with his mother one day, the thought of dying frightened the grey-eyed boy so much that he began to scream, beating the sides of his pram with his fists. Alas! The pram was resting at the top of a grassy slope and began to roll away downhill. His mother had merely stopped to retie her bootlace, and made a grab for the handlebar, an instant too late. Her cry of alarm alerted several other grown-ups, and all of them chased the runaway pram down to the bottom of the hill, where its flight was mercifully arrested by a handy flowerbed. Weak with relief, the boy's mother rushed over, meaning to snatch him up in her arms and cover him with kisses... but let out a wail of anguish when she saw that the pram was starkly, impossibly empty. The grey-eyed boy had gone, vanished away like a sigh on the wind, and was never seen again...

"...our mother put the shadow away in a drawer and forgot about it, so Peter had to come back with Tinker Bell one night to search the nursery. We'd already known him for so long, it didn't seem the least bit surprising to wake up and see him actually standing on the nursery carpet! And then... oh, and then..." Watson's voice grew hushed, his eyes aglow; "he showed us how to fly. A sprinkle of Tinker Bell's fairy dust, and a moment later, we were all bumping our heads against the ceiling, and the stars were beckoning through the open window..."

Fairies, sad to tell, are a great deal like magpies. If they see an especially attractive baby while visiting the human world, they will often steal them away out of their pram or cradle, purely on impulse. And the saddest thing of all is that this impulse only ever lasts until the infant begins to cry, or becomes any sort of trouble. Then the disenchanted kidnapper will attempt to find another unsuspecting fairy to take the child, for they are all short-lived creatures, with memories to match. The poor, wailing infant might be passed around for days, before eventually succumbing to hunger, thirst, or cold. It was purely by chance that the grey-eyed boy passed into the hands of a common brownie, who was more accustomed to actual hard work than many of the other fairies, mending saucepans and kettles by night when the humans of a house were asleep...

"Poor Tink... She hated Wendy on sight, and who could blame her? Fairies are so small, you see, that they only have room in them for one feeling at a time. Peter only had eyes for my sister from the first time he eavesdropped at our window, and even when he forgot about us, as he often did, he always remembered her again the quickest. Tink grew so jealous of Wendy at last, that she flew ahead to the island and tricked the Lost Boys into shooting her down." Watson directed a kindly smile towards Holmes to show that there were no hard feelings. "It was Peter's kiss on the chain around her neck that saved her from Tootle's arrow." Was it his imagination, or did Holmes's ears look just a trifle red? "The Lost Boys were overjoyed that Peter had brought them a new mother, and when Wendy awoke from her faint, she took them all to her heart in an instant..."

If the grey-eyed boy had not been so sweet and charming, even when driving her to distraction, Tinker Bell might very well have left him to fend for himself. He grew surprisingly quickly, for in Neverland time does not pass the way it does in the human world, in small, neat parcels. And as he grew, so did his ability to find adventure, often bringing it back with him to the underground cave in the centre of the fairy grove that was now his home. Once he even returned with a young crocodile from the lagoon, and proceeded to feed its apparently bottomless appetite with all sorts of scavenged items from the fairy bowers, before losing interest. It was left to Tinker Bell to wedge the snapping jaws open with a mantle clock, then drag the beast back to the shore by the tail and leave it to work the clock loose on its own, her boy's helpless laughter at the absurd sight ringing in her ears. She was deeply thankful when he suddenly stopped growing any taller, until he began to bring home the newest arrivals to Neverland that the other fairies had abandoned...

"Goodness knows why Wendy was so content to do almost nothing besides keep house and tell stories to us in our underground home, for Neverland was just as we children had imagined it, and more besides, with adventures around every rock and tree. It would take far too long to describe them all, so I am only going to tell you two of them. The first was our battle with the pirates at Marooner's Rock..." Watson paused warily as Holmes frowned, shifting to a cross-legged position, elbows on his knees, chin on his hands. Now came the really difficult bit...

"Peter and the Lost Boys were not the only humans in Neverland. The island held everything a child could ever imagine, which, as I have already mentioned, included a band of fierce redskin braves, and a pack of the blackest-hearted pirates who ever swung at Execution Dock. And the wickedest of this cut-throat crew was the captain, James Hook, who hated the Lost Boys, and Peter most of all..."

"Blimey!" Wiggins exclaimed without thinking. "D'yer mean 'e was worse than Moriarty?"

The question might have been asked of Watson, but all eyes were unconsciously going to Holmes, who blushed in confusion under the collective stare. "I don't know," he scowled. "What's a Moriarty?"

"Don't spoil a good story for everyone else, Wiggins," Mary said hurriedly. "You know he comes in later."

"Right, sorry," the boy mumbled, looking sheepish. "G'on, Doctor."

