Eight
Redundancy

I sat in the large office, my nails tapping nervously on the smooth surface of the wooden desk.

I had an odd feeling that I knew what this was about, but I wouldn't admit it to myself until after the news was actually broken. It was unusual enough that Professor Finlayson would deem it necessary to call me in person; it was downright hazardous that he would ask to speak to me in private on a Wednesday afternoon, bringing me into the museum urgently during my day off.

Getting out of the whole bus-napping situation hadn't been pleasant, but after a good two hours of frantic explanations, someone at the Yard had finally worked some magic on the situation to make it disappear. I needed to remember to thank Lestrade the next time I saw him.

But the fact that the police hadn't locked me away for a seriously long time did not mean I wouldn't still be in trouble. Apparently running off during your lunch break and not returning was not the done thing.

This sudden meeting proved that.

I just hoped the spontaneous session of the Board this morning hadn't been anything to do with me.

The door opened and I twisted in my seat to see who it was that entered. As expected, Finlayson strolled into the room, a deadly serious expression on his face. He walked around the sturdy desk and took his seat with a sigh.

I waited, chewing on the inside of my cheek in preparation for the upcoming chastisement.

"Dr Hunt." He at last greeted, tearing his eyes away from the stack of papers in front of him so that he might examine my features.

I smiled anxiously. "Hi."

"Dr Hunt," he repeated. I noticed that his voice contained none of its usual anger. I also noticed, however, that it contained no trace of joy either. "Where were you yesterday afternoon?"

Yep. This was what I had been expecting. I fiddled with the hem of my jacket while answering in calm tone, "There was an emergency with a friend."

Because that was true, wasn't it? There had been an emergency. And Sherlock was a friend of sorts, even I had to admit that now. It wasn't a lie at all. Finlayson didn't have to know what the emergency was.

The Prof gave me a look that told me he wasn't buying it. "Really?"

I nodded and swallowed. "Yes."

Finlayson brought his elbow up to the desk and began stroking his chin thoughtfully, not removing his stare from my eyes for a moment. Ok, something else was going on here.

Slowly, the professor looked down and flicked through the documents on his desk. He then returned his gaze to my worried face. "An emergency, I suppose, that required you to take an impromptu tour of London?"

Oh, shit.

"Err…" was all I managed to make out. Was there any way out of this situation? If there was, my meagre mind couldn't think of it. I needed to get Sherlock here. Now.

Finlayson let out another sigh. "I saw you outside at lunch, Dr Hunt."

I waved my hand in the air, the panic beginning to seep in. "Look, there's an explanation for all of this-"

I didn't get to finish my sentence. Finlayson interrupted before I had the chance. "The board and I have decided to terminate your contract with us."

I blinked, my hand frozen in mid-air.

"What?" I whispered, not sure that I had heard correctly.

Finlayson gave one single solemn nod before answering. "I'm afraid you're fired."

That… That was not what was supposed to happen here. Finlayson was supposed to be telling me off, ordering me to do some extra work, warning me about the consequences were something like this to happen again. It was supposed to be just another rant.

But fired?

I couldn't be fired. My job was my life. It was the most important thing I did. It was my way of proving myself to be something other than a former addict and a loser. I had worked so hard to get where I was, and now…

"But…" I somehow heard myself say, not really paying attention to what I was doing, "… why?"

Finlayson gave me a disbelieving stare, his eyebrows rising in contempt. I was not pleased to find that the anger was back in his voice when he next spoke, clearly starting to reel off a list of my crimes. "Continuous unexplained absences."

"They were explained!" I shot back desperately.

"Repeatedly fabricated explanations." He countered.

"They weren't all fabricated!" I responded.

"Forged doctor's notes." He added.

"They were written by a real doctor!"

"Involvement with the police without informing your employer."

"They dropped the charges!"

Finlayson leaned forwards, his frown almost blocking my view of his eyes completely. His voice rose to its highest point yet. "Dr Hunt, you and your so-called 'apprentice' stole a bus!"

"That was for a good cause!"

The professor sat back, his rage twisting into a dark suspicion. "Oh, really?"

I started fumbling around inside my mind, needing frantically to get my story out and try to explain these things away.

"Yes, you see, there was a computer hacker who was trying to break into the RBS online database and one of the executives knew about it but couldn't say why and Sherlock thought it would be a good idea to check the records of LSE for some reason and then there was a fight and the hacker ran off and we needed to catch her and…" I stopped, noticing the look I was getting. My voice slowed down in dismay. "… and you're not believing any of this, are you?"

"As much as it may surprise you," Finlayson said with a blank face, "no, I'm not."

My head was beginning to feel as if it was about to explode. The best thing I could come up with was not what a professional adult would use as an excuse. "It's not my fault!"

Finlayson shook his head in what looked like disappointment. "Then whose is it, Dr Hunt? I would sincerely love to know that."

"Well, Sherlock and John and Moriarty and…" My whine ground to a halt.

After a second of silence Finlayson asked, "And?"

