Eight Days A Week, 1/17
Lordy me.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 1/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray (such as he is)
Rating: PG this part, eventual NC-17
Warnings: None this part, eventual explicit male/male sex, strong language, and violence
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 939
Disclaimer: No ownership implied, no offense intended
Summary: When a handsome consultant shows up at the office, John thinks his biggest worry is being made redundant. Little does he know, things are about to get a lot more complicated.
Author's Notes: This is inspired by The Office but is not a precise cross-over or fusion. In short, AU case fic set in an office environment. Title from the Beatles, obviously. For the record, this is completely planned and about half written, and I'm hoping to be able to update every day. Please do let me know if you enjoy!
*
Tuesdays, John finds, are the bleakest day of the week. Everybody’s always going on about Hump Day, and it’s Monday they write pop songs about, but for John, Tuesday is the day to be reckoned with - it’s early enough in the week that the memory of the previous weekend hasn’t faded yet, but far enough from Friday that the end’s not yet in sight. No, Tuesday is definitely the barren wasteland of the workweek, the day he inevitably considers chucking it all and joining the Army or something. At least if he were getting shot at, he wouldn’t be so bored.
It’s a Tuesday when the consultant shows up. Molly greets him at reception, but all her sunshine is thwarted by one of the curtest greetings John’s ever witnessed, and after that she shows him directly, meekly, into Bill’s office. The rumor is that he’s from the London office - or that he’s been sent by the London office, it’s not clear - and that he’s not so much a consultant as one of those blokes who specializes in sacking people. The rumor is there are going to be redundancies, which only confirms John’s theory that nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday.
Although, honestly, John’s not bothered. If he’s made redundant, what’s the worst that’ll happen? He’s thought about leaving plenty of times. He’s got enough money saved up that he can coast for a while, and then, who knows, maybe he’ll get off his arse and make something of himself. Or, more realistically, he’ll find another job that’s almost exactly like what he’s already doing now, only slightly different in the particulars.
After nearly an hour, Bill and the consultant emerge from the manager’s office. “All right, everybody, can I have your attention for a moment?” Bill calls even though it’s already quiet enough to hear a pin drop. There’s a pause while everyone puts aside their work and gathers round so they can see better.
“I’m sure you’re all wondering by now who we’ve got with us today. Well, I’d like you all to meet Sherlock Holmes.” Bill claps a hand on the consultant’s shoulder, and the man flinches, although he tries to cover it with a tight smile. John’d almost feel sorry for him, if he weren’t here to gut all their jobs. “Mr. Holmes is an independent consultant, and he’s been asked by Head Office to come in and take a look under our bonnet, so to speak. He’ll be with us for the next few weeks, doing a thorough review of our entire operation. He’ll need to interview each of us at some point - don't worry, nothing you wouldn’t mind telling your gran.”
There’s a little polite laughter.
“Mr. Holmes is here to let Head Office know how we’re doing here, so let’s all please do our best to make sure he has everything he needs, and that he feels welcome while he’s here with us. All right?”
A scattered murmur of assent washes across the room.
“Anything you’d like to add, Mr. Holmes?”
For a moment, Holmes is silent, surveying the crowd intently. He looks, John thinks, rather like a hawk searching for its supper. He’s a good-looking man, tall and very thin, with dark hair and almost white lips, and very well turned out, too. His suit alone - black, with a dark purple shirt, no tie - probably costs more than John’s entire wardrobe, and he wears it well, John has to admit. But for all his city boy good looks, he does seem uncomfortable up there - or, not uncomfortable, exactly, so much as just plain stiff. That twitched-up smile is stiff, his shoulders are stiff; he’s tense all over, holding himself apart. John supposes he has to, can’t afford to be familiar when he’s the one to decide who gets the chop. Then again, the way he’s eyeing the room, he looks like he might actually enjoy sacking someone.
“Not at this time,” Holmes says, finally.
“OK, well . . . Anyone have any questions?”
Brenda sticks up one hesitant index finger, the way she always does in meetings and she’s shy to talk in front of the heads of department, but before Bill can spot her, Holmes is talking.
“This isn’t about cutbacks,” he tells her briskly. When Brenda just stares at him, he frowns. “That is what you were wondering, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but how did you . . . ?”
“Obvious, really. It’s most people’s first thought when an independent consultant comes into their place of employment. And it’s evident you’re worried you’ll be sacked first - which, considering your age, is likely, as those closer to retirement are statistically more likely to be let go. Judging by your clothes - decent but a bit old and clearly not ironed - and your hair - hardly brushed - your interest in your job is flagging, but you’re hoping to coast through the last few years of your career until you can leave here with a more generous pension.”
Brenda just blinks at him, color rising to her cheeks, and touches her hair self-consciously. It does look rather like she hasn’t brushed it.
“You needn’t worry,” Holmes continues. “Your Head Office isn’t interested in cutting back staff. I can’t guarantee that a few people won’t be let go, but most of you have nothing to worry about.” He looks around. “Any other questions, or am I free to get to work?”
“Right,” Bill says slowly. “You’ll be in the conference room, which is just through here.”
Well, John thinks, as the lanky consultant disappears into the conference room, if nothing else, this definitely won’t be boring.
