"...think for a moment... going to allow..."

"...forget yourself, Doctor... fortunate I permitted..."

"...let that mountebank of a ship's surgeon... needs me..."

"...no doubt seek you out, in due course. For now, however..."

"...Watson..." Holmes fought to emerge from the soft warmth that seemed to wrap him around. Movement, however, brought fresh, sudden pain, and he subsided with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut against the light that threatened to burrow straight to the back of his skull. Why did everything hurt so much?

"Calmly, dear boy, all in good time." That voice... "The good doctor has other patients to tend to, now that you seem to be out of danger." Moriarty! Holmes forced his eyes open again. A dark blur to his right slowly resolved itself into a vaguely human shape, though he couldn't make out any features yet. The shape shook its head, sounding downright paternal as it continued, "While I have to admire your resourcefulness and determination, Holmes, was it really necessary to half kill yourself in getting here?"

"...would've hated... to keep you waiting..." Holmes rasped. His throat felt like he'd swallowed half a beach.

The shape tutted. "Incorrigible... But where are my manners? I am sure you must be thirsty, you'd swallowed rather a lot of sea water before I reached you."

"You... rescued me?!" Of course... Moriarty could fly now... but...

"As you have surely concluded already, you are hardly of any use to me dead." Moriarty came into focus at last, sitting on a wooden chair beside Holmes's bed and holding a glass of what appeared to be water. "Or incapacitated," he added sternly, "before you accuse me of drugging your refreshment. Doctor Watson did administer morphine when you first came aboard, but only enough to assist him in treating the worst of your injuries. Come now, you really should drink, even if you cannot eat yet."

Holmes briefly debated refusing solely on principle, but the Professor sounded sincere enough, and his thirst was far more insistent than any of his misgivings just now. He managed to swallow his pride sufficiently to accept the glass, making himself go slowly as he took in his surroundings. This appeared to be the captain's cabin, and Holmes was propped up on pillows in a bunk that faced the aft windows, through which a cool, grey light filtered. His soaked and torn clothing had been replaced by a clean nightshirt, and judging from the fresh bandage on his right hand, his wounds were all newly dressed – by Watson, apparently! And he thought he had even heard John's voice, too, just before waking, full of concern...

"Thank you," he croaked after a while, handing back the glass. "I didn't expect..."

"To be treated as befits an honoured guest?" Moriarty's smile was remarkably benign. "Well, no doubt you had good reason to think otherwise..." quirking an amused eyebrow. "Perhaps I am merely lulling your suspicions by acting the courteous and charming host until you have learned what it is that I want from you."

"To take you to Neverland," was Holmes's flat reply. Enough of these damned games!

"I see that Moran has anticipated me," Moriarty replied slowly. "I hardly dare ask, but did he also survive the encounter?"

"Long enough to tender his resignation." Let the man make what he would of that.

"I see..." His host seemed pensive – even, Holmes dared to think, regretful. "A pity. I knew he did not believe it wise to disappear from polite society in such a... radical fashion, but I had hoped..."

"He believed you planned to desert him here, to face the law in your stead," Holmes said bluntly. "Was he right?"

"On the contrary!" Moriarty now looked downright affronted. "I had every intention of returning, once I had memorised the way for myself under your guidance. There was no one in whom I had more confidence to watch over your family in our absence."

The detective snorted. "To ensure they didn't escape and lose their value as hostages, you mean! And whatever your intentions, Moriarty, you don't seem to have understood something very important about Neverland: time doesn't follow the same rules on the island as it does here. We could easily spend a week in the waking world just getting there, and twice as long coming back! And once we'd arrived, what would prevent you from simply forgetting to return, like everyone else?"

"Besides yourself, the Darling children, and the Lost Boys," Moriarty countered, with more than a hint of smugness. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a small memorandum book. "I also have family in the... waking world, strange as that may seem, and I intend to remind myself of those I have left behind at regular intervals."

Holmes shook his head, whether out of amusement, despair or pity, he wasn't certain. Moriarty had no idea... though it seemed that Moran had, all right. "There's nothing I can say to convince you not to go through with this, is there?"

"You amaze me, Holmes! I really didn't think you would capitulate so early."

"I've done nothing of the kind!" the detective snapped. "I merely grow weary of this futile argument, especially since you have done nothing to convince me that helping you is in anyone's best interests!"

"Is that so?" Moriarty's voice was practically a purr. "Then by all means, dear boy, tell me how I may do better."

"You can start by letting me visit the hostages! I want to see for myself that they're all alive and well, not just Watson."

