AN: As an American writing this, I apologize for any misuse/misunderstanding/geographical errors in this story. Please feel free to point them out.

The Lost Boys

Chapter One

Things That Go Bump In The Night

John Watson was fourteen-years-old when his family moved to Berkshire. It was a long distance from the flat where John and his sister, Harry, had grown up with their mother and father, far from the schools they'd attended, where their friends still lived. Two years had passed since the death of Mr. Watson, and only four months since their mother remarried to a man named Samuel Baker. The change of location had simply been another challenge for the two Watson children to overcome.

Neither of them had known what to expect at the new house. They'd packed their belongings obediently enough, but all that Sam or their mother would tell them was that their new home was considerably larger than the flat they'd had in London. No one even said just what Sam had been hired to do.

John had been surprised when their family car had pulled up to a wrought-iron gate, and thought perhaps it was some sort of joke that his step-father was playing on them. Why would a posh family in the middle of Berkshire hire Samuel Baker, and what for? As far as John knew, the man had only ever been two things in his life: a soldier in the army, and a mechanic.

"Is this a joke?" Harry had asked, her small face pressed up against the window as the gate swung open.

Sam drove down a well-manicured lane with a lopsided grin on his face. "No joke. Your mum an' I work for the Holmes' now."

"Both of you?" John asked, looking over Harry's head towards a hill where a large manor sat. "What for?"

"Samuel is to be the grounds-keeper," their mother cheerfully informed them, "and I have been asked to help the house-keeper."

"I hope they have children to play with!" Harry voiced aloud.

"I don't think the Holmes' have children your age, Harry." their step-father replied. "I only met Sherrinford – Mrs. Holmes' oldest son – and he spoke of a brother in university, but he didn't mention any other close relatives."

Harry let out a disappointed sound, and John couldn't suppress the urge to ruffle her short, ginger-colored hair. "You've still got me, you know."

"I'm sure there are plenty of children in the village to play with." Their mother reassured them. "Think of it as an adventure."

The car pulled up the drive near the manor, allowing Harry and John a better look of the Holmes' family estate. As John looked out the window at the manor, he thought he saw a curtain move on the second floor – perhaps a curious servant, or even Mrs. Holmes herself. For a moment, he thought perhaps Sam would stop the car all-together, but then they moved down a sloping path past the Holmes' home.

The cottage waiting at the end of the sloping road was much larger than either John or his sister had expected. It was a two-level building constructed from the same stone as the manor, with two large oaks growing near the back of the building, and well-groomed box hedges around the front.

"It's even better than I remember it being the last time." Mrs. Baker murmured as the car came to a halt.

John had to agree that the cottage was lovely on the outside, but he was even more impressed once they walked inside. The cottage had already been mostly furnished – to his left was a great room with a large sofa and two lounging chairs by a fireplace flanked by shelves of books. A set of glass doors on the far wall of the great room led to a patio overlooking a small garden. He wandered somewhat aimlessly up a flight of wooden stairs, and found a hallway with three doors. It was obvious that the only door to his left must have belonged to his parents – it was the largest room in the cottage. The first door on his right was open, and he could see Harry's belongings already mostly unpacked inside.

The last door on the right was certainly John's. Inside the room he found bookshelves laden with his favorite titles, his clothes already mostly put in their proper places. A second door revealed a private bathroom. The best part of the room, however, was the desk with an obstructed view of the Holmes' manor on the hill. If he opened the window, the tree whose branches blocked the window was practically within jumping distance. No doubt, the ease of escape was the reason that John – the obedient child – had been given this particular room.

"Isn't it amazing?" Harry asked, running into John's room and jumping on his bed. "It's like a fairy tale, isn't it, John?"

"It is pretty nice." John agreed. "I think we're going to like it here."

Harry grinned and nodded. "Too bad it's raining now, though. Mum says we aren't to go outside until Sam shows us the property. No fun!"

Ever the family peacemaker, John walked to his bookshelf and removed one of Harry's favorite stories. "How about I read to you then?"

Giggling, his little sister waited for John to sit on the bed before leaning her head against his shoulder.

" 'All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end...' "

John hadn't read very long before Harry was snoring softly against his shoulder. Outside his window, the sky had darkened, and he could hear the rain pounding more insistently against the pane of glass. He carefully closed the book, and lowered Harry onto the bed so that she could sleep more comfortably. The book was placed back on its shelf before John laid down on the bed beside his sister. It'd been a long day; he was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

What began as a light drizzle of rain quickly escalated into a full-on summer storm that woke John around midnight when thunder crashed loudly above the cottage.