*
Part Two
Title: Eight Days A Week, 1/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray (such as he is)
Rating: PG this part, eventual NC-17
Warnings: None this part, eventual explicit male/male sex, strong language, and violence
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 939
Disclaimer: No ownership implied, no offense intended
Summary: When a handsome consultant shows up at the office, John thinks his biggest worry is being made redundant. Little does he know, things are about to get a lot more complicated.
Author's Notes: This is inspired by The Office but is not a precise cross-over or fusion. In short, AU case fic set in an office environment. Title from the Beatles, obviously. For the record, this is completely planned and about half written, and I'm hoping to be able to update every day. Please do let me know if you enjoy!
*
Tuesdays, John finds, are the bleakest day of the week. Everybody’s always going on about Hump Day, and it’s Monday they write pop songs about, but for John, Tuesday is the day to be reckoned with - it’s early enough in the week that the memory of the previous weekend hasn’t faded yet, but far enough from Friday that the end’s not yet in sight. No, Tuesday is definitely the barren wasteland of the workweek, the day he inevitably considers chucking it all and joining the Army or something. At least if he were getting shot at, he wouldn’t be so bored.
It’s a Tuesday when the consultant shows up. Molly greets him at reception, but all her sunshine is thwarted by one of the curtest greetings John’s ever witnessed, and after that she shows him directly, meekly, into Bill’s office. The rumor is that he’s from the London office - or that he’s been sent by the London office, it’s not clear - and that he’s not so much a consultant as one of those blokes who specializes in sacking people. The rumor is there are going to be redundancies, which only confirms John’s theory that nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday.
Although, honestly, John’s not bothered. If he’s made redundant, what’s the worst that’ll happen? He’s thought about leaving plenty of times. He’s got enough money saved up that he can coast for a while, and then, who knows, maybe he’ll get off his arse and make something of himself. Or, more realistically, he’ll find another job that’s almost exactly like what he’s already doing now, only slightly different in the particulars.
After nearly an hour, Bill and the consultant emerge from the manager’s office. “All right, everybody, can I have your attention for a moment?” Bill calls even though it’s already quiet enough to hear a pin drop. There’s a pause while everyone puts aside their work and gathers round so they can see better.
“I’m sure you’re all wondering by now who we’ve got with us today. Well, I’d like you all to meet Sherlock Holmes.” Bill claps a hand on the consultant’s shoulder, and the man flinches, although he tries to cover it with a tight smile. John’d almost feel sorry for him, if he weren’t here to gut all their jobs. “Mr. Holmes is an independent consultant, and he’s been asked by Head Office to come in and take a look under our bonnet, so to speak. He’ll be with us for the next few weeks, doing a thorough review of our entire operation. He’ll need to interview each of us at some point - don't worry, nothing you wouldn’t mind telling your gran.”
There’s a little polite laughter.
“Mr. Holmes is here to let Head Office know how we’re doing here, so let’s all please do our best to make sure he has everything he needs, and that he feels welcome while he’s here with us. All right?”
A scattered murmur of assent washes across the room.
“Anything you’d like to add, Mr. Holmes?”
For a moment, Holmes is silent, surveying the crowd intently. He looks, John thinks, rather like a hawk searching for its supper. He’s a good-looking man, tall and very thin, with dark hair and almost white lips, and very well turned out, too. His suit alone - black, with a dark purple shirt, no tie - probably costs more than John’s entire wardrobe, and he wears it well, John has to admit. But for all his city boy good looks, he does seem uncomfortable up there - or, not uncomfortable, exactly, so much as just plain stiff. That twitched-up smile is stiff, his shoulders are stiff; he’s tense all over, holding himself apart. John supposes he has to, can’t afford to be familiar when he’s the one to decide who gets the chop. Then again, the way he’s eyeing the room, he looks like he might actually enjoy sacking someone.
“Not at this time,” Holmes says, finally.
“OK, well . . . Anyone have any questions?”
Brenda sticks up one hesitant index finger, the way she always does in meetings and she’s shy to talk in front of the heads of department, but before Bill can spot her, Holmes is talking.
“This isn’t about cutbacks,” he tells her briskly. When Brenda just stares at him, he frowns. “That is what you were wondering, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but how did you . . . ?”
“Obvious, really. It’s most people’s first thought when an independent consultant comes into their place of employment. And it’s evident you’re worried you’ll be sacked first - which, considering your age, is likely, as those closer to retirement are statistically more likely to be let go. Judging by your clothes - decent but a bit old and clearly not ironed - and your hair - hardly brushed - your interest in your job is flagging, but you’re hoping to coast through the last few years of your career until you can leave here with a more generous pension.”
Brenda just blinks at him, color rising to her cheeks, and touches her hair self-consciously. It does look rather like she hasn’t brushed it.
“You needn’t worry,” Holmes continues. “Your Head Office isn’t interested in cutting back staff. I can’t guarantee that a few people won’t be let go, but most of you have nothing to worry about.” He looks around. “Any other questions, or am I free to get to work?”
“Right,” Bill says slowly. “You’ll be in the conference room, which is just through here.”
Well, John thinks, as the lanky consultant disappears into the conference room, if nothing else, this definitely won’t be boring.
*
Part Two