Watson gave Mary a look of pure gratitude. "Well, as I was saying... No one knew exactly how the feud between the pirates and Lost Boys began, but Peter proudly claimed that he had once sliced off Captain Hook's hand during a fight. From that day on, the captain sported an iron hook upon his right wrist in its place, and swore to have his revenge..."

"No, I didn't."

Watson blinked, train of thought now completely derailed. "What?"

"...was an accident..." Holmes's mumble was barely audible, head bowed.

Good Lord... Watson barely suppressed a gasp of excitement. Careful now, any sort of overreaction could ruin everything!

His wife, bless her, also seemed to have realised the significance of the moment, and laid a kindly hand on Holmes's knee. "What was an accident, dear?"

"Hook's hand." Holmes lifted his head and gave Mary a shy smile. "It still served him right, though."

Peter had long since stopped baiting the crocodile, if only for the Lost Boys' sake, but that did not keep him from looking in on the beast every now and then. It had grown as rapidly as Peter, and was now twice the length of a redskin canoe, and three times as wide. One day, while visiting the mermaids' lagoon, Peter noticed the pirate's longboat being rowed along by the bo'sun, Smee, while Hook sat at ease in the stern, though without his cigars on this occasion. The boat's prow was pointed straight at the entrance to the crocodile's lair, and Peter saw, first in surprise and then in anger, a long harpoon poking up over the gunwale. Hook was hunting the crocodile!

Peter swam to the entrance under the water, careful not to leave any ripples. As the longboat passed into the half-sunken cave, he poked his head up carefully from behind a rock. Hook was raising the harpoon and peering all around the boat into the dark depths, eyes aglow with bloodlust in the lantern light. Not a sound could be heard but the gentle splash of the oars and a loud drip, drip, drip of water from the ceiling at the back of the cave. Peter took a huge, gleeful breath, then gave the deepest growl he could, which echoed around the cave, seeming to come from all directions. Hook spun around in alarm, much too quickly, and his foot caught on a rope, sending him to the bottom of the boat. The captain struggled to right himself, cursing Smee first for not helping him up, then for getting in the way when he tried.

Tick... tick... tick... tick...

A throaty rumble, full of malevolent intent, drifted across the water ahead of a long, slithering shadow. What Peter and the pirates had all mistaken for dripping water had really been the sound of a long-swallowed clock! Hook finally got to his feet again and scrabbled frantically for the harpoon, but the crocodile slammed its massive tail into the starboard side of the boat, stoving it in. The two men shouted as the water poured in, clutching each other in terror. Hook appeared to come to his senses first, and jumped into the water on the port side, leaving Smee to face the monster alone. That unworthy impulse was the worst mistake of his life, for the crocodile was already there waiting...

"Heavens!" Watson shivered, trying and failing to ignore the steady tick, tick of the grandfather clock out on Mycroft's landing. "Well, those two obviously got away eventually!"

Holmes nodded, not bothering to conceal his disappointment. "The crocodile caught Hook's right hand in its jaws. My, how he yelled! It let go for a better grip, though, then Smee made a lucky throw with the harpoon, knocking out one of its teeth. It retreated into the lagoon, and Hook made Smee row what was left of the longboat back to the ship, bleeding all the way. I suppose there wasn't enough left of his hand when they got back to make it worth saving."

"No, there wouldn't have been," Watson agreed somberly. "Shipboard medicine doesn't get much more sophisticated than buckets of boiling pitch..."

"John!" Mary protested, looking ill. "Must you? You're almost as bad as Peter!"

"But why did 'Ook blame yer for that?" Charlie frowned. "Yer didn' tell 'im, did yer?"

Holmes shrugged carelessly. "I might have mentioned it, the next time we met."

Charlie cast a speaking look at the ceiling, but chose not to comment.

"And his hook wasn't the only reminder of that adventure," Holmes chuckled. "The crocodile must have really liked the taste of Hook's hand – so much that it followed him around for the rest of his life!"

"So it got 'im?"

"Be a bit 'ard t' sneak up on 'im, wouldn' it, with that ruddy clock goin'?"

Holmes flashed the boys a mischievous grin. "Only until it ran down."

"Cor!"

Watson quietly took a sip of his rapidly cooling chocolate, which did nothing for the lump in his throat. It would do no harm for Holmes to take over the story for a while, and it would likely be his own turn again soon. He thought he understood now why Holmes had reverted to Peter Darling when he first awoke, with Mary scolding her husband on the landing, her voice so easy to mistake for another's. That must have been one of the last pleasant memories of Peter's life in Kensington Gardens: newly adopted into their family, his beloved 'mother' still alive, however ill, and clinging to the hope that she would soon recover. If only a thermometer could have saved her...

"Ahoy, there you lubbers! Set the redskin free! At once, d'ye hear, or I'll plunge my hook in you!"

