Redbeard and - holding a lit candle – Sherlock crawled down the tunnel. He had left the key in the lock, like always. The candle cast huge, flickering shadows along the wall.
Redbeard, his voice returned, spoke to him, "You know, you're walking right into his trap."
"I have to go back," Sherlock explained, "They're my family."
"Challenge him then," Redbeard advised, "He may not play fair but he won't refuse. He's got a thing for games."
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, committing it to his mind palace.
The door at the end of the tunnel clicked open, the candle blew out and Redbeard vanished into the dark. Sherlock tensed when a voice called out, "Sherlock?"
"Mycroft?" Sherlock called back.
There, framed in the open door, Sherlock's real brother, with mussed hair and dressed in his wrinkled three piece suit, called, "Sherlock, you came back for us!"
"Myc!" Sherlock yelled happily. He ran forward eagerly, out the Other Little Door, throwing his arms out to hug the real Mycroft.
"Darling brother!" But Mycroft's voice shifted… to Irish, "Why would you run away from me?"
Sherlock saw his brother's clothes and hair darken as he wrapped his arms around him. Alarmed, he pushed away and saw the decoy Mycroft change into Moriarty.
The room lit up with the glowing bug furniture and a fire in the fireplace.
Sherlock tried his best to be brave "Where are my brother and father?"
Moriarty's button eyes glittered. "Gosh, I have no idea where your "old" brother and father are. Perhaps they've grown bored of you and run away to France?" His teeth gleamed as he grinned.
"They weren't bored of me. You stole them!" Sherlock accused.
Other Father, even thinner than before – which Sherlock didn't think was possible – his sagging face glowed slightly, his hair in tufts of fur, came up behind Sherlock. He looked like a doll without it's stuffing…
"Now, don't be difficult, Sherlock," Moriarty smiled, "Have a seat, won't you?"
Other Father, gurgling happily, herded Sherlock onto the walking bug chair.
Moriarty, standing by the little door, turned to it and clapped his hands. A moment later, a huge rat skittered out of the tunnel – filled again with spider webs and children's things – carrying the key from the real world door.
Moriarty took the key, locked the door, and – while the armoire bug assumed guard position – he swallowed the key.
"Why don't you have your own key?" Sherlock asked, offhandedly.
"Only one key," Other Father muttered.
Moriarty pulled a thread by his ear, shutting his mouth, "Shhh! Isn't there a rabbit you need to feed, daddy?" He turned him around, his hands under Other Father's arms and dragged him out.
After a moment, Sherlock heard the very faint sound of a finger on glass, just like when Mycroft wrote HELP on the mirror. Sherlock jumped to his feet, looking around the room for a sign of his real family. "Myc, father, where did he hide you?"
A muffled screen door slammed Moriarty called to him from the kitchen, "Breakfast-time! It is an eating day, isn't it?"
Sherlock left the room, but paused in the doorway. "Be strong, Sherlock," He whispered to himself.
He sat at the kitchen table in his regular place, his back to the sink. Moriarty, humming happily, prepared a mushroom omelette; fragrant cinnamon buns baked in the oven.
At the table's center, Sherlock saw the box with his button eyes with needle and thread. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. As casually as he could, he asks, "Why don't we play… a game? I know you like them."
Moriarty's button eyes flashed, "Everybody likes games."
"Yes," Sherlock nodded.
Eggs sizzled and spat on the stove. "What kind of game would it be?" Moriarty asked.
"An exploring game… a finding things game," Sherlock answered.
Moriarty tried to act disinterested, but his fingers drummed with excitement. "And what is it you'd be finding, Sherlock?"
Sherlock hesitated. "My real family."
"Too easy," Moriarty dismissed and he folded the omelette over in the pan.
"And… and the eyes of the ghost children," Sherlock added.
Moriarty smiled: now it was getting interesting. "Huh," The meal ready, he turned from the stove and took the food to Sherlock, "What if you don't find them?"
"If I lose, I'll stay here with you forever and let you love me," Sherlock indicated the button box, "And I'll let you sew buttons into my eyes."
"Hmm... And if you, somehow, win this game?"
"Then you let me go. You let everyone go – my real father and brother, the dead children, everyone you've trapped here."
Moriarty smiled a malicious 'not in a million years' smile. "Deal." He held out his hand, but Sherlock didn't reach.
"Not till you give me a clue."
Moriarty snorted and his smile soured. He slowly circled Sherlock, and spoke as if talking to a very stupid child. "Alright… In each of three wonders I've made just for you, a ghost's eye is lost in plain sight."
"I don't like riddles."
"Learn to."
Sherlock sighed, "And for my parents?"
Moriarty – standing behind him in front of the sink - smiled wickedly and just started tapping his button eye with his finger. Sherlock turned away from him.
"Fine. Don't tell me…" He shrugged. Extending his hand, Sherlock started to turn back, "… it's a deal –"
But Moriarty had disappeared and the tapping now was the faucet dripping into the sink.
Sherlock exhaled, walked to the sink and stared at the dripping faucet. "What does she mean 'wonders'?" He muttered to himself.
Out the kitchen window, the garden lit up, answering his question. He furrowed his brow, thinking this was too easy. "Hmmm…" He hummed.