"No..." Watson's heart broke at the deathly whisper. "No, it's not true... You're lying!"

Mary's hands flew to her mouth as she realised what she had done. "Oh, Peter... I'm so sorry!"

"Wendy's not dead! DON'T LIE!" Eyes blazing, Holmes sprang up from the bed and over to the fireplace, but this time, thank God, Wiggins and Charlie had anticipated him. The Irregulars might not have matched their captain's skill with swords, but there was precious little they didn't know about street fighting! A few crowded moments later, Holmes was flat on the hearth rug, immobilised in a painful arm lock by Wiggins, Charlie pinning his legs.

"Sorry 'bout this, guv'nor!" Wiggins said, in a much too cheerful voice. "We'll let y'up when yer calm down!"

Holmes didn't seem to hear, tears of rage pouring as he struggled. "She's not dead! She didn't die, I wouldn't forget!"

Watson, meanwhile, had been forced to go from helping Mary to intercepting Lestrade, who had burst in a moment after the wrestling match began. "It's all right, Lestrade. I don't think we'll be needing handcuffs."

"Oh no?" Lestrade shook his head, looking entirely unconvinced.

"Or a straitjacket," Watson said sternly, not liking the look of repugnance in the Inspector's eyes at all. "He just... wasn't as prepared for this as I meant him to be." He put his arm around Mary as she came up beside him, giving her a forgiving squeeze.

"Allow me, gentlemen." Mycroft had half risen when Holmes had first headed towards the poker, and now moved over to the tangle of limbs on the floor, kneeling beside his brother's head with difficulty. "Bonjour, Pierre," he began in a calm, conversational tone. "Comment es-tu ce matin? C'est quoi tout ce remue-ménage?" 1

Watson stared. Mycroft sounded utterly tranquil, for all the world as if this was merely a French grammar class! But how in the world was this going to help?

Receiving no answer but exhausted sobbing, Mycroft continued undeterred. "Attendez-moi, Pierre. Nous allons revoir la leçon d'hier. Répètez après moi... La plume de ma tante est sur la table." 2

Bizarrely, the soft, measured phrases were having an effect. Holmes had finally stopped writhing, and even seemed to be listening as he gulped for air.

"Le montre de mon frère est derrière le bureau. Le châle de ma grand-mère est dans le jardin." 3

Watson's breath caught as he saw Holmes begin to mouth the words...

"L'oncle de mon singe est au zoo."

And this time, Holmes actually laughed! All right, it was more of a tired, watery giggle, but still...! "Myke! You just said, 'My monkey's uncle is at the zoo!' "

1 Hello, Peter. How are you this morning? What's all this fuss about?

2 Attend to me, Peter. We will review yesterday's lesson. Repeat after me... My aunt's quill is on the table.

3 My brother's watch is behind the desk. My grandmother's shawl is in the garden.

"How did he do that?" Watson gratefully accepted a tumbler of brandy from Lestrade, slumped wearily on the parlour sofa. Mycroft had kindly but firmly directed the pair downstairs, while he and Mary put a drooping, tear-stained Holmes back to bed, the effects of the sleeping draught finally catching up with him. Watson could only hazard a guess as to the cause of the delay – counteracted by an excess of adrenaline, perhaps? He'd never know for certain, because he wasn't going to repeat the experiment, ever again! And he'd been angry with Holmes for his high-handedness!

"Damned if I know!" Lestrade seated himself at the other end of the sofa with a full glass of whiskey. "Who can fathom the mind of a Holmes?"

"Only another Holmes, obviously," Watson muttered. He should never have tried to dig those memories back up, all he'd done was make everything worse!

"And what, pray, has heredity to do with it?" Mycroft remarked as he entered, ringing the bell for the maid before sitting down.

"Is he all right?"

"As well as can be expected, given everything that transpired this morning. I left him soundly asleep, with Mary and the boys in attendance. I'm afraid they were all quite insistent."

"You should have called in another doctor..." Watson began bitterly, but was cut off mid-sentence by a stern look from Mycroft.