Moriarty frowned. "Go below deck, Holmes, now? In your present condition? I don't think that would be advisable!"

"You can fly, can't you? It's that or you bring them all up here, one at a time."

The Professor appeared to note Holmes's jutting chin, and sighed deeply. "Very well."

The ship's usual surgeon was summoned to help Holmes get up and dress in a fresh suit of clothes, which proved to be a slow and painful undertaking. The detective felt mildly surprised that Dr. Nichols even dared to protest over Holmes being allowed out of bed at all – the man clearly wasn't a complete mountebank, whatever John might think. Unfortunately, despite Moriarty graciously stepping outside, he could not make Nichols meet his gaze, or say anything besides the normal instructions and scolding for having so little care for his health.

At last, Nichols reluctantly pronounced his patient fit to be seen, and Moriarty re-entered the cabin, flanked by a pair of well-armed sailors. "I do hope you aren't offended by the escort, Holmes. They are for your protection, as much as anything else."

"Not at all, Moriarty, quite right," Holmes smiled pleasantly. "A ship can be a very dangerous place, can it not?"

"It can, indeed," Moriarty replied with an equally urbane smile. "Now, if you are ready?"

Despite the Professor's care in gathering Holmes into his arms, the detective had to bite his lip as his wounds throbbed – he had asked for this! He was also painfully aware that Moriarty was probably sacrificing a considerable amount of his own dignity before his men to accommodate Holmes. Goodness only knew what effect that would have on his host's patience overall.

Dawn had broken while Holmes was dressing, and the detective got his first good look at the ship as they emerged into daylight. The Lady Gwendolen, if that truly was her name, was indeed a two-masted brigantine, square-rigged, riding at anchor on a light swell. Half a dozen cannons were ranged on each side of the upper deck, and a covered longboat lashed down in the centre between the fore and main masts. The men on the morning watch were largely preoccupied with washing down the deck, but a few looked up and nodded respectfully to Moriarty as he glided with his unusual burden towards the nearest hatch, not seeming the least bit surprised or amused.

'You haven't seen him fly yet, have you, Holmes? He's like a kid with a new toy!' Moran's words came irresistibly back to the detective. Clearly, the crew were well accustomed to the sight of their... captain? impersonating an albatross. Perhaps they even considered such a thing to be good luck. After all, what sailor wouldn't want the power of flight, the ability to save a drowning shipmate at a moment's notice? Moriarty had certainly demonstrated that with his rescue of Holmes... Such a shame that it hadn't been prompted by altruism, or with any guarantee that Holmes or his family would not suffer a similar fate if Moriarty didn't get precisely what he wanted.

"You needn't look like that, Holmes," Moriarty said mildly. "This ship was used to transport exotic wildlife long before the Firm purchased it. The brig would not have held a quarter of your people, or been as comfortable."

Holmes barely heard him, staring aghast at the trio of large cages in the aft compartment, their occupants all so deathly still... "Put me down," he whispered hoarsely, "now!"

"As you wish." Moriarty set Holmes down beside the nearest cage so that he could steady himself on the bars, the cold iron seeming red hot under his trembling fingers. This cage contained Charlie and a handful of the younger boys, all lying sprawled upon a thick layer of straw, heads rolling slightly with the movement of the ship.

"What have you done to them?!" Holmes dropped to his knees and squeezed his arm through the bars towards Charlie, shaking the unconscious boy's shoulder. "Charlie! Charlie, can you hear me?!"

"Really, Holmes, what an ogre you must think me." Holmes's jaw tightened at the Professor's reproachful tone. "They have merely been sedated – partly to prevent any foolhardy attempts to escape, and partly because it seemed too much to hope that they would all have found their sea legs by the time you arrived. Doctors Watson and Nichols visit them together every hour. If any of them have woken, they are given time to eat, drink, and even take the air above deck before being sent under again."

Moriarty strolled on to the next cage. "The remaining Irregulars are here with Mrs. Hudson, and your brother Mycroft beyond them..."

"And Watson?" Holmes choked out as he struggled to rise, his hip and back on fire once more. "John, Mary, where are they?"

"Together in the brig, of course. I shouldn't have dreamt of separating husband and wife unnecessarily." Moriarty signed to the waiting crewmen. "Assist Mr. Holmes forward, please."

