Some things are real and some things aren't. Pa and I, we're the Realest Real things. My dog, Redbeard, he's real, but only in my Mind Palace. Plant is real, but trees aren't. People on TV aren't real because they're flat and made of colours. Everything inside Room is real. I don't know about Old Magnussen and the Wicked Witch. Pa calls them that because he says they're very powerful, but I don't think they're as powerful as Pa, because they're only half real. Pa means everything to me. Without him, I wouldn't exist. That makes him the realest thing in Room. If I existed without Pa, I would cry all the time. Pa is my whole life. I love him. That's why he was so lonely before me.

I think Pa gets confused sometimes. He forgets what's real and what isn't. Pa likes to sit on bed with his eyes tight shut and hold his arms in the air. When I ask him what he's doing, he tells me he's practicing playing the violin. Violins only exist on TV, but Pa is clever because he can play it, even though it's not real.

I don't like it when Pa is awake while I sleep. When I sleep I go to another place and I'm always with Pa, so how can he be awake in Room? I asked Pa but he laughed and told me I'm silly. He says we're always in Room, even when we sleep. He says it's like going to Mind Palace when we're awake, except we can't control it in sleep. He says sleep is boring and he'd rather be awake with me. Pa doesn't like his dreams. Mine are full of Pa and Pirates and adventures. I don't know why Pa doesn't have the same dreams as me. I wish he could because then he would be happy, always.

I want Pa to tell Them to get me a birthday present like a dog or books, I've never had a book. I have Redbeard in my Mind Palace and Soft Ball but never books. Then Pa can teach me to read and I'll be clever, because I'm five. Old Magnussen and the Witch must be nice if they want to get me a present. Maybe Pa is wrong about Them, even if they're voices are scary. I'm a big boy now, so I mustn't be scared anymore.

"Why don't you let Them get me a present, Pa?"

Sherlock tosses his brush into the bucket full of hot water in frustration. "You shouldn't be listening to that, Jack."

"But I want a present. I've never had a present before, only the ones you make me. I want a dog, like Redbeard."

"We can't have a dog, there's not enough room… I mean space, there's not enough space in Room for a dog. And I can't just ask for things, Jack, because They always want something in return."

"Like what?"

Sherlock pales considerably. "Don't you ever ask me that again." He grits out, infuriated.

"But you said you'd teach me stuff and we need books for that. Please, Pa, you promised." Implores Jack, undeterred.

"YOU'RE NOT GETTING A PRESENT, JACK, AND THAT'S FINAL!" barks Sherlock, slamming his hand on Table and they both freeze as what he has just said sets in. Jack's bottom lip quivers and he bursts into tears.

"No, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no." Sherlock stands up from his chair and gathers his son in his arms. "I'm sorry, Jack. Please don't cry. I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry." He walks backwards towards Bed and sits his son on his lap. "You're right, I did promise you. I promised and I should never break my promise." He sighs. "I'll do my best, alright? I'll do my best. I love you. I'm sorry." He rolls onto his side and tucks Jack under his chin and curls around him, just like he used to when Jack was an infant. "Stop crying now. Shhh. Stop crying. I love you."

"I-I want a present." Sobs Jack.

"I know. You're such a good boy and you've never had a proper one before." He runs his hand over his face before burying his nose in Jack's hair. "But this might be the only present you get. Do you understand that, Jack? This cannot be a regular thing. They won't do it for us very often. Okay?"

Jack nods and Sherlock can feel his T-shirt getting wet. He stares blankly at the wall long after Jack has drifted off into a fitful sleep, fearing the consequences of what he's about to do.

Old Magnussen watches him and Sherlock knows he's being deduced down to the last detail. He's known for thirteen years. "Something's bothering you." Says the man, glancing at his companion, then back at Sherlock. "Care to share?"

Sherlock tries not to think derogatory thoughts. He was good at hiding from Mycroft, but not this man. "Jack overheard our conversation last night." He says, getting straight to the point. The quicker it's over, the better. "Particularly the part where you offered to get him a present."

Old Magnussen rolls his head slowly. Anyone would think he was bored, but Sherlock knows otherwise. "Oh." He says, smiling sadistically. "And?"

Sherlock breathes out through his nose and stares him down. It's the only victory he can get in his current situation. "I was hoping Jack could have some books. I'd like to start educating him."