"You are being far too hard on yourself, John. Sherlock has already made excellent progress, I believe, thanks largely to your own recollection. I could never have imagined..." The older Holmes trailed off, shaking his head in wonder.

"And that's something that puzzles me," Lestrade piped up. "Not that I'm saying I believe any of this, mind you, but... Well, if it's so very easy to forget this... Neverland when you're not there, then how is it that you still remember, Watson? It's obvious your brother Michael doesn't, or Mycroft would've called him in, too!"

Watson nodded, staring down at the glass in his hands. "I made a promise to a friend... a very dear friend, a long time ago... And, God help me, I failed to keep that promise when it mattered most. I was so angry..."

"I gather you mean the funeral. I did observe you and Sherlock exchanging some heated words, but I could not hear precisely what was said, and Sherlock refused to discuss it afterwards."

"Sorry, which... which funeral are we talking about?"

"Our parents," Watson whispered. "They'd gone on holiday to Brighton by train. There was a terrible accident..."

"Oh, Lord... How awful!" Lestrade gripped Watson's arm for a moment. "I'm truly sorry, Watson."

"Thank you..." Watson took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. "Michael had refused to attend the funeral, you see, wanted nothing to do with any of it. I was disappointed, naturally, but Peter... Peter was furious. And since Michael wasn't there to shout at, he took it out on me. Looking back now, I'm sure there was much more to it than that... Wendy had died less than a year before... I should have seen it coming, I should've just let him be angry!"

"But in the heat of the moment, you could not."

"No... God forgive me, I can't even remember what I did say! I just remember Peter's face..." Throat tight, Watson gave up the struggle and bowed his head, wiping the tears as they fell.

The other two sat quietly for a minute or two as he struggled to collect himself, then Mycroft tutted and crossed to the bell pull again. Coming back, he placed a kindly hand on the doctor's trembling shoulder and gripped it. "I am truly sorry for the rift between you, John. Had it been in my power to mend it, or in Father's..."

Watson shook his head, looking up to give Mycroft a watery smile. "You did more than I, Mycroft, to my eternal shame. Peter probably wouldn't have been at the funeral, either, if you hadn't gone with him. You were far more of a brother to him than I ever was, when he really needed one... I can never thank you enough."

"If anything, John, it is I who stand in your debt." Mycroft smiled suddenly. "I will not pretend it was not a, er, tempestuous relationship, on occasion... but I nonetheless consider it a very great privilege to have counted Sherlock as family, for however short a time."

Watson frowned. "Hold on, you surely don't think... Look, Mycroft, I can't speak for Holmes's precise state of mind at present... but if you think for a moment that I... Good Lord, man, it was your voice just now that calmed him, it had nothing to do with me!" Holmes probably wouldn't wish for more than one brother, anyhow, once he'd heard the full story.

"Yes, how did you manage that?" Lestrade said brightly, attempting to diffuse the growing awkwardness in the room. "We're dying with curiosity over here, I can tell you!"

"I see." Mycroft resettled into his armchair. "Well, as you and Mary so admirably demonstrated, John, it was clear that Sherlock's memory was being unlocked by the voices of those closest to him... but only in the right circumstances." A sudden frown. "I am not at all certain that I could have achieved this latest result, had he not been in such dire distress... which, sadly, happened far too often while we were at Eton together."

Lestrade stared. "You were at Eton at the same time as Holmes?! In the... what, the sixties? How did that happen to the heir of a country squire?"

"I think Father hoped that spending my final year there before university would help me to acquire a little humility." Mycroft shrugged. "Perhaps he was right."

"Learning how to rub shoulders with the commoners, hm?" Lestrade's grin was affectionate rather than mocking.

"Something of the sort. In any case, yes, Sherlock entered the school the same year as myself. I naturally had little to do with the lower year boys during school hours, but as we were both boarders, he quickly came to my notice – rather forcibly, as I recall." Mycroft steepled his fingers, brow furrowed in apparent concentration.

