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John didn't like clothes. Sherlock's Mummy and Father said he had to wear them because it wasn't decent to run about naked, but Sherlock didn't understand what the problem was. John only got his sparkly gold dust all over the clothes, anyway, and then left a big mess. John always said clothes felt weird, because stars don't like to cover up their glow. Sherlock didn't think John should ever have to do that, anyway.
It was almost their bedtime, and, as John was wont to shed his clothes over the course of the day, he climbed into bed wearing only his pants. His side of the bed was in a permanent state of glittery disarray, and as John set his head on his pillow, a few sprinkles fell from his hair onto the soft cotton, and his once-bright light faded to a soft glow as he yawned.
Sherlock was already in the large bed, reading Peter Pan by the lamplight. He'd read it before, of course. It was his favorite book because Mycroft had given it to him before he went away. He missed Mycroft sometimes, and when he did, Sherlock would read his book and feel just a little bit better.
But that night wasn't one of those sometimes. He was reading the book for a completely different reason.
Sherlock had just finished the fourth chapter when his Mummy came into their room. He quickly stashed it under his pillow as she tucked them in tightly and kissed their foreheads, and he didn't take it back out again until she had left the room.
They didn't need a night-light because John made plenty of light for them both. Sherlock thought he was better than any night-light ever, even one with bees on it.
When the coast was clear of Mummys coming in to check on little boys, Sherlock held his book to his chest and squinted at John for a long while, trying to decide what to make of him. "You're Tinker Bell," he eventually said, nodding in affirmation.
"Really?" John gazed up at Sherlock with wide eyes. "What's a Tinker Bell?"
Seeing an opportunity to show off his vast knowledge, Sherlock straightened up in the bed and plopped the book down between them. "Tinker Bell is a fairy who glows and leaves fairy dust everywhere and is best friends with Peter Pan."
"I'm not a fairy," John replied, wrinkling up his nose and glancing down at the book. "I'm a star. And who's Peter Pan?"
"Peter Pan is a boy who can fly and do cool stuff," Sherlock explained, his words becoming more and more rushed as his excitement grew. "And he lives in Neverland and speaks the fairy language and and takes people on adventures and--"
"I want to be Peter!" John said, jumping up to sit on his knees and clapping his hands together.
Sherlock shook his head seriously. "You can't be Peter. I'm Peter."
"But I'm not a fairy!" John whined. "I'm a star."
"But you sparkle," Sherlock pointed out. "And glow. And fly. And you're my best friend."
John shook his head quickly. "I'm not a fairy," he said softly. "Fairies don't glow or sparkle or any of that stuff. They're mean, and they live in the woods, and they do all sorts of bad things."
Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. He knew lots of things from books and stories, but John knew about nature and animals and plants and the sky and the scary things in the dark. If he said fairies were mean, well, they were mean. And if fairies were mean, John was definitely not one of them.
"Then you're not a fairy," Sherlock relented, still a bit puzzled. Everyone he knew was always someone in the books Sherlock read; Mrs. Darling was Mummy, Mr. Darling was Father, Nana was Mycroft, and Peter Pan was Sherlock. "But there's no one else you could be."
"I want to be Peter Pan," John said, bouncing in his spot. "I can fly and speak the fairy language and take you places and we can have fun and do stuff."
"No," Sherlock said firmly. "I'm Peter Pan." He had always been Peter for as long as he could remember. He wasn't going to give up his title now.
"Who else is there?" John asked, picked up the book. He couldn't read yet, so he was holding the book upside down and flipping through the pages quickly, looking for something he'd never find.
Sherlock snatched the book back, clutching it close. "You're one of my Lost Boys," he decided after a moment. "My only Lost Boy."
"What's a Lost Boy?"
Sherlock sat up tall, eager for another chance to prove how smart he was. "Lost Boys are boys that fell from their pushchairs when they were babies and got separated from their nannies. And then Peter finds them and takes them to Neverland and they go on adventures together and never, ever, ever grow up."
John seemed to contemplate this for a minute. "But I'm not lost," he frowned, looking back up at Sherlock. "Can I be a Found Boy?"
Sherlock blinked. That didn't make any sense. There weren't any Found Boys in Peter Pan. "No, you have to be a Lost Boy. They're called Lost Boys because they're lost. You're lost, and you're a boy, so you're a Lost Boy."
"I'm not lost anymore." John pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his head on top. He smiled shyly at Sherlock as his glow became more radiant and his blue eyes were bright against the dark room. "You found me."
"But--" Sherlock struggled for rebuttal. John couldn't just rename characters all over the place. "Yeah, but Peter found the Lost Boys, too. And they're still called the Lost Boys."
"That wasn't what I meant." John blushed, pink splotches suddenly appearing on his cheeks and glowing just as brightly as the rest of him. "I meant...um...you...found me."
Sherlock furrowed his brows in thought. Sure, he'd found John, just like he'd said. But apparently John meant something different than Sherlock finding him in the backyard, giggling and covered with stardust. Maybe he was talking about their game of hide-and-seek earlier that day. Or that time when John was hiding from Mummy because she was trying to put his shirt back on him, and Sherlock had found him stuffed up in the cupboard. Or maybe he meant--
Eventually, Sherlock just gave up. "Okay," he said. "You can be my Found Boy."
John giggled and threw his arms around Sherlock, effectively covering him in sparkly dust. (Sherlock didn't mind, though. He never did.) "Are we going to go on adventures, Peter?"
Sherlock smiled. "Of course, Nibs."
John pulled away. "Nibs?"
"He's the bravest and happiest Lost Boy," Sherlock explained. "Just like you."
He didn't want to tell John that Nibs was the only Lost Boy that didn't return to Neverland with Peter at the end. He didn't want John to know that was what his worst fear.
John nodded and yawned, letting himself fall back onto his pillow. Sherlock followed suit a minute later, grabbing the book and shoving it back up under his pillow.
The boys stared at each other with big smiles before John eventually mumbled, "I don't want to be Nibs. I want to be John."
"But John is Wendy's brother," Sherlock protested, propping himself up on his elbow. "And he's boring and--"
"Not that John." He shook his head. "Me John."
At first, Sherlock couldn't see the difference. John was John was John was John, and you can't just go messing up character's names. It only meant that Wendy could be Peter and Michael could be Nana and that's just not how things worked.
And then it hit him.
"Nope." Sherlock smiled. "You're not John Darling or you John or any of that. You're my John. My Found Boy, John."
The star boy liked that, and he giggled, which made Sherlock feel warm and fuzzy inside, so he giggled, too. Soon, though, they were tired from all their giggling, and both boys were yawning and struggling to keep their eyes open.
"I don't ever want to grow up," Sherlock murmured, almost asleep. "Not unless you promise you'll grow up with me."
John inched his way closer to Sherlock, cuddling up next to him and softly kissing his nose, leaving behind a smudge of gold dust. "I promise, Peter."
He shined just a bit more brightly that night.