Five
Reflection

An entire week had passed without any dramatic events interrupting my precious time. It felt strange. Most of the time, I was half-expecting some frightful serial killer to jump out from around the corner and drag me away, either that or an equally frightful Sherlock popping up and wanting me to help him break into the Bank of England or something just as deranged.

But no, things were positively normal for that week.

Well, that's if you count a certain consulting detective trying to melt my laptop with I-don't-know-what while I was still asleep normal, which actually I was unnerved to find I did.

"And this is the main storage volt. We keep most of the artefacts that are being restored or aren't on display for another reason in here." I told the new member of the South Asian team while resting a hand on the thick metal door of the basement. "There are other storerooms dotted around the place, but this is the big one where anything valuable is kept."

The slight Oriental girl nodded along nervously, clearly feeling too insignificant on her first day to do anything other than try to memorise where everything was. Professor Finlayson stood by her side, his beady eyes watching me speak. He hadn't covered up very well the fact that he was only on this tour to check up on me. Although he could spot a lie a mile off, he also wasn't at all good at telling them himself.

"You've got your ID card already, right?" I asked the girl who was probably my age with the mannerisms that made her seem so much younger, "Well, you'll need that to get in here. It's a swipe followed by a PIN. We'll set that bit up for you later."

She nodded again, a small murmur of agreement escaping her lips. I swiped my ID into the reader and entered the four digit PIN number.

"I warn you now that the sorting system takes a bit of getting used to. Things aren't just arranged by item number, ther-"

I stopped dead, the heavy door propped open by my arm, and stared blankly into the metallic bunker beyond.

"Who are you?" I heard the Prof. ask accusingly from over my shoulder.

For there, sitting straight in front of me, one hand resting on the steel workbench, the other grasping a large magnifying glass, was someone who definitely should not have been there.

He didn't even look up from the red gloves propped underneath the magnifying glass.

"Sherlock?"

"Dr Hunt, do you know this man?"

I snapped out of my shock, my head rotating to meet the expecting gaze of Finlayson. I looked back at Sherlock, who still hadn't moved despite the interruption. He probably hadn't even noticed we were there; he seemed so absorbed in whatever it was he was doing with a pair of gloves and a loaf of bread. My eyes darted from the professor to the detective, not really knowing what to do.

"Yeah, err, this is… this is…" I couldn't tell him the truth, could I? Somehow, I doubted he would see the plus points of a new idea for a Bring Your Sociopathic Consulting Detective to Work Day. "This is… my assistant."

Yes, that made sense, didn't it?

Finlayson narrowed his eyes sceptically. "I don't pay for you to have an assistant."

The cogs in my brain started whirring, trying to come up with something that might seem reasonable. Lies didn't usually work on the Prof., but every now and then I could sneak one through.

"He volunteers!" I announced with a smile. I lowered my voice as if trying not to be overheard. "He's very keen – not too bright upstairs, but eager to learn – thought I'd give him a shot."

Finlayson didn't look impressed. "I didn't authorise this."

My voice was coming out a lot faster than it usually did. "Really? I'm sure you did. I put the paperwork in and everything."

The death glare from Finlayson was enough to tell me he wasn't buying it.

I tried to fix it.

"Oh, well, if you're not happy then I'll fire him." I gave what I hoped was a meaningful look, lowering my voice yet again so that it was by now nothing more than a whisper. "Just let me tell him in private – he tends to get distracted by other people – actually, he tends to get distracted by lots of things – people, food, lights, shiny objects – really, he's a hopeless assistant – honestly, I'll be glad to get rid of him."

While I had been delivering my hyper speed rant, I had shuffled so that I was standing inside the vault and now that it was over I started pushing the door towards those on the outside.

"Hang on," Finlayson spoke up, clearly too surprised to actually physically attempt to stop me, "I didn't say-"

The door slammed shut in his face.

I spun around and leered at the man at the workbench. "What are you doing here?"

Apparently Sherlock had been listening, as he answered straight away.

"Had to get out of the flat," he drawled, deciding to flip the gloves over before continuing to examine them, "John was being insufferable."

I sighed and walked over to the bench, my anger mysteriously vanishing. "Is this like the time he was typing too loudly?"

It took a moment for Sherlock to respond to that. He clearly thought I was still mocking him.

"No."

For some reason, I didn't quite believe him.

"He's…" he added, sensing my distrust, "…moping."

He had spat out the last word as if it tasted foul in his mouth. My eyebrows rose. "About what?"

"Something tedious." He said like it explained everything, before quickly appending in an insulted tone, actually bothering to look up at me as he did, "and I don't get distracted by shiny objects."

He did if they were murder weapons.