The Witch snorts. "What for?" she laughs, "He's not going anywhere!"

Sherlock's heart misses a beat. He can tell they're planning something, but he doesn't know what. He attempts to squash down the rising panic. "Jack is smart. He's curious and inquisitive." His voice shakes. "He's also a little boy who would like a present."

There's a long silence. Old Magnussen drums his fingers on Table. The Witch plays with her hair. Sherlock counts to forty-two before he gets a reply. "And what do we get in return?" is the unsurprising question. Sherlock swallows before facing the Witch. This is routine; this is what he has to do to show his submission. He spreads his legs slightly, head bowed before looking at her directly in the eye. "Me." He replies, the unsurprising answer. But what happens next takes him completely off guard.

The Witch looks at Old Magnussen. "I believe you were tired of the passenger seat." She grins. "It's your go." She glances back at Sherlock. "Face him, not me."

All of Sherlock's thoughts come crashing to a halt. "I'm sorry?" he stammers, eyes flicking from one to the other. They sigh.

"You're exceptionally slow today, Sherlock." Says Old Magnussen, undoing his belt. "Now be a good boy and take off your clothes, there's a good chap."

Sherlock stares horrified as he pulls off his belt. "But you've never…"

"Oh, I know I've never." Breathes Old Magnussen as he unbuttons his trousers. "But after thirteen years of watching, I think I've earnt my go."

Alarm bells start to ring. Sherlock can feel his Mind Palace go into overdrive. "But I've never…"

"Oh, I know you've never either," laughs the man, "but from what I've heard, it's like learning to ride a bicycle. You spend weeks with injuries from falling off and the rest of your life enjoying the ride. Now. Take. Off. Your. Clothes."

Sherlock shakes his head. His legs have gone numb. "I can't."

"Would you like me to wake up your son?" asks the Witch, "Or perhaps you'd like a chain around your neck as well?"

"No," gasps Sherlock, finding his voice, "Please, no, not Jack. Don't you dare touch Jack." He stands. "I'll do it," he chokes out, "I'll do whatever you want."

He doesn't remember taking his clothes off. He's suddenly on his back on Bed. He grunts in surprise as someone flips him over, his face pressed against the pillow. He forgets his promise and panics.

"Hold him down," snaps Old Magnussen, "He's no good to me like this."

The burly woman's strong arms hold his face against the pillow and he can't breathe. "For Jack," he thinks over his mental cries of help me, help me, help me. "I'm doing this for Jack. I'm keeping my promise." He enters his Mind Palace.

"Breathe, little Brother," says a Mycroft, who hasn't aged in thirteen years. "Turn your head and find air. Breathe the Easterly wind, brother mine," his smile distorts his face. "I taught you better, Sherlock. You should have guessed his plans the moment he walked in. It was obvious by the way he had the top button of his shirt undone."

Sherlock wants to scream at him, but there's no sound. He chokes on his pillow and pants for breath. His eyes water and he bites his tongue in desperation to keep quiet. "For Jack," he tells himself. "JackJackJackJackJackJackJack…" Sherlock tries not to analyse anything and keeps still. He doesn't react when his arms and neck are released. He closes his eyes and ignores the tears that drip into his pillow. He can hear Him putting his clothes back on, but he doesn't move. He doesn't want to attract their attention.

"Well," says the older man nonchalantly, like they've just shared a coffee and are parting ways. "Thanks for that. I'll see what I can do about the present. And don't worry, your performance was exquisite for a beginner," he pats Sherlock's leg. "We'll be back tomorrow to shave your face. Sweet dreams." And They're gone.

For half an hour, Sherlock doesn't move. The reality of his situation doesn't set in until he hears Jack stir in Wardrobe. Panic grips him and he stumbles over to Bath, only too aware of the pain flaring up his backside. It takes colossal effort, but he eventually sinks into the tub, wincing as the hot water burns his injuries. He scrubs himself clean vigorously. He doesn't cry. Jack will know if he's cried. Once he's rid the air of the foul smell and rearranged Bed, he picks up Jack and tucks him in without waking him. He lays there for hours, staring up at the Strip Light they can never switch off.

Next morning, Jack stares at the bruises on his neck and arms. "Clumsy Old Pa," he says. They laugh.