Fic: Eight Days a Week 4/17, NC-17
Have some of this.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 4/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Jim Moriarty
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Strong language, masturbation
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers, references to "The Great Game"
Word count: 1,213
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.
Previous Parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three
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 all written and I'm now just fine-tuning chapters, which I'm hoping to be able to update every day. Please do let me know if you enjoy!
*
When they get back up to the second floor, someone’s leaning over the reception desk, blocking the entrance as he chats to Molly. John can’t see his face, but he recognizes him from the glaringly yellow band of his underwear, exposed as he leans over the counter. “Hullo, Jim,” he says wearily.
It’s not that he’s got anything against Molly’s boyfriend, really. She’s very happy, and he seems nice enough, but there’s just something about him that rubs John the wrong way. Maybe it’s just the fact that John’s desk is closest to reception, so he always gets an earful of their whispered flirting when Jim comes up from the first floor to pass the time with her, although John would like to think he’s not quite so petty as to hold someone else’s romantic bliss against them.
“Oh, hi, there, John,” Jim drawls, straightening up slowly and giving him an even slower smile. He looks Sherlock up and down. “Who’s your friend, then?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” John explains. “He’s the, ah, consultant.”
“That’s right. I heard London had sent someone to check up on us.” That languid smile spreads even wider for Sherlock. “Hi, I’m Jim,” he says, extending a hand.
“Jim’s in IT,” Molly supplies when Sherlock doesn’t take his hand. “Downstairs?”
“Yes.” Sherlock glances from Jim to Molly and then back, and John wonders what he’s seeing. “Excuse me.” And with that, he brushes past John and Jim and disappears back into the conference room.
“He’s not very friendly, is he?” Molly asks.
John can’t bring himself to disagree.
As he walks back to his desk, John wonders about the exchange between Jim and the consultant. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Jim was coming onto Sherlock, but John doesn’t really think so poorly of Jim that he’s willing to believe he’d do that in front of his own girlfriend. On the other hand, that would explain the creeping feeling John gets sometimes when Jim is around.
The rest of the afternoon passes more or less without incident, although John finds his thoughts drifting back to Sherlock rather more than is strictly necessary. John long ago came to terms with the fact that he occasionally fancies men - he gave up feeling tortured about it after he met Amir during his second year at university - but fantasizing about this particular man in the middle of the office - and while the man in question is only a few feet away, no less - doesn’t seem terribly wise.
Still, it’s been a long while since his last serious relationship, and he can hardly fault himself for being attracted to someone as dead sexy as Sherlock Holmes. It’s ridiculous, really, how good-looking the man is; John wasn’t even sure people that attractive existed in real life. All the same, it’s probably a bad idea to start lusting after the man who might very well fire him tomorrow, and so John does his best to put the thought out of his head and focus on his work.
When he gets home, John has two messages waiting for him on the machine. One’s from Harry, which he deletes immediately without listening to, and the other is from Mike Stamford.
Mike is just about the only person from university John’s kept in touch with. He’s a proper doctor now, having followed the course that John once thought he would take, and sometimes he looks at Mike’s life and feels his jealousy trying to kindle itself into a full burn, but he doesn’t hold that against Mike. Mike’s a good-natured sort, and he’s one of the only people who put up with John when he was at his lowest in the years following the accident. In fact, he’s one of the few people John still speaks with who knew him back then, and John hates him for that, too, in a way, for reminding him of how things used to be. But none of that is Mike’s fault, and it does John absolutely no good dwelling on any of it, so he turns on the telly.
There’s nothing on, though, so John weighs his options and decides to go with his other post-work relaxation technique.
John turns on the shower and shucks off his work clothes. After spending all day in the recycled air of the office, sometimes it feels good to get the film off his skin. And it never hurts that the sound of the shower helps muffle any noise he might make while masturbating, because having his elderly downstairs neighbor ask whether he stubbed his toe the night before was mortifying enough when it happened to him the first time, thanks very much.
