Fic: Eight Days a Week 5/17, PG-13
And again.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 5/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,384
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, Part Four
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!
*
By Thursday afternoon, Sherlock is finished with staff interviews, and seems to have entered a second phase of his audit, or whatever it is, which involves a lot of pacing and talking to himself. John’s desk is right near the conference room and the low murmur of Sherlock’s monologue has been running through his head all day. He can’t hear much of what he’s saying, but that hasn’t stopped the sound of that deep voice from being distracting in the extreme.
By half seven, John and Bill are the last ones left in the office, save Sherlock, who’s still shut up in the conference room. Thursdays are his and Bill’s usual night out, and they usually stay a bit late so they won’t pick up any other company on their way to the pub.
They started going out for drinks not too long after John was first hired, and, in many ways, John knows it was those early evenings of commiseration that finally let him pull himself together.
It took him a long time to deal with the physical ramifications of the accident, just relearning how to use his limbs, getting back to his old strength, and the emotional damage lingered well after the physical therapy was over. He spent the next few years blowing through a series of shitty, dead-end jobs and equally disastrous relationships. It always happened the same way: he’d find something (or someone), telling himself anything would do, and things would go all right for a bit, but after a while - six months, three months, sometimes more, sometimes less - he would inevitably get the feeling that some invisible pressure was building up around him, bearing down on him, a suffocating weight, and he would snap.
But Bill had seen something worth investing in, and over the course of John’s first year with the company, he’d managed to draw it out, slowly, bit by bit. John’s not happy now, exactly, but he’s found a center, some kind of still point inside himself that he didn’t even realize he’d lost. He’ll take dull and predictable over splintering apart any day. And although he knows he’ll never be able to explain it to Bill, John understands that, in some very real sense, Bill saved his life by hiring him. So now, John takes Bill out for a pint every Thursday, because it’s the closest he can come to saying thank you.
John finally shuts down his computer around quarter to seven and goes to collect Bill. As they head out, Bill points to the still-lighted conference room. Through the half-closed blinds, John can see Sherlock’s dark shape bent over the table.
“Should we invite him along?” Bill asks in a low voice.
John resists the urge to bite his lip. “He won’t say yes.”
“Maybe not, but it’d be a nice gesture. He doesn’t know anyone in town. I’d kill myself if I had to go home alone to an empty hotel room every night.”
Who says he goes home alone? some wicked part of John’s brain supplies, and he works hard to crush the thought of Sherlock picking someone up and bringing them back to his hotel room. “Go ahead and ask, then, if you’re so keen.”
Bill shrugs, as if to say, Why not? and raps on the conference room door before sticking his head in.
“We’re off for the evening,” he says. “Sticking around a bit longer?”
“No, actually,” Sherlock says. “I’ll just get my coat.”
“Sure, of course.” He leans against the door, arms clasped together, while Sherlock puts his papers in order and grabs his coat off the rack in the corner. Then the room goes dark and then Sherlock is locking the door after himself, which John thinks is a bit excessive, as the building has a security system, but it’s none of his business.
They walk out of the office together and stand waiting for the lift.
“Listen,” Bill says when the doors open, “John and I are headed over to the King’s Arms. They do a little pub quiz on Thursdays - not a very erudite crowd, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to come along if you like.”
John fully expects Sherlock to decline, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say yes right away, either. Instead, his gaze is searching John’s face, considering, and John would give his left arm to know what’s going through his head right now.
“You should come,” John says, although he’s not sure why he says it. “It’s a laugh, and I guarantee you there’s absolutely nothing else going on tonight.”
“All right,” Sherlock says at last. There’s almost even a smile on his face, which sends a little shiver down John’s spine.
The lift lets them out on the ground floor and they walk through the car park to John’s car. This is the way it always goes - Bill leaves his car home on Thursdays and John drives, because John takes drink driving more seriously than most and doesn’t mind going a bit out of his way to take Bill home if it means they all wake up in one piece on Friday morning. Sherlock squeezes his long legs into the back seat and sits there awkwardly, watching John in the rear view mirror. It’s more than a little unnerving to find Sherlock looking at him every time he changes lanes, and he has to force down the voice in his head that suggests that maybe John is the reason he’s agreed to come out tonight.
It’s only about a five minute drive to the KA, and it’s not long before they’re settled in their usual booth in the back, John and Bill both with a pint and some chips between them, Sherlock with what looks like a gin and tonic sitting almost untouched in front of him.
The quiz starts up before they have much chance to make small talk. Neither John nor Bill is particularly brilliant at trivia, but there really isn’t much else to do in town and this sure beats sitting at home watching crap telly.