"You already know that I have little taste for society, as a general rule, and this was most certainly the case while at Eton. Mercifully, one of the few blessings of the school was that all boarders had individual bedrooms. I spent most of my spare time alone in mine, reading. The view from the window was especially pleasing to me, as it looked out over a large stretch of smooth turf, which was only spoiled by a tall, venerable elm in one corner. While engaged in study one afternoon, I happened to glance out of the window, and noticed one of the smaller boys attempting to climb the elm. What caught my attention particularly was that there were no branches for the first several feet. I confess, I found myself watching with interest, as the boy seemed to be clinging to the bare trunk through sheer determination alone, inching upwards with his eyes fixed upon the lowest branch. Alas, he was barely two inches from his first solid handhold when one of his feet slipped, and he tumbled to the ground. Undeterred, he picked himself up and prepared to try again, but was quickly collared by a groundskeeper and marched back inside. I gathered from the man's angry gestures that this was by no means the first attempt. Nor, I had a suspicion, would it be the last."

Lestrade grinned. "Did he ever make it?"

"Oh yes, many times. Lord knows how, given that the groundskeepers were always on the watch for him. His chief advantage was that they could never be certain when he would appear. And every time I passed a window on that side of the buildings, my gaze would be inevitably drawn towards the elm. I could not have said why climbing that tree was so very important to him, or why I had such an interest myself in a boy whom I had only ever seen from afar, not to mention an unrepentant breaker of the school rules who would doubtless be expelled in due course. I might have been content merely to observe such antics from a distance, had I not received a letter from home just before the Christmas holidays began."

"Wotcher, Holmes." Pearce Major stuck his head unceremoniously through Mycroft's door without bothering to knock. "Not going home for Christmas? Rotten luck, old chap!"

"Not at all," Mycroft replied primly, setting his book aside. "Father wrote me yesterday that the manor roof was damaged in a storm, and the repairs will take the better part of a fortnight. I should much prefer to remain in lodgings with no water damage or... well, fewer icy draughts."

Pearce chuckled in sympathy. "Wise man! Well, anyhow, I've come to wish you compliments of the season before my own departure... and to bring you a little Christmas present, courtesy of old Snowy." He pushed the door open wider.

"Why would the housemaster...?" Mycroft fell silent as his 'present' was revealed: the young tree-climber! "Oh no... No, no, no!"

"Happy Christmas, Holmes!" Pearce was already strolling off down the corridor, hands in pockets. "Enjoy!"

Mycroft had rarely moved so fast as he did out of his chair and to the door. "Pearce, this is ridiculous! Snowden knows I don't need an errand boy! What am I supposed to do with him?"

Pearce merely laughed as he turned the corner. "You're the genius, Holmes, you work it out!"

Mycroft was left spluttering at the empty air, until he slowly became aware that he was being stared at, and unhappily returned the boy's steady gaze. "Go on," he said gruffly, "back to your room. I'll explain to Mr. Snowden, you won't get in trouble."

The boy shook his head. "No point. He'll just give me to someone else staying over. If I've got to be a fag, I'd rather it was for you."

Mycroft sighed, not the least bit flattered. "Don't you understand, boy? I do not need to be waited on!"

"I know."

The certainty in the lad's voice made Mycroft pause. "How do you know?"

"Seen you through the window. No one else comes into your room except the upper years and the teachers."

"How did...? Oh, I see. I suppose the elm does make an excellent observation post." Which he'd clearly just been retrieved from again, judging by the fresh stains and scuffs on his person.

The boy nodded, a trifle defensively. "Fair's fair. People stare at me, I get to stare back."

"That's not quite how it works, lad." If the other boys realised what he was doing, or the staff... "Ever heard of a Peeping Tom?"

"No. Is it like Long Tom?"

"Who's Long Tom?"

The boy hesitated, eyes darting. "Don't know... I... think I just heard it... somewhere..."

