Have some more.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 6/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Warnings: Some strong language, explicit sexual moments
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 907
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,
Part Five 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!
*
John waits until Bill’s inside and the front hall light comes on before he turns to Sherlock, now in the passenger’s seat, and says, “Where are you staying?” He swallows against the dryness in his throat and cuts his eyes away, focusing pointedly on the non-existent traffic as he pulls back onto the road.
“The Holiday Inn Express,” Sherlock says, and John has the strangest feeling that Sherlock knows exactly what he’s thinking.
They pass the ride in uneasy silence - well, John’s uneasy, anyway. He tries to make conversation, but Sherlock seems perfectly content to lean on the window and watch the darkened streets pass them by.
When they reach the hotel, John offers to help John carry the giant wooden toucan they won up to his room, and then mentally kicks himself because of course Sherlock will see right through that. But Sherlock doesn’t turn him down. Instead, he says, “Yes, all right,” a catlike half-smile playing on his lips.
They get quite a look from the night clerk at the front desk as they drag the cutout across the lobby. By the time they get into the lift, John can’t suppress the laugh rising up in him.
“Well, this is one of the more ridiculous things I’ve done in a while,” he says, trying to stifle his giggles.
“It was your idea,” Sherlock replies, but in the mirrored door of the lift, John can see that he’s smiling.
They haul the toucan down the hall to Sherlock’s room and John supports it while Sherlock digs out his keycard and unlocks the door.
“All right, where do you want it?” John asks as he leads the way into the darkened room.
“Wherever you like,” Sherlock says, and only then does John realize what he’s said.
Wait, did Sherlock really mean that? He wouldn’t be surprised if the other man had missed the subtext, but, God, what if he hadn’t? They fairly drop the toucan in the corner and John turns to face Sherlock.
In the dark, John can’t read Sherlock’s body language or expression at all. He knows he’s not drunk - he’s not even tipsy, he had one beer nearly two hours ago - but, good Lord, he feels drunk. His ears are buzzing and he feels strangely light-headed.
He’s so close to Sherlock - how did they get so close? Oh, holy hell, this is such a bad idea, but John’s fairly certain he’s gone temporarily insane, because he’s closing his hands around the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and pulling him down for a kiss.
Sherlock makes a soft noise at the back of his throat - surprise? desire? John has no idea - but he doesn’t stop it happening. Quite the opposite, in fact. Before John has time to react, he’s being crowded back against the window - it’s cold against his back even through the curtains, but he hardly notices, because Sherlock’s mouth tastes so fucking good, clean and brisk and just slightly of quinine, and he can’t help tangling his hands in those dark curls.
Sherlock’s hands are on him, sliding down to John’s arse and pressing their hips together and, oh, fuck, John hasn’t been imagining it, it wasn’t just him: Sherlock is ready for this, has been wanting this, too. He’s so hot, so close, grinding his hips against John’s so that there’s no mistaking his purpose.
“Oh, God, yes,” John gasps against that incredible mouth.
But the next moment, that mouth is gone, and Sherlock’s hands are easing off him. It’s so quiet in the room that John can hear his own ragged breathing. He hears Sherlock draw a cautious breath before he speaks.
“John,” he says slowly, and John can just make out the sharp edge of his cheekbone, backlit by the light from the still-open door. “While I’m flattered by your interest, I think it would be best if we kept our relationship strictly professional.”
Wait, what? Where did that come from? One minute, he’s writhing like he’s fit to fuck John straight through his clothes, and how it’s just business?
“It would be . . . safer for everyone concerned, I think,” Sherlock adds.
Safer? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Oh. In other words, better they don’t get tangled up with one another, because there’s still a very real chance Sherlock will be sacking him soon. Right. John clears his throat, smoothes down the front of his shirt, then clears his throat again. When he’s fairly certain he’ll be able to speak without his voice breaking, he says, “No, you’re right. Definitely. Professional. That’s . . .” He swallows. “I’ll just . . . go.”
He pushes Sherlock away from him and hurries from the room, holding his breath while he jams the button for the lift and swearing silently as he waits for it to arrive, telling himself over and over not to look back to see if Sherlock’s door is still open, not to think about how every inch of his body is still thrumming from Sherlock’s touch.
Once he’s safe inside the lift, he slumps against the wall and groans, covering his face with his hands. What’s wrong with him? No, really, what was he thinking? But he knows what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking. Sherlock is gorgeous and John is lonely and he just stopped thinking and now he’s going to pay for it.
This is going to be awkward as hell tomorrow.
*
Part Seven