Seven
Reckless

That night I hadn't gone back to Baker Street.

It would have been too much. The emotions I was currently experiencing were confusing enough on their own; I didn't need the ramblings of a mad scientist muddying the waters any further.

I was relieved of course. That was natural. But that relief didn't stop the guilt and pain bubbling up inside me. The stressful events that had occurred so soon after the twenty-second had enabled my brain to block out any of the more traumatic parts of that night – my terrifying first meeting of Mycroft Holmes, my worryingly growing feelings for his brother, even my shock at being landed with a new pet had contributed in helping me silence the internal screams.

Now there was nothing.

That night I broke down. Professor Finlayson wasn't at all keen on letting me have the afternoon off, but after seeing the unresponsive state I was in allowed me to leave. At home I did little except curl up in bed and lie there. The tears came well after the sun had set, but once they started I found it was far too difficult to stop.

My exhaustion the next day was one of the main reasons they finally did.

It was only my tiredness that at last led to the beginnings of what might one day become acceptance.

"Oh, come on, it's your day off tomorrow."

"Becky, I'm just really tired." I repeated into the phone for what must have been the third time. "And it's not your day off, is it?"

There was a scoff from the other end of the line.

"Like that matters. Come on." It was the whining tone that got me. Becky's whines could bring down a nation if they wanted to.

"Look, I'll see what I'm feeling like tonight and if I'm up for it I'll meet you for a quick drink – a quick one, mind." I gave in as much as I was willing to. Apparently it wasn't good enough.

"That always means no and you know it."

Christ, this woman could be persistent sometimes. I picked up my pace, noticing that the minute hand on my watch was hurriedly approaching the five and I had still to actually eat my café-bought sandwich when I got back inside the museum. "We never go out on Tuesdays, why tonight?"

"Because I haven't seen-"

The rest of Becky's answer was inaudible above the sudden influx of chatter as I pushed my way past a group of German tourists standing in the middle of the pavement and taking photos of every single building they could lay their eyes on.

"Sorry, what was that?"

Becky sighed. "I said, because I haven't seen you in absolutely ages and I'm missing my Melly Time!"

"Then we can get together on Saturday." I told her, skipping across the road before the lights went green again. I turned left and spotted the side entrance to the V & A getting closer. "Like we usually do. I kind of just want to chill tonight – you know, glass of wine, some awful TV programme, the-"

My sentence was cut off as something large and hazardous hurtled its way towards me.

The brown tour bus had swerved so dangerously in the midst of moving traffic that for a second I thought it was going to cause an accident. Luckily, it managed to avoid any jumping vehicles as it manoeuvred at what looked like top speed across two lanes in the road before dramatically coming to a stop on the bold, and most definitely shouting 'Do Not Stop Here Ever', red lines.

An audience had gathered in that second and all pedestrians in the area watched as the door to the front of the bus slid jauntily open.

I felt as if I should have had an orange fluffy blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I definitely needed something for this shock.

"Melanie? You still there?"

"Uh," I succeeded in making out, my voice an unemotional monotone, "I'll call you back."

I hung up before Becky had the opportunity to argue and stoically placed the BlackBerry back inside my coat pocket.

I stared into the bus, or to be more accurate, the driver's seat of the bus, or to be even more accurate, the person presently sitting in that seat, one hand on the steering wheel and the other outstretched through the clearly forced open dividing door and undoubtedly in my direction.

"Melanie, get in!"

I blinked. What the hell?

"Sh- Sherlock?"

"Now, Melanie!"

It was so bizarre, so unexpected, so downright weird. Why one earth was Sherlock driving a tour bus? Why a tour bus that was full of tense passengers? And why was he here? Good God, I was meant to be going back to a normal working schedule!

It therefore surprised me even more when, instead of questioning the man and staying put as most sane people would have done, I found my legs bouncing forwards as I hopped neatly up the step and onto the huge bus.

The door swung shut behind me, trapping me in this crazy world with a clang and a thud. There was a rumbling and the engine kicked back into life, jolting me as we suddenly lurched forwards.

I stepped up to the driver's compartment and stared at the wild man behind the wheel. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock, I noticed with a fright, ignored the blazing red traffic light and sped up. I heard the honks and angry shouts of other drivers, but by the time I looked they were so far behind us that it made little difference. I slammed my palm on the nearby railing, clutching on as we reeled to the right when Sherlock took a particularly risky left turn.

"Sherlock!" I shouted, trying to get his attention, which, I realised later, was not the best idea when he was busy trying to navigate through heaving traffic and winding roads at high speed.

Sherlock started shifting in his seat. Abruptly, he lifted one hand from the steering wheel and grabbed my wrist, yanking me forwards.

"Take the wheel." He told me calmly.

"Wha-" I didn't get to complete my question as somehow I was pulled into the driving seat, Sherlock teetering on the edge of one of the pedals. "I can't drive a bus!"