I chose to bypass that whole debate and instead focus on what was important here; namely, him showing up unannounced in the main storeroom of the Victoria and Albert Museum in the middle of the day. "And so your natural response was to come to my place of work?"

Sherlock returned his attention to the gloves. "No, my natural response was to play the violin exceptionally loud."

I rolled my eyes, finally understanding. "He kicked you out, didn't he?"

By the fact that he didn't answer, I could tell I was spot on. I pulled out the free stool opposite him and sat down.

"What are you doing, by the way?" Sherlock had just taken a slice of bread from the packaging and was attempting to stuff it into the right glove. My curiosity was getting the best of me.

"Something far too complicated for you to understand."

My eyes widened in offense. "I'm a doctor!"

He tilted his head to the side for a second as his lips did an odd tutting motion without any sound leaving them. "Of history, that hardly counts."

I leant my forehead against my palm, propped up by the cold surface of the bench. "Whereas one of beekeeping does, I suppose."

"There is a science to bees." He told me simply. I guessed he didn't think there was a science behind all the technical bits of archaeology. All those machines and knowledge of elemental properties – that was clearly philosophy. "And next time you feel the urge to read my books I would be grateful if you put them back exactly where you found them."

Yeah, because 221B was organised so very lovingly.

He was in a mood.

A gentle smile found its way onto my face. "You want me to shut up and leave so you can continue working, don't you?"

It was at least ten seconds before he eloquently voiced, "Hmm?"

And that was all the response I required to let me know that I wasn't needed here. Calmly I stood, the legs of the stool scratching against the floor with a squeak. Without thinking about it, I bent forwards, lifted my hand and placed it against Sherlock's jaw. I pulled his chin up and brought my lips down to meet his before swiftly stepping away.

"I'll see you later." I said casually, my mind not lingering on the peck of a kiss at all. I walked to the door, pushing it open to see the now empty corridor beyond. I was about to leave, but just before the door shut behind me I reconsidered and popped my head around the edge again.

"Oh, and I want my ID card back."

The following morning I found myself meandering through 221B, grateful that it was a Sunday. After having to go in on Wednesday to make up for time lost last week, it was certainly nice to have a day off with nothing to do.

"John."

I heard Sherlock's polished voice up ahead, coming through the slightly open door to the living room.

"Yeah?" John answered in a way that told me he wasn't really paying attention.

There was a pause.

"It's Melanie."

That stopped me. I had been about to enter the untidy sitting room, but upon hearing those two words I lingered, instead standing frozen, unwilling to make any noise that might draw attention to my presence. Sherlock sounded serious. And it was about me. This was worrying.

"What about her?" John's voice was still that uninterested tone. He clearly didn't realise how important this conversation was about to become.

"She's been acting…" It sounded as if Sherlock was trying to find the right word, "… strange."

Had I? I didn't think I had. But then again, maybe Sherlock thought I'd been behaving oddly because I hadn't been constantly complaining about his wild schemes or lying deep in emotional torment. Those two states did seem to dominate the period since I had met him. Jesus, that's really not the sign of a healthy relationship, is it?

"Strange?"

I waited for Sherlock to elaborate. All I got was a plain, "Yes."

There was a ruffling noise that could only be John folding a newspaper up. Perhaps he was actually starting to see how vital this talk was. "How?"

"She…" Sherlock again seemed to be struggling to voice his thoughts. The next words out of his mouth sounded strained, almost painful. "… kissed me… and held my hand and… stuff."

The newspaper ruffled again. John had obviously given up. "And you think that's strange, do you?"

"Don't you?"

"Sherlock, I only think one thing about your bond with Melanie," John said, his tone returning to the bored state it had previously been, "and that's how I will never understand its complexities."

I smiled.

I would probably be the first to second that statement.

Prepared yourself for Sunday yet? I think you'll need a box of tissues and a cuddly toy to clutch. Have them at the ready!

This might sound like I'm being an arse, but I thought I needed to tell you guys regardless because my beta noticed and I thought maybe you guys had too. The amount of reviews I get does indeed relate to how quickly the next chapter will be put up. Woah, before you go all axe-murderer on me let me explain! It's not because I'm being a greedy pig (well, mostly, anyway) but only because if there aren't many reviews then I assume lots of people haven't read that chapter yet. I know that doesn't make complete sense and you guys will probably try to argue with me about it, but in my head it does, so there.

Yeah, but that also means that if the amount of reviews goes up, it'll only affect the single next chapter's publishing speed as I take it as an average. Yeah, sorry. So, really, this little rant had no purpose. Apologies. Again.

My brain must be overloading from Reichenbach Stress… which is now a medically recognised disease.

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