Mycroft saw the boy shiver, and made up his mind. "Well, you shouldn't be standing out there in the draught. You can come in for a minute and get warm, at least. What's your name?" he added, as the boy darted past him to the fireplace.

"Peter. Just Peter," he suddenly added over his shoulder, almost fiercely.

"As you wish." He would have to make inquiries later. "Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft?" Peter snickered. "How'd you get stuck with that?"

"It's a very old family name," Mycroft said stiffly, closing the door and pulling his chair up to the fire opposite his young guest's. "It means... Well, never mind."

"What?" The dark, wavy head was cocked to one side, no trace of mockery in Peter's expression.

"Well... It's really a combination of two Old English words," Mycroft began slowly. " 'Mýðe', meaning 'the mouth of a stream', and 'croft', which is an old word for..."

"A small field?"

"...Yes, exactly. How did you know that?"

"Professor Tilden, the English master. He likes old words, too."

"I see." Mycroft reached for the kettle beside the hearth and found it empty. "No, no, don't get up. There's still a little water left in the jug..." But Peter was already heading to the washstand with the kettle. "Oh, well, if you really must. Do be careful, though, that jug is heavier than it..."

CRASH!

Mycroft looked speakingly at the ceiling as he got up again. Any sardonic phrases he might have had ready, however, were forgotten on seeing Peter's immediate reaction. The boy was drawing himself up as tall as he could, shoulders back, body braced... until the look of dawning horror on Mycroft's face made him falter, sagging again, the grey eyes showing far too much relief for one so young.

"Good God," Mycroft murmured. "You didn't seriously imagine...?"

"...Wasn't sure..." Peter stared down at the puddles and shards of porcelain, shifting some of it around with the toe of his shoe.

"Not ever, d'you hear?" Mycroft stated firmly. "Especially not for an accident, they happen to everyone." No doubt it would take a few more minor disasters to convince the poor boy that he spoke in earnest. "Now then, why don't you fetch one of the towels from the cupboard there, and see what you can do about the worst of the water. I, meanwhile, will requisition a dustpan and broom from the caretaker, and we shall then see if your vision is keener than mine while picking up the pieces."

"...You're not going to tell?"

"On the contrary," Mycroft smiled, albeit in some resignation. "As I said before, I have no particular desire for a servant, any more than you wish to act as one. However, since it seems that we cannot easily be rid of each other without causing undue bother... We shall simply have to make the best of it, shall we not?"

Peter nodded slowly, a faint grin beginning to appear. "I suppose so..."

"Gradually, Peter and I became better acquainted as we continued the charade. An intelligent, sensitive boy, to be sure, but he also had the strangest gaps in his general knowledge. The very idea of Christmas seemed completely alien to him, whereas I had originally assumed that he'd simply never had the chance to celebrate properly before with his family."

"Did he... ever talk about any of us?"

"No – well, not then, at any rate. I coaxed out of him that he had family over the Christmas holidays, but no more. He became so agitated at even that small revelation that I thought it best to seek further information elsewhere; not for mere curiosity, you understand, but to better avoid distressing him with a careless remark in future. The housemaster told me that he had been sent to school by his parents after a death in the family, but would not elaborate."

"Yes... He took Wendy's passing so hard... and with Tinker Bell and the Lost Boys gone away, the rest of us must have seemed such poor substitutes... Mother and Father were at their wits' end." Watson blew his nose again. "I did sometimes wonder if the best thing for him would be to go back to Neverland, forget he had ever known her... but even if there had been any fairy dust left, Peter seemed incapable of thinking of anything happy. I don't even know if he could have remembered the way by then..."

"Hold on... You say the Lost Boys were gone?" Lestrade seemed to have temporarily forgotten his scepticism. "I thought the plan was to have your parents adopt them all."

Watson shook his head, smiling ruefully. "I don't think Wendy understood when she invited them just how poor our family really was. With the best will in the world, there simply wasn't enough money or room to care for ten children into adulthood! Besides, the Lost Boys had all had families before being taken by the fairies, it wouldn't have been right not to make an effort to find them. The twins' parents were the easiest. There weren't many missing persons reports for identical twin boys on file at Scotland Yard."