And what?

Whose fault truly was it that I had been dragged into such a ridiculous world? No, not really dragged – hadn't I volunteered? I mean, if you ignored how it was in no way my idea to get arrested for murder and then, just two weeks later, be kidnapped, it was impossible to disregard my own actions as a major contributor to the situations that had unfolded. I had chosen to get close to Sherlock despite my knowledge of what he was like. I had chosen to stay with him when I could have left. I had chosen to remain in this ridiculous world.

And even without my choices, there was so much I could have done to improve my circumstances. For one, I could have simply told the truth to my boss and stopped all the lying. He would have understood. He may have even given me some extra time off. I had been caught up in the excitement and the deceits that went with it.

I had made a mistake.

I swallowed, turning my gaze down to my palms on my lap. "And I'm sorry."

I heard another sigh come from the professor. His anger had apparently vanished as his tone was back to the even state it had been in when he had first entered this office. "It's too late for apologies now."

My head snapped upwards.

"But, I'll pick up the slack, I promise." I pleaded, a slight quiver audible in my voice. "And I won't lie about any crazy adventures in the future and-"

"But you'll continue to have them in the middle of the day right outside the museum?"

I stopped my appeals.

What could I say to that? I knew very well just how much damage my decisions had done, but the funny thing is, I didn't regret any of them. I noticed with a twinge that in fact I was rather grateful for them. I was thankful for the constant danger Sherlock brought to my life.

I couldn't stop.

I looked away, seeing the fruitlessness of my arguments. A begrudging acceptance crept into my heart, bringing unwanted moisture to the corner of my eye that I swiftly blinked away.

"What am I supposed to do now?" I asked, keeping my speech as monotonous as I could.

Finlayson shuffled the papers on his desk. "I suggest you start job-searching, Dr Hunt. I wish you good luck with that."

I grimaced. "You're not going to write me a very nice reference, are you?"

"Look," the Prof said, the level of defeat in his words causing me to look up at him once more, "I wish I could. Up until a couple of months ago you were good, but you weren't good enough."

He meant, of course, that I wasn't good enough to make this whole episode disappear from the records.

I sniffed and rubbed my forehead, determinedly staring at something other than the pitying gaze of my soon-to-be-former boss. "How long have I got?"

"Three weeks." He told me plainly. "I don't know, maybe if your work's exceptional then I might be able to consider changing my reference, but I can't promise you anything."

I nodded, swallowing any remnants of my pride that hadn't yet been destroyed. "Alright."

There was a pause before the professor spoke again. When he did, his words were probably the most gentle and sincere that I had ever heard them.

"I'm sorry Melanie, but there's nothing I can do."

The door smashed open as I stormed into the room beyond it. With a screech worthy of a fox I threw my bag onto the sofa and tugged at my coat until I was able to fling it aside.

John sat frozen to his chair, surprise written all over his face. I noticed that Sherlock didn't even look up from the computer screen in front of him. I heard the door ricochet off of the wall and bounce back into its rightful place behind me.

"I've been fired!" I screamed, letting a tiny bit of my frustration out in the process.

John was apparently still too shocked to move.

"Yes, I know." was all I got from Sherlock. "Did it really surprise you?"

John snapped out of his daze, spinning his head around to face the detective and angrily yelling, "Sherlock!"

"Yes, it bloody surprised me." I spat back, stamping over to the sofa and slumping into it beside my bag. I crossed my arms, realising that I must have had a serious case of the pouts but not giving a damn about it.

John sighed and stood. "God, Melanie, I'm sorry."

I just huffed in response.

"Is there anything I could do to help?" John asked kindly.

I thought about this for a second. Could John storm into the V & A and demand my job back? No, that was insane. Although, they might actually listen to him if he had his gun. That was a possibility. Or even better…

"You could let me borrow your gun." I said, not taking the grumpy expression off of my face. "I've got a serious hankering to shoot something inanimate."

"Second draw on the desk." Sherlock answered flatly. "Try not to ruin the smiley face."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed in disbelief. He spotted me making my way over to the desk. "No, Melanie, no!"

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the desk. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he gently pushed me back onto the sofa and away from any firearms. "Now, let's just calm down and have a nice cup of tea, and then maybe we won't end up with half our brains paintered across the wallpaper."

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be stupid, John. Despite her inexperience, Melanie's an excellent shot."

"Yea-" I stopped my proud outcry of defiance before it had fully left my mouth, realisation hitting me like a falling piano. Was I… was I acting like a bored Sherlock?

"Oh God." I muttered, my voice returning to normal. I peered up at John, what I hoped was an apologetic look in my eye. "A cup of tea would be great, thanks."

Sherlock groaned. "Boring."

How are you all holding up now?

My Reichenbach Depression has almost completely left now (as long as no one brings up pavements, or falling, or buildings, or phones, or…) leaving Reichenbach Acceptance in its wake.

But look on the bright side! Only another eighteen months of this before the next Mofftiss instalment! Yay!

Review?