It was an uncanny imitation of Hook's voice, and Watson was glad for an excuse to step out of the room just then, closing the door behind him. He hadn't discovered until much later how close Wendy and Peter had really been to drowning...

Lestrade still sat where Watson had left him, in a comfortable chair outside the guest room door, looking utterly bemused – as well he might! It was a shame there hadn't been room for one more person in the room. Then again, the Inspector's palpably sceptical expression might easily have kept Holmes from lowering his guard nearly as much as he had.

"How's the head?" Watson asked softly, looking Lestrade over again for signs of concussion, just to be on the safe side.

"Still aching," Lestrade admitted, touching his cheek gingerly. "I won't ask how... how your brother's doing, I can hear well enough! ...He certainly didn't get any less vain with the years, did he?"

Watson chuckled. "Or any less of a magnet for trouble. Don't worry, I'm not expecting you to actually believe any of what you've heard!"

"Much obliged!" Lestrade snorted, though perhaps not as forcefully as he might have. "Look, Watson, if... if you and Mycroft really think this is the best way to help him, who am I to argue? Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

"Fair enough." Though Mycroft hadn't said a word since the story began, either, merely listening intently, the porcelain cup turning around and around in his hands the only clue to whatever inner turmoil the man was experiencing. "There's just one more thing we need now, I think..."

Opening the door again, Watson inwardly groaned. Dear Lord, who had let Holmes get his hands on the fireside poker?

His brother was now standing on the bed, pointing the iron bar like a sword at an unseen foe, with everyone else standing well back against the walls and furniture. "Put up your swords, boys," he cried gleefully. "Hook is mine!"

So they were up to the final battle at last! Watson edged carefully around the room until he reached Mary's side. "Everything all right?"

"Where have you been?" she hissed over the noise of the one-sided duel. "Such a job I had to keep the boys from joining him up there! How's all this going to end?"

"As I recall," Watson murmured back, wilfully misunderstanding the question, "Hook finally realised he couldn't win on his own against Peter, and dived off the ship... Yes, there he goes!"

Holmes was now peering down at the floor over the side of the 'ship', with a look of deep satisfaction. "But the captain didn't realise that the crocodile was waiting below, its clock run down at last. And so perished James Hook!"

The Irregulars cheered and scrambled up beside their captain, jumping around on the bed while brandishing their own make-believe swords at each other. Watson had to smile at their enthusiasm, but now the bed frame was creaking ominously in protest. He and Mary eventually managed to convince the excited trio to sit down again, persuading Holmes to give up the poker with some difficulty; and all the while, Watson was steeling himself for what must come next.

"Peter," he remarked mildly as he replaced the poker on the stand, "do you recall why you had to save us all from the pirates? What happened in the cave that evening?"

Holmes's exultant grin froze. "Oh, yes," he said airily. "Someone told a silly story and put everyone in a fright. They all climbed up the hollow trees without me... and of course the pirates caught them!"

"Yes... but what was the story, Peter? Why was everyone in such a bother?"

Holmes scowled. "I don't know, I wasn't listening!"

"Yes, you were," Watson said quietly. "It was bedtime. Wendy told all of us the story we loved best, and the only one you hated. I don't quite know why you chose to listen that time..." He made a sign to Wiggins to move up, and sat back down on the bed, near his brother but not too near. "The story was about our family, how we children had flown away to Neverland, heartlessly leaving our poor mother and father behind... but that there was no need for fear, because it didn't matter how long we might take to go back, the window would always be open for us." A sad smile. "I can't say whether or not Wendy was right about that..." No parent lives forever, after all! "But then you told us a story, remember?"

The scowl deepened. "No."

"You told Wendy that she was wrong about mothers, that the one time you'd tried to go back to your own window, your mother had forgotten you, replaced you. Now, I don't believe for a moment that that was really true," Watson added firmly, chest aching at the growing pain in the grey eyes. "Mothers never forget any of their children, however many they have... but you believed it, and that was enough. The thought of being forgotten frightened Michael and I so much that we begged to go home at once. And when Wendy saw how sad you and the Lost Boys were to lose her, she invited every one of you to come with us and be adopted by our parents."

"I wasn't sad!" Holmes burst out. "I told her she could go if she wanted, I didn't care!"

"You cared enough to change your mind when she asked you again in London!" Watson retorted without thinking, then reddened as he realised how he'd sounded.

"John!" Mary came over and knelt on the floor between them, her expression one of gentle reproof. "Peter, dear..." taking his hand, "I know this must be difficult... but falsehoods aren't going to help. Wendy must have loved you dearly, to want you for a brother as much as John and Michael. Think how it would have hurt her, to see her family quarrelling so over her memory!"

Watson paled in the same moment that Holmes made a choking noise. Mary had just let the cat out of the bag, much too soon!