"Good God," Lestrade gasped. "I remember that! I was only a trainee at the time, but... Yes, there was a right commotion over a bunch of recovered boys – the official story was a busted trafficking ring! Your parents claimed they'd hired a private detective when you three went missing, they wouldn't say who..."

"Well, they couldn't have, could they? Conducting enquiries was hard enough, as none of the boys could remember how old they were, or anything about their former families. Tootles was the next to go, then Nibs a few weeks later. Eventually, Curly and Slightly gave up hope. With the memory of Neverland fading daily, their affection for Peter and Wendy just wasn't enough to make them stay on with us. We couldn't stop them, after all... They took to the road together, bidding us a tearful farewell, and we never heard from them again. God only knows what happened to them." Watson sighed deeply. "For anything I know, they could even have returned to Neverland, unlikely as that seems!"

Lestrade eyed him uncertainly, forbearing to comment, as hasty footsteps approached up the passage.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes! I've brung the tea!"

"Maggie, I rang for you... good heavens, over half an hour ago!" Mycroft replied sternly as he glanced up at the clock. "I understand that this has been a trying day, but..."

"I know, sir. It won't happen again, sir, I promise!"

"Very well, you may go. Please tell Mrs. Dalton I should like to see her in an hour to discuss dinner arrangements."

"Yessir."

"Oh, that reminds me!" Watson exclaimed as the maid departed. "I need to send a message to Mrs. Hudson."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "You think that she could be the next piece of the puzzle in unlocking Sherlock's memory?"

"Who better at this point?" Watson replied excitedly, taking out his notebook and pencil. "She's been like a mother to Holmes and I for years!"

"Well, it certainly couldn't do any harm to try," Lestrade grunted, levering himself out his chair. "I'll go and fetch one of the boys down."

"Actually, send all three of them down, now that the tea's here." Watson hesitated, smile fading. "They've kept vigil long enough... It's my turn to stay with Holmes."

Lestrade knocked gently on the guest room door. "Mrs. Watson? There's tea and cake down in the parlour, if you and the boys would like some."

Wiggins and Charlie were quick to appear at the promise of refreshments, grinning, but Mary shook her head, still sitting by Holmes's bedside. "...How's John?"

"Waiting for you downstairs," Lestrade reiterated firmly. "Oh, boys, one of you needs to run a message to Mrs. Hudson afterwards."

"I'll go!" Wiggins called as he hurried down.

"I wonder if he remembered that Saturday is Mrs. Hudson's usual baking day?" Lestrade said lightly, crossing the floor as softly as he could. "Mary... you really should go down. I can watch Holmes for a bit. To be honest, your husband's in a bit of a state just now, he needs you."

Mary bit her lip, looking torn. "You don't mind?"

"Not at all," Lestrade lied, still avoiding looking directly at the bed and its deathly-still occupant. It was only when Mary had departed that he could allow himself to do so. He'd been so afraid of allowing the shameful revulsion he'd felt earlier to return to his expression where anyone else could see it... The hurt in Watson's eyes while Holmes had thrashed and screamed on the floor like a madman had been bad enough!

When he finally dared to look, however, Lestrade was relieved to find nothing of the fire that had raged earlier in the detective's face. He'd never seen his former colleague look so very young in slumber before... so like the boy his brothers claimed to remember... The shadow of grief was still there, true, but not... not so raw, Lestrade could swear, it was no longer burning him alive from the inside out. And Holmes... Peter... the man had called Mycroft 'Myke' before, had even understood French well enough to laugh at a joke! Heaven only knew what new incarnation would wake with him next!

"Pirates..." Lestrade groaned wearily, dragging his hands down his face. "Fairies... mermaids... magic islands... flying children..." God in heaven, how had he ever gotten caught up in all this madness! "Clocks in crocodiles – pah!" he spat at the air, not caring if anyone overheard. "I should be locked up with everyone else in this asylum!"

BANG!