In the shower, John lets the spray wash over him and sap the tension from his shoulders. When he’s thoroughly warm and relaxed, he takes himself in hand, stroking slowly to get himself started. Usually at this point, he’d start going back over his greatest hits - Amir, sometimes, or Sarah, the pretty GP he’d dated for two years and whom he sometimes still thinks about marrying. Tonight, though, he’s got someone else on his mind - namely, Sherlock Holmes.
The thought’s tempting - more than tempting. It’s probably not the best idea to be fantasizing about someone who may or may not hold John’s future in his hands, but John’s found that it’s usually better to get these little infatuations out of his system, rather than letting them fester, and, anyway, what’s the harm in just thinking about it?
If he were to think about Sherlock, he definitely wouldn’t think about him in the office. He wouldn’t imagine being called into the conference room just as he had been earlier today, nor would he imagine himself standing in the doorway, saying, “You wanted to see me, Mr. Holmes?”
His hand starts moving faster over his cock, fully hard now, and he bows his head under the spray, feeling the water roll down the back of his neck.
What would Sherlock do to him once the door was closed? Shove him up against it, perhaps, and sink to his knees? Oh, fuck, he bets that mouth is sweet, those full lips, that low, smooth voice. And what he couldn’t take into his mouth, those nimble fingers would address, coasting over John’s hips, tugging his balls, God, just like that.
But before John was too far gone, he’d pull Sherlock up and push him over to the conference table and spread him out on top of all that paper. And that paper would shift under Sherlock’s back when John finally pushed into him and it would feel so fucking good, Sherlock’s hips rising desperately to meet his thrusts, his cock straining to be touched, and John would touch him-touch him-
John has to brace himself against the wall when he comes, and he’s grateful the water’s running because the sound that drags its way out of him is so low and aching that is embarrasses even him.
For a long time, he just leans there, letting the water beat down on his back, until, at last, he’s breathing properly again. Afterwards, he shuts off the shower and dries off and gets into bed, where he falls asleep immediately and doesn’t dream about anything at all.
*
Part Five
Title: Eight Days A Week, 4/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Jim Moriarty
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Strong language, masturbation
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers, references to "The Great Game"
Word count: 1,213
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.
Previous Parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three
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 all written and I'm now just fine-tuning chapters, which I'm hoping to be able to update every day. Please do let me know if you enjoy!
*
When they get back up to the second floor, someone’s leaning over the reception desk, blocking the entrance as he chats to Molly. John can’t see his face, but he recognizes him from the glaringly yellow band of his underwear, exposed as he leans over the counter. “Hullo, Jim,” he says wearily.
It’s not that he’s got anything against Molly’s boyfriend, really. She’s very happy, and he seems nice enough, but there’s just something about him that rubs John the wrong way. Maybe it’s just the fact that John’s desk is closest to reception, so he always gets an earful of their whispered flirting when Jim comes up from the first floor to pass the time with her, although John would like to think he’s not quite so petty as to hold someone else’s romantic bliss against them.
“Oh, hi, there, John,” Jim drawls, straightening up slowly and giving him an even slower smile. He looks Sherlock up and down. “Who’s your friend, then?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” John explains. “He’s the, ah, consultant.”
“That’s right. I heard London had sent someone to check up on us.” That languid smile spreads even wider for Sherlock. “Hi, I’m Jim,” he says, extending a hand.
“Jim’s in IT,” Molly supplies when Sherlock doesn’t take his hand. “Downstairs?”
“Yes.” Sherlock glances from Jim to Molly and then back, and John wonders what he’s seeing. “Excuse me.” And with that, he brushes past John and Jim and disappears back into the conference room.
“He’s not very friendly, is he?” Molly asks.
John can’t bring himself to disagree.
As he walks back to his desk, John wonders about the exchange between Jim and the consultant. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Jim was coming onto Sherlock, but John doesn’t really think so poorly of Jim that he’s willing to believe he’d do that in front of his own girlfriend. On the other hand, that would explain the creeping feeling John gets sometimes when Jim is around.