To my dismay, Sherlock proceeded to remove his foot from the accelerator completely, his hand drifting away from the wheel. Swiftly, I seized it, attempting to regain control of the vehicle in fear of all our deaths.

"Then now would be a good time to learn." Was all the instruction I received in response. His next words were buzzy, as if I was hearing them through a machine. He must have picked up the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for the small detour, but who honestly wants to see London Bridge anyway? Oh, put your hand down, that was rhetorical."

"Sherlock?" I called over my shoulder, unwilling to take my eyes off the road In front of me. "Would you mind telling me where I'm supposed to be driving this bus to?"

"I'll be your guide for today." Sherlock continued enthusiastically. "Your driver's name is Melanie. She'll be attempting to get us to the London Transport Museum, however knowing her navigation skills we'll be lucky to end up north of the Thames"

"Hey!" I exclaimed feeling rather insulted, before adding, "And where the hell is the London Transport Museum?"

"I don't think the driver usually shouts at the guide, Melanie, but just so we don't find ourselves in France I'll tell you that it's near Embankment. You, with the secret daughter – no photos!"

"Gotcha'!" I yelled back, worrying myself with just how deeply I was getting into this role. I took a sharp right, positive that I was breaking several traffic laws in the process. This was dangerous and reckless and stupid, but I had to admit, it was also a little bit fun.

"And if you look to your left you'll see the face of the elderly man Melanie almost ran over."

I squealed. I hadn't seen any elderly man. I'm sure he must have come out of nowhere! "Sorry!"

"It's little use apologising to me, Melanie," Sherlock answered over the stereo system, "I'm not the one who almost got his skull dented, and take the next right."

"Yep!" I answered, preparing myself for the next speedy turn.

"Don't waste your breath."

I frowned. "What?"

There was an audible sigh over the Tannoy. "The carpentry apprentice was about to ask whether we'd let him off. Really, we hijacked a bus and are driving it at fifty miles per hour through central London – we're hardly the Department for Transport."

No, that was almost certainly his brother.

"Sherlock, left or straight on?" I shouted over the noise of the engine.

"Left. Oh, come on! It's perfectly obvious how I could tell you're a carpentry apprentice. Your hands are calloused, but not-"

I blocked the rest of Sherlock's showing off out as I was forced to concentrate on the bend in the road which was made extremely tricky thanks to some generous taxi driver blocking most of the street. Honestly, didn't these people have any respect for the casual bus hijackers?

"- even the Ministry of Agriculture isn't stupid enough to employ a former bank robber, although it may actually improve their policy on unsynchronised tractor conversion."

I raised an eyebrow. "How do you know the laws on unsynchronised tractor conversion and not on grave-robbing?"

"Ignore the driver; she's under a lot of stress at the moment." He dismissed. I wondered whose fault exactly it was that I was under this stress. "Besides, banning grave-robbing isn't a useful law."

Of course it wasn't. "Grave-robbing wasn't banned recently, Sherlock. It's been illegal for-"

"Melanie, slow down." Sherlock unexpectedly commanded in such a stern voice that my feet instantly adjusted their pressure on the pedals. There were rushed footsteps coming from over my shoulder, swiftly becoming quieter. It sounded as if someone was running up the staircase to the open-topped upper floor.

Sherlock's next words did not help me understand what was going on. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes our tour for today. I hope you've have a good time – well, not really, but I'm sure you've realised by now just what an unusual character I am. I'm afraid, however, that this is my stop. Enjoy the rest of your holiday."

What?

I slammed my foot on the break. The bus jolted to a stop, sending the passengers and me flying a good foot forwards. As soon as I had recovered and straightened my spine out of the knot it had been tangled in, I leapt from the driver's seat and ran to the back of the bus, ignoring the panicked faces of the tourists that I passed, and peered out of the back window.

At first I couldn't see anything unusual.

Then I looked up.

There, on the teetering wall of the bridge we had just driven under, was an unmistakable silhouette.

Sherlock was running along the bridge's spine, looking as if he was in hot pursuit of a hooded female several meters in front of him. Both figures reached the end of the bridge and continued out of my eyeshot.

I let out the breath I had been holding in.

Had he just fricking jumped from the top of a moving bus onto a bloody bridge? What kind of idiot does something like that?

The kind of idiot, I realised with a tremor, that would leave me on a stolen bus full of tourists with no clue as to what I should do next.

I stared around at the people in the seats.

A nervous laugh escaped my lips.

"Erm, hi."

Hopefully this chapter acted as medication against any Reichenbach Depression (the third stage of Reichenbach Dysfunction Disorder – the first stage being Reichenbach Stress, the second being Reichenbach Shock) that's lurking about. Warning: listening to depressing violin music while reading will counteract any possible benefits.

Oh, and skip over the line saying Sherlock's not the one who almost got his skull dented. That line takes on a whole new meaning for me now.

But yeah… a small part of me died last night.

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