They play as a team of three and Sherlock proceeds to dominate every round except those on entertainment and popular culture, which he seems to have not even the most cursory knowledge of. But in almost everything else, the man is unbeatable.
And, all right, John really can’t help it. It’s bloody hot. John’s always had a soft spot for someone with a good head on their shoulders, but Sherlock is ridiculous. There doesn’t seem to be anything he doesn’t know.
“Which bird is referred to collectively as an unkindness?”
“Ravens,” Sherlock answers without hesitating. Bill puts it down.
“Which letter is represented in Morse Code by three dots?”
“S.”
“What is the chemical symbol for the element mercury?”
“Oh, uh . . . “ John struggles to remember, while Bill chides him, “Come on, college boy!”
“Hg,” Sherlock supplies, and John swears, because of course it is.
“Who is the Greek god of medicine?”
“Asclepius,” John says, a half second before Sherlock can get it out, and the man almost looks impressed. John tries not to let himself smile too broadly.
“How long does it take Jupiter to orbit the sun?”
Sherlock just frowns, like he’s missed some joke, and John and Bill look at one another.
“Fuck if I know,” Bill says. “Eleven years.”
“What!” John exclaims.
“Oh, like you’ve got a better guess.”
John rolls his eyes. “Fine, write it down.”
With Sherlock on their team, they win by a landslide, and John and Bill decide unanimously that Sherlock is taking home they prize they collect: an oversized plywood cutout of the Guinness toucan balancing a pint on its beak, almost as tall as John and resplendent in its ugliness.
“Why would I want that?” Sherlock asks, looking at it like it’s going to bite him.
“Call it a souvenir of your time here,” John says, laughing, almost as much at Sherlock’s expression of horror as in delight at winning.
“Oh, hell,” Bill says, looking at his watch. “Is that the time? I’ve got to get home or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Come on,” John says to Sherlock, picking up one end of the giant toucan, “I’ll help you carry this out to the car.”
*
Notes: One of our locals when I was living in England was the King's Arms, so, uh, shout out to the KA! It's been a long time since I've been to a pub quiz, so sorry if I've fudged the details a bit. Some of quiz questions were filched from the Telegraph Pub Quiz. For the record, Bill is not far off when he guesses that Jupiter's orbit is 11 years. It's 11.8 years. And, lastly, there is a giant toucan. I'm sorry.
*
Part Six
Title: Eight Days A Week, 5/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,384
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, Part Four
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!
*
By Thursday afternoon, Sherlock is finished with staff interviews, and seems to have entered a second phase of his audit, or whatever it is, which involves a lot of pacing and talking to himself. John’s desk is right near the conference room and the low murmur of Sherlock’s monologue has been running through his head all day. He can’t hear much of what he’s saying, but that hasn’t stopped the sound of that deep voice from being distracting in the extreme.
By half seven, John and Bill are the last ones left in the office, save Sherlock, who’s still shut up in the conference room. Thursdays are his and Bill’s usual night out, and they usually stay a bit late so they won’t pick up any other company on their way to the pub.
They started going out for drinks not too long after John was first hired, and, in many ways, John knows it was those early evenings of commiseration that finally let him pull himself together.
It took him a long time to deal with the physical ramifications of the accident, just relearning how to use his limbs, getting back to his old strength, and the emotional damage lingered well after the physical therapy was over. He spent the next few years blowing through a series of shitty, dead-end jobs and equally disastrous relationships. It always happened the same way: he’d find something (or someone), telling himself anything would do, and things would go all right for a bit, but after a while - six months, three months, sometimes more, sometimes less - he would inevitably get the feeling that some invisible pressure was building up around him, bearing down on him, a suffocating weight, and he would snap.
But Bill had seen something worth investing in, and over the course of John’s first year with the company, he’d managed to draw it out, slowly, bit by bit. John’s not happy now, exactly, but he’s found a center, some kind of still point inside himself that he didn’t even realize he’d lost. He’ll take dull and predictable over splintering apart any day. And although he knows he’ll never be able to explain it to Bill, John understands that, in some very real sense, Bill saved his life by hiring him. So now, John takes Bill out for a pint every Thursday, because it’s the closest he can come to saying thank you.
John finally shuts down his computer around quarter to seven and goes to collect Bill. As they head out, Bill points to the still-lighted conference room. Through the half-closed blinds, John can see Sherlock’s dark shape bent over the table.
“Should we invite him along?” Bill asks in a low voice.
John resists the urge to bite his lip. “He won’t say yes.”
“Maybe not, but it’d be a nice gesture. He doesn’t know anyone in town. I’d kill myself if I had to go home alone to an empty hotel room every night.”