Holmes was hoisted, none too gently, and borne along with his arms across the sailors' shoulders. The brig was in the bow, and the detective strained his eyes in the dim lantern light as they approached. He could only make out one distinct shape behind the bars... no, two shapes, the first standing at the cage door, gripping the upper bars tightly, the second lying on the floor at the back. He forced himself to remain silent until they'd drawn nearer, no sense in encouraging Watson to blurt out something that Moriarty might use against them all... but to Holmes's dismay, he could see no sign of his friend in the cage, only John and Mary. The dear woman also lay unconscious on a straw tick, with some kind of black cloth folded under her head – probably John's coat, as the man was down to his waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. Holmes's chest tightened as he got a closer look at his brother's face. John must have been trying to protect his wife during the attack... and Moriarty's agents had clearly used rather more force than necessary in overpowering him.

"Well, Holmes?" Moriarty's voice behind him had a distinctly impatient edge. "You asked to see your family alive and well, and I have granted your request. It is a pity that the good doctor made it impossible for my agents to leave him entirely undamaged, but..."

"You have not."

"I beg your pardon?"

Holmes took his arms from the seamen's shoulders and turned with difficulty to glare at the Professor. "Where," he asked coldly, "is Dr. Watson?"

Moriarty stared at the detective for a long moment, looking more disconcerted that Holmes had ever seen him before. Then his gaze travelled to John, eyes narrowing. "Dear me!" he said softly. "Is it possible, Holmes, that you still don't remember everything?" An odd little smile crossed the Professor's face. "Perhaps... we should assist him together, Doctor."

"What new game is this?" Holmes snapped, turning towards the cage again. "What could John have to do with..." His voice trailed away at the sight of his brother's expression. Underneath all of the cuts and bruises, John Darling was looking very worried indeed... even... ashamed?! "...John?" Why wouldn't the man look at him?

"As difficult as it may be for you to accept, Holmes," Moriarty continued behind him, sounding almost sorrowful, "it appears that the game in this instance has been played by someone else entirely..."

"Be quiet!" Holmes burst out, unabashedly supporting himself on one of the guards as he turned back. "Do you honestly think I'd believe a word against any of my family, especially coming from you? I don't have to remember what Watson looks like to know..."

He fell silent as Moriarty's smile widened, nodding to the second guard. "You can let the doctor out. I am sure he will remember his manners before the other guests. So, Holmes," he mused as the cage door was unlocked, "you cannot recall Watson's face, correct? I wonder if you remember any other features... Birthmarks, perhaps? Freckles? Tattoos? Perhaps even... scars?"

Emerging from his prison, John flinched at the last word as if he'd been struck, but remained silent, staring down at the deck.

"Proceed, Doctor."

Holmes watched in growing horror as a shudder ran through his brother, who then began to unbutton his waistcoat, head bowed. "What in God's name...?! No, stop it!" He lurched forward with an effort on shaking legs and stood in front of the poor, broken man – with what intent, he had no idea, but he could not simply stand by and see John humiliated in such a way. "Leave him alone, damn you!"

"Who, Holmes?" Moriarty's murmur was almost a triumphant hiss. "John Darling? Or John Watson?"

"You... My God, Moran was right!" Holmes whispered, staring at Moriarty in disbelief. "You're mad!"

"No..." A chill ran through Holmes at the sheer misery in his brother's voice. "No, he's not." John had removed his waistcoat while Holmes's back was turned, and was now unbuttoning his shirt with hands that shook. "I'm sorry, Holmes..." he choked, finally looking up at the detective, hazel eyes anguished and brimming with tears; "so sorry! It was never supposed to be like this!"

"John, what are you doing?" Holmes cried, aghast. "Stop!"

"It's just as you've always told the doctor, Holmes," Moriarty murmured, the quiet satisfaction in his voice turning Holmes's stomach. "You see, but you do not observe..."

"Shut up!" Holmes shouted. "Watson doesn't have to prove anything to me, he never has!"

"Holmes?" The detective felt a trembling touch on his elbow, and turned back to find John now stripped to the waist, eyeing him with... hope? Dread? Or maybe both? "You... You just... called me Watson..."

"Perhaps," Moriarty answered in the speechless detective's stead, coming forward to stand beside the cage, "because he just heard you address him as Holmes for the first time since he awoke, instead of Peter."

John gasped. "How...?!"

The Professor shook his head with a chuckle. "Did you never wonder why none of Mycroft's staff raised the alarm during that little operation in Pall Mall? Margaret really is such a bright young thing, with hearing second to none."

"...My God..."

"And speaking of operations, Doctor," Moriarty added pointedly, "I strongly urge you to finish what you began... dear me, ten years ago. A Jezail bullet in the shoulder, wasn't it? Or was it your leg, after all?"

John didn't deign to answer, the icy glare he had turned on the Professor giving way to deep concern as he looked back at his brother. "Holmes... Oh, my dear friend, forgive me..." he whispered, and gently took Holmes's right hand in his.

