Thea was wearing headphones blasting Vivaldi and protective gloves. The giant cardboard box, wrapped in multiple layers of tape, was vibrating in her hands.

She could still hear muffled shrieks through the music, but they were pretty faint. The stairs were no longer carpeted and the deeper down she went, the more

the lights crackled above her. At the very bottom of the stairs she stopped in front of the door. It was made of steel, locked with one of those twisty wheels

she associated with submarines and it was covered in warning signs. High voltage lightning, rabidly barking dogs, skull and crossbones indicating poison, police

tape, plaques reading Danger, Keep Out, Authorised Access Only. She had to set the box down to turn the wheel and push the door open by putting all her

weight into it.

In front of her the black of the basement loomed large. Thea found the string dangling near the door and pulled. A single light bulb zinged into action on the

water damaged ceiling. Two of the walls were lined with metal shelves containing a pretty small number of strongboxes in various sizes. Thea picked up the

box, which seemed to have grown heavier, and struggled towards the nearest shelf. Vivaldi was starting to slow, a sign that the batteries of her very old

fashioned Walkman were starting to give up. The screaming from the box grew louder.

Thea jammed the box onto the shelf, trying to ignore the fact that it was fairly jumping up and down from all the commotion inside. The music was now so slow

the tune became unrecognisable. She started to hum as she carefully backed towards the door. A movement in the far corner of the room caught her eye and

she froze.

A lump concealed under a coverless doona was rising and turning. Thea willed herself to look away, but was unable to. The box on the shelf was going crazy

with movement, emanating howls and pleas now, the music stopped and the shape in the corner got to unsteady feet with a groan.

"Come to see me?" it asked hoarsely.

Behind her, a tell-tale creak announced that the basement door was beginning to close. Thea spun around and ran at the door, vaguely aware of the

cardboard box toppling from the shelf behind her. She was clawing at the door, trying to pry it back open wide enough to slip through the crack.

"What is that?" it drawled behind her, accompanied by dragging footsteps. "Oh, that looks just disgraceful."

The door clicked shut and Thea turned around just in time to see the dishevelled figure taking hold of the tape that was just barely keeping the box together

now.

"Don't!" she yelled.

Her father turned to her, his eyes wide and luminous, a blissful smile playing on his unshaven face.

"Just one little look," he said playfully and tore the box wide open.

Thea screamed, the contents of the box staggered from their prison and the lights went out.

()

John and Sherlock returned home late, or early, depending on perspective, only to be greeted by a supremely irritated Mrs Hudson, wrapped tightly in her robe,

circles darkening under her eyes.

"Fancied coming home, did you?" she snapped.

"What?" John leaned forward, it was difficult to hear her over the deafening classical music cascading down the stairs.

"Get her to turn this racket down!" Mrs Hudson shouted. "It's been going for hours!"

"Why didn't you?" Sherlock shouted back.

"Can't get the door open – I think she's left the key in when she locked it from inside!"

"Why would she lock the door?" John asked loudly.

"How on earth should I know why that child does anything?!"

The lock was picked in seconds and John crossed the room swiftly to turn off the stereo hammering painful decibels through the room.

"Oh, for God's sake." John turned to see Sherlock standing over the tightly curled up form of Thea, on the floor in between the chairs.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock shouted.

"Yes, dear?" floated a reply from downstairs.

"How long was the music on?"

"Since about four this afternoon," Mrs Hudson called back. "Same song on repeat, driving me out of my mind."

Sherlock checked the time on his phone. 2 am, nearly. Not good at all. John was squatting next to Thea now, waving his hand in front of her wide open eyes.

"Thea?" he called, slapping her lightly on the cheek. "Oi! Thea!"

"That's not going to work," Sherlock said drily.

"Has this happened before?" John asked, snapping his fingers millimetres from Thea's face, shaking her gently with his other hand.

"We've got to get her in the shower," Sherlock announced.

"She's clearly in some sort of shock-"

"Sooner rather than later," Sherlock cut him off, lifting his curled up daughter from the floor. "Open the door for me and turn on the lights."

In the bathroom, Sherlock lowered Thea into the bathtub, forced her tightly wrapped arms apart and gripped her wrists tightly. Thea gave no signs of

registering any of this.

"Turn it on."

"Are you sure about this?" John asked.

"Of course I'm bloody sure," Sherlock snapped and John turned to cold tap to full blast, drenching both father and daughter instantly.

()

Thea could feel small hands, slick with blood and awkward with broken fingers, petting her hair. There was soft weeping now rather than screaming. On the

other side of the room, she knew without looking, a bunch of small, shattered bodies had joined her father on the mattress. She knew this because she could

hear him singing to them.

Hansel und Gretel verliefen sich im Wald…es war so dunkel und auch so bitterkalt…

Then there was the sound of another couple of them crawling around the room in the dark, calling at regular intervals for their mothers.

Panic had long ago given way to a defeatist terror, making her feel as though she was made of frantically running ants, any movement might make them

disperse, toppling her into formlessness. So she stayed still. Hoping they might forget about her. Knowing they would not.