The rest of the afternoon passes more or less without incident, although John finds his thoughts drifting back to Sherlock rather more than is strictly necessary. John long ago came to terms with the fact that he occasionally fancies men - he gave up feeling tortured about it after he met Amir during his second year at university - but fantasizing about this particular man in the middle of the office - and while the man in question is only a few feet away, no less - doesn’t seem terribly wise.
Still, it’s been a long while since his last serious relationship, and he can hardly fault himself for being attracted to someone as dead sexy as Sherlock Holmes. It’s ridiculous, really, how good-looking the man is; John wasn’t even sure people that attractive existed in real life. All the same, it’s probably a bad idea to start lusting after the man who might very well fire him tomorrow, and so John does his best to put the thought out of his head and focus on his work.
When he gets home, John has two messages waiting for him on the machine. One’s from Harry, which he deletes immediately without listening to, and the other is from Mike Stamford.
Mike is just about the only person from university John’s kept in touch with. He’s a proper doctor now, having followed the course that John once thought he would take, and sometimes he looks at Mike’s life and feels his jealousy trying to kindle itself into a full burn, but he doesn’t hold that against Mike. Mike’s a good-natured sort, and he’s one of the only people who put up with John when he was at his lowest in the years following the accident. In fact, he’s one of the few people John still speaks with who knew him back then, and John hates him for that, too, in a way, for reminding him of how things used to be. But none of that is Mike’s fault, and it does John absolutely no good dwelling on any of it, so he turns on the telly.
There’s nothing on, though, so John weighs his options and decides to go with his other post-work relaxation technique.
John turns on the shower and shucks off his work clothes. After spending all day in the recycled air of the office, sometimes it feels good to get the film off his skin. And it never hurts that the sound of the shower helps muffle any noise he might make while masturbating, because having his elderly downstairs neighbor ask whether he stubbed his toe the night before was mortifying enough when it happened to him the first time, thanks very much.
In the shower, John lets the spray wash over him and sap the tension from his shoulders. When he’s thoroughly warm and relaxed, he takes himself in hand, stroking slowly to get himself started. Usually at this point, he’d start going back over his greatest hits - Amir, sometimes, or Sarah, the pretty GP he’d dated for two years and whom he sometimes still thinks about marrying. Tonight, though, he’s got someone else on his mind - namely, Sherlock Holmes.
The thought’s tempting - more than tempting. It’s probably not the best idea to be fantasizing about someone who may or may not hold John’s future in his hands, but John’s found that it’s usually better to get these little infatuations out of his system, rather than letting them fester, and, anyway, what’s the harm in just thinking about it?
If he were to think about Sherlock, he definitely wouldn’t think about him in the office. He wouldn’t imagine being called into the conference room just as he had been earlier today, nor would he imagine himself standing in the doorway, saying, “You wanted to see me, Mr. Holmes?”
His hand starts moving faster over his cock, fully hard now, and he bows his head under the spray, feeling the water roll down the back of his neck.
What would Sherlock do to him once the door was closed? Shove him up against it, perhaps, and sink to his knees? Oh, fuck, he bets that mouth is sweet, those full lips, that low, smooth voice. And what he couldn’t take into his mouth, those nimble fingers would address, coasting over John’s hips, tugging his balls, God, just like that.
But before John was too far gone, he’d pull Sherlock up and push him over to the conference table and spread him out on top of all that paper. And that paper would shift under Sherlock’s back when John finally pushed into him and it would feel so fucking good, Sherlock’s hips rising desperately to meet his thrusts, his cock straining to be touched, and John would touch him-touch him-
John has to brace himself against the wall when he comes, and he’s grateful the water’s running because the sound that drags its way out of him is so low and aching that is embarrasses even him.
For a long time, he just leans there, letting the water beat down on his back, until, at last, he’s breathing properly again. Afterwards, he shuts off the shower and dries off and gets into bed, where he falls asleep immediately and doesn’t dream about anything at all.
*
Part Five