Still in a daze, Holmes was unable to resist as John placed the detective's hand on his left shoulder, fingertips touching the collar bone. He could feel a thick, uneven line running along the skin over the bone, ending in a puckered circular hollow...

"...no..." 'Doctor Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.' "No..." 'How are you? You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.'

"...Holmes?"

"NO!" Holmes yanked his hand from John's and leapt at him with a yell of fury, reaching for his throat. A moment later, however, he was seized by the arms and waist and hauled backwards. Through a swirling scarlet mist, he could just make out the traitorous doctor backing away into the brig again, eyes darting in alarm between the enraged detective and the gun that Moriarty was pointing at his head. "Ten years! Ten years, you lying bastard! I'll kill you!"

"Really, Holmes!" Moriarty barked, swinging the cage door closed and snapping the padlock shut. Striding forward, the Professor signalled to the guards, who swiftly pinned the writhing detective to the deck and tied his hands behind him. "This is most unseemly, sir! You have precisely one minute to compose yourself before I have you sedated, or sharing a cage with Mycroft. Which shall it be?"

"Go to hell!" Holmes snarled, struggling to lift his head. "All those years... Lying to my face and laughing behind my back, you bloody coward!"

"No!" John shouted back, voice cracking. "It wasn't like that, Holmes, I swear! I wanted to tell you..."

"Then why didn't you?!" Holmes was forced to stop yelling for a moment to gulp for air, dark spots beginning to dance before his eyes. "You... You even kept the fairy dust from me, damn you! I could have gone home!"

"No, you couldn't! Dammit, Holmes, will you please just listen?"

"Shut up!" Holmes screamed. "You and your bloody stories!" Was everything the man had ever told him a lie? "You stole the dust for yourself, didn't you?! Tink would never have given it to you and not me!"

"You're right." John's drastic change in volume came as such a surprise that Holmes was left gasping. "She did leave it for you," the doctor went on, just as softly. "It was the day of Wendy's funeral. We'd just gotten home, and suddenly I heard you shouting at someone upstairs – well, it was more like screaming, really. I started up to see what was going on, and then you came plunging down the stairs. Your face was as white as a sheet... I don't think you even knew I was there. I was going to follow you, but then..." John drew a shuddering breath. "Then I heard the sound of tiny bells from the nursery, and it sounded so... so broken. I knew what must have happened..."

Holmes realised with chagrin that he was growing light-headed again, and sucked in more air as quietly as he could as he strained his ears, chest aching from the wooden boards, throat tight.

"She was... sitting on your pillow, crying. Of course she pretended she hadn't been when she spotted me... and then I saw that Wendy's thimble was beside her, half full of fairy dust. Just as it was when Lestrade uncorked it, Holmes," John added gruffly. "I never touched a grain. I won't pretend I was never tempted..."

"Then... Then why...?"

"Because it was yours, you bloody idiot! I promised Tink I'd keep it safe, because if you'd found it too soon, you'd have just thrown it in the river, or something – don't pretend you wouldn't!"

Holmes wasn't about to dignify that childish notion with a response, instead turning his head towards Moriarty on his left. Fortunately, the Professor took the hint, nodding at the guards, who lifted Holmes back onto his feet and untied his wrists before propping him up again.

"I trust, Holmes, that we will be spared any further explosions," Moriarty said quietly. "I do not blame you in the least for any anger you may feel over your adoptive brother's deception, but I rather think that he would be safer in the brig than out of it during visiting hours. If I ever wish for your assistance in torturing my hostages, I shall let you know."

The detective gave a grudging nod, wishing that the Professor's tone didn't make him feel so much like he was back in school. He had to get a hold of himself, for God's sake; this was Moriarty, Napoleon of crime, not his old headmaster!

"And Dr. Nichols will doubtless be fit to be tied when he sees the state that you are in," Moriarty went on sternly. "If you haven't torn any stitches, I shall be very surprised! You had best return to my cabin, and allow Dr. Watson – Dr. Darling, my apologies – to make his rounds."

"No," Holmes said flatly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said no. Doctor Nichols can see to them alone from now on, or with another crewman. Mrs. Watson is free to choose, of course..." Holmes stabbed a finger towards the brig, pretending not to hear the choked gasp from inside; "but I won't have him coming near me, or any of my family, ever again!"

"I see." Moriarty regarded Holmes thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Very well, if you insist. But consider this your final indulgence, Holmes, I have really been far too accommodating already."

"I am aware of it," Holmes said sincerely, if more stiffly than he'd intended, "and I thank you. Shall we go?"