One of them was trying to get onto her lap, forcing her arms apart. She tensed but it was stronger than her. It was nestling against her, cooing, smelling burnt.

Thea gagged.

"Oh, don't be a spoilsport," her father's voice drifted from the corner. "This is great fun, isn't it? You always go on about having other children to play with…"

His voice trailed off as a whooshing sound swept through the basement.

"Oh bother," he moaned.

The ceiling ripped open and water came rushing in. The children were shrieking in terror, Thea was gasping for air.

()

"Only water!" Sherlock shouted at his thrashing daughter, holding her firmly under the shower. "Only water!"

Thea screamed like a banshee.

"Only water!"

She wrenched one arm free and punched him in the face, panting, looking around frantically, clawing at the hand still clasped on her wrist.

"There you go," Sherlock said, "there you go. See? Only a little water."

"Get off!" Thea howled.

"In a minute." He got hold of her free arm and pushed it down on the rim of the bathtub. She stared at it in wonder.

"Oh," she sighed and proceeded to throw up acid bile over the side of the tub.

"Jesus," John muttered. "I'll make some tea, shall I?"

Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes of Thea, who had stopped vomiting but started to shiver.

"There you go," he repeated. "That's better."

"Gross," Thea moaned, resting her forehead on her knees.

Her father released her arms and passed her a towel.

"Get yourself cleaned up," he said.

Thea blinked up at him, noticing a whole lot of pissed off emerging as he ascertained she was, for lack of a better word, alright.

"In your own time," he said tightly. "But we'll have to have a chat about this, so don't be too long."

With that he vacated the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

()

Thea emerged in an oversized woollen jumper she'd found in the laundry basket. There were teacups on the table.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

She shrugged and climbed onto a chair awkwardly, folding her legs under her and pulling the jumper over them. She studied her hands intently.

"What have I told you about the basement?" Sherlock asked finally.

I know…" Thea wrapped her hands into the sleeves.

"Apparently not," he snapped.

"No, I do."

"So, what did I tell you, no, what have I repeatedly told you like a broken record, over and over, again and again and again about the basement?"

"Not to go there unsupervised and not without leaving a trail," Thea said almost soundlessly.

"Yet here we are."

"I know."

"What basement?" John asked, looking from one Holmes to the other.

"The basement," Sherlock said abruptly. "Her basement. The basement in her memory palace-"

"Castle," Thea corrected him without meaning to.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," he hissed. "The basement of her memory castle. The one she's just spend the last ten hours in. Stuck."

"Ten hours?" Thea asked. "Where were you?"

"That's rather irrelevant, don't you think?"

She shrunk deeper into the seat, almost sliding under the table.

"I did leave the music on," she muttered indignantly.

"A fat lot of good that seems to have done!"

"Can you not yell at me?" she asked the table top.

"You could make it easier by refraining from moronic excursions to places you are not equipped to deal with," Sherlock yelled. "Now stop stalling and tell me

what happened."

"The box opened," Thea whispered. "And the door closed. I didn't get out in time."

"What was in the box?" Her father was no longer shouting, but he didn't sound particularly friendly either.

"Just some pictures."

"Even you, in your apparently boundless idiocy, would not do the one thing – the only thing – you are expressly forbidden to do, in order to get rid of just some

pictures. Pictures of what?"

"Pretty bad pictures," Thea murmured.

"And where did you get them?"

She bit her lip, looking away.

"Alethea, I am warning you-"

"It would have been fine!" she suddenly shouted, glaring at him furiously. "It would have been just fine, I was almost out and then you had to open the box –

you let them out!"

"Me?" He stared at her in utter disbelief. "How – what? Why am I in your basement? What of me could possibly be…oh."

Sherlock sat down heavily. He reached for a cup and pulled it closer.

"Yes – oh," Thea mimicked and crossed her arms over her chest. "That bit. And he – you – just couldn't leave well enough alone as bloody usual."

"Did you put me there on your own?" he asked, running his fingers along the rim of the teacup.

"No," Thea said wearily, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had flared up. "Uncle Mycroft took me."

"When?"

"About four years ago."

"I see."

There was something in his tone that caught Thea off guard and made her feel terrible.

"I'm sorry," she said helplessly.

"Not at all." Sherlock shook his head, abandoned the teacup and looked at her soberly. "Back to current affairs. Pictures."

Thea let her head drop to the table.

"I really, really, really can't tell you," she pleaded. "There's nothing you can do anyways."

John watched Sherlock wrestle with a fresh wave of annoyance, swallow it down and attempt a conciliatory tone.

"Of course I can," he said as calmly as humanly possible. "We go back together and I'll help you put them away. But you know I can't do that if I don't know

what they are."

Thea groaned.

"I don't have a clue what you two are actually talking about," John said, regarding his own cup of tea. "But that sounds like a really reasonable offer to me,

Thea."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise, as though he'd forgotten he was even there. Thea slowly lifted her head and looked at both of them with red-rimmed eyes.

"Can you guarantee that they won't come back out?" she asked.

"I can," her father said without hesitation. "We'll make them a safe if necessary, but they will not come out. Ever. Unless you take them out on purpose."

Thea took a deep breath, blew in her tea, sipped and told them everything.