Who says he goes home alone? some wicked part of John’s brain supplies, and he works hard to crush the thought of Sherlock picking someone up and bringing them back to his hotel room. “Go ahead and ask, then, if you’re so keen.”
Bill shrugs, as if to say, Why not? and raps on the conference room door before sticking his head in.
“We’re off for the evening,” he says. “Sticking around a bit longer?”
“No, actually,” Sherlock says. “I’ll just get my coat.”
“Sure, of course.” He leans against the door, arms clasped together, while Sherlock puts his papers in order and grabs his coat off the rack in the corner. Then the room goes dark and then Sherlock is locking the door after himself, which John thinks is a bit excessive, as the building has a security system, but it’s none of his business.
They walk out of the office together and stand waiting for the lift.
“Listen,” Bill says when the doors open, “John and I are headed over to the King’s Arms. They do a little pub quiz on Thursdays - not a very erudite crowd, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to come along if you like.”
John fully expects Sherlock to decline, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say yes right away, either. Instead, his gaze is searching John’s face, considering, and John would give his left arm to know what’s going through his head right now.
“You should come,” John says, although he’s not sure why he says it. “It’s a laugh, and I guarantee you there’s absolutely nothing else going on tonight.”
“All right,” Sherlock says at last. There’s almost even a smile on his face, which sends a little shiver down John’s spine.
The lift lets them out on the ground floor and they walk through the car park to John’s car. This is the way it always goes - Bill leaves his car home on Thursdays and John drives, because John takes drink driving more seriously than most and doesn’t mind going a bit out of his way to take Bill home if it means they all wake up in one piece on Friday morning. Sherlock squeezes his long legs into the back seat and sits there awkwardly, watching John in the rear view mirror. It’s more than a little unnerving to find Sherlock looking at him every time he changes lanes, and he has to force down the voice in his head that suggests that maybe John is the reason he’s agreed to come out tonight.
It’s only about a five minute drive to the KA, and it’s not long before they’re settled in their usual booth in the back, John and Bill both with a pint and some chips between them, Sherlock with what looks like a gin and tonic sitting almost untouched in front of him.
The quiz starts up before they have much chance to make small talk. Neither John nor Bill is particularly brilliant at trivia, but there really isn’t much else to do in town and this sure beats sitting at home watching crap telly.
They play as a team of three and Sherlock proceeds to dominate every round except those on entertainment and popular culture, which he seems to have not even the most cursory knowledge of. But in almost everything else, the man is unbeatable.
And, all right, John really can’t help it. It’s bloody hot. John’s always had a soft spot for someone with a good head on their shoulders, but Sherlock is ridiculous. There doesn’t seem to be anything he doesn’t know.
“Which bird is referred to collectively as an unkindness?”
“Ravens,” Sherlock answers without hesitating. Bill puts it down.
“Which letter is represented in Morse Code by three dots?”
“S.”
“What is the chemical symbol for the element mercury?”
“Oh, uh . . . “ John struggles to remember, while Bill chides him, “Come on, college boy!”
“Hg,” Sherlock supplies, and John swears, because of course it is.
“Who is the Greek god of medicine?”
“Asclepius,” John says, a half second before Sherlock can get it out, and the man almost looks impressed. John tries not to let himself smile too broadly.
“How long does it take Jupiter to orbit the sun?”
Sherlock just frowns, like he’s missed some joke, and John and Bill look at one another.
“Fuck if I know,” Bill says. “Eleven years.”
“What!” John exclaims.
“Oh, like you’ve got a better guess.”
John rolls his eyes. “Fine, write it down.”
With Sherlock on their team, they win by a landslide, and John and Bill decide unanimously that Sherlock is taking home they prize they collect: an oversized plywood cutout of the Guinness toucan balancing a pint on its beak, almost as tall as John and resplendent in its ugliness.
“Why would I want that?” Sherlock asks, looking at it like it’s going to bite him.
“Call it a souvenir of your time here,” John says, laughing, almost as much at Sherlock’s expression of horror as in delight at winning.
“Oh, hell,” Bill says, looking at his watch. “Is that the time? I’ve got to get home or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Come on,” John says to Sherlock, picking up one end of the giant toucan, “I’ll help you carry this out to the car.”
*
Notes: One of our locals when I was living in England was the King's Arms, so, uh, shout out to the KA! It's been a long time since I've been to a pub quiz, so sorry if I've fudged the details a bit. Some of quiz questions were filched from the Telegraph Pub Quiz. For the record, Bill is not far off when he guesses that Jupiter's orbit is 11 years. It's 11.8 years. And, lastly, there is a giant toucan. I'm sorry.
*
Part Six