He leapt out of bed in a panic, recalling memories of violent sounds when his father would come home drunk and beat their mother. It took a few minutes to reassure himself that his father was dead, his mother remarried, and they were safe in their new cottage. Through it all, Harry snored heavily, blissfully unaware of the storm or her brother's distress.

With a shaky sigh, John sat down at his desk and gazed out the window. On the hill, he could see Holmes' manor with all its brightly lit windows. It looked like a jewel in the gloomy night, until lightning flashed overhead, turning the world into a dreary gray-scale version of itself.

The first flash of lightning, John attributed the vision as a figment of his rampant imagination. A second flash, however, confirmed that it was a very real, thoroughly wet young boy sitting in the branches of the tree right outside John's own window.

John's surprise was only surpassed by his concern for the boy's safety. He climbed onto his desk and threw the window open without a second thought.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" John shouted, reaching out a hand to the stranger. "Get inside before you get struck by lightning!"

The hand that grasped John's was small, pale, and incredibly cold. John tugged firmly at the boy, pulling him inside the window and on to the desk before shutting the window against the rain.

"Come on, let's get you dried off." John murmured, sliding off the desk. The boy reluctantly followed suit, leaving a wet trail of mud and leaves on the desk.

"There's a girl in your bed." The odd child stated, as though he hadn't only just met John, as if it were perfectly reasonable to be standing soaking wet in a stranger's room in the middle of the night.

"My sister." John replied tersely as he grabbed a towel from his bathroom. "How long were you outside? Why were you out there?"

"About three hours, give or take five minutes." The boy replied. "I'm performing an experiment, you see, trying to see how long one can stare at someone while they're sleeping before the one being observed senses the observer. You're the keenest so far. Mrs. Hudson took five hours before she woke up, and mother almost seven. Mycroft insists on locking his doors and closing the drapes though, so I don't know how quick he is -"

"Are you one of the Holmes' relatives then?" John asked, ruffling the boy's dark, wet hair with the towel.

"- but Mycroft's usually pretty sharp, even if he is a big bully. He used to let me sleep in his room when I had nightmares, but not since he started university. Now he doesn't do anything anymore, except try to tell me what I can and can't do. Just because he's older, and father's dead and mother's dying. I think he's trying to become Sherrinford."

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock." The boy replied quickly. "Though mother and Sherrinford still call me 'Sherly'. Mycroft calls me 'Sherlock', which is nicer than being called 'Sherly', because the children in town made fun of me that once when Sherrinford took me to the bookstore and they heard him call me quote unquote a girl's name. So I'd prefer to be 'Sherlock' if it's okay with you."

"Well, Sherlock, my name is John. My sister there is Harriet, but she prefers to be called 'Harry.'" John said. "Now stand there a minute, I've got some dry clothes that you can wear while those ones you've got on dry."

"You won't call Sherrinford, will you?" Sherlock asked, worry on his small face. "He gets rather distraught when I go about experimenting without telling him all the 'gory details' as he likes to say. Besides which, he's too busy watching our mother die, so I don't know that he would come to fetch me, and Mrs. Hudson can't go out in this weather because of her knees. Did you know Mrs. Hudson was married to a murderer? I can't imagine how, since she's easily the nicest woman I've ever known. She likes to say she isn't a nanny, that she's the house-keeper, but she's always looking after me."

After much digging in the drawers of the dresser, John walked back towards Sherlock with a soft pair of cotton pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. "Here, you'd better change before you catch a cold." he said. "And I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Hudson yet, but it seems to me that she must be a very trusting person to have married such a man."

Sherlock quickly began discarding his wet clothes, dropping them haphazardly on the floor without a second thought while John tried to dry the water on his desk before it could stain the wood. By the time John had finished cleaning, his unexpected guest was mostly dry, and fully clothed.

"Get in bed, Sherlock." John said wearily. "I'm not waking my mum and Sam up at midnight just to ring your relatives. Get some sleep."

"Bed's too small." Sherlock protested. "Not enough room for three."

Wordlessly, John moved towards the bed and rolled Harry as close to the wall as he dared. He climbed in the bed, and though it wasn't a comfortable squeeze, there was enough room for the other boy as well. Sherlock frowned deeply, but laid down on the mattress without complaint.

"Do you know what I thought when I first saw you out there?" John asked after Sherlock had settled his head comfortably on the pillow. "I thought that you were Peter Pan."

If Sherlock heard him, the boy's only response was an incoherent mumble. The oldest Watson child let out a heavy sigh, closed his eyes, and drifted back to sleep.

Additional Notes: The quote is from J. M. Barrie's "Peter Pan", chapter 1.