Eight Days a Week 7/17, R
Yet again.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 7/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray
Rating: R
Warnings: Strong language, some explicit sexual content
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,279
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: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
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 wakes up on Friday morning from a night of the most intense dreams he can ever remember, all of them about Sherlock, that creamy skin and hot, restless mouth, Sherlock’s fingers sliding into him, or his into Sherlock, he’s not sure, some joining so seamless he couldn’t even tell where one of them ended and the other began. Obviously his brain trying to follow up on their abortive encounter of the night before, but, God, doesn’t his subconscious know that he has to look this man in the eye tomorrow without blushing?
He’s dreading going in to work. Whatever anxiety he had last night about seeing Sherlock again this morning has multiplied tenfold, and he seriously considers calling in sick, but that seems like the coward’s way out. He can do this. It’s not like he’s never had an awkward, regrettable sexual encounter before. He braces for the worst and reminds himself it doesn’t matter, anyway, because in a week or so, Sherlock will be gone again. Oh, hell, a week - he’s not going to make it a week. Why can’t he incur some debilitating injury when it would actually be convenient?
No, no, he can do this. It’s going to be fine. This is what he tells himself all morning, in the shower, as he dresses and chokes down his breakfast, in the car in the inevitable morning traffic snarl.
If he thought the walk to the conference room yesterday had felt like a walk to the gallows, the trip from his car to his desk this morning is even worse - like one of those executions where they chop off your head but you keep on living for a little bit longer, watching everything go to shit.
Because the thing is, when he grabbed Sherlock and started snogging him last night, he hadn’t given a moment’s though to the office rumor mill. News spreads like wildfire around here, whether it’s true or not. And while he doesn’t really think Sherlock is the gossiping type, even the slightest breath of a scandal would be all over the place by lunchtime, and that is absolutely the last thing John needs. The flak he would catch would be bad enough - he shudders to think what the lot from the warehouse would say, for one - but that would be nothing compared to all the overly self-conscious speeches about how, really, everyone’s completely fine with it, as if he needs their permission. Not to mention the inevitable well-meaning offers to set him up. No, there’s a reason he doesn’t talk about his personal life at work.
So when he walks through the door at 9 AM sharp, he steels himself for the collective stares of all his coworkers bearing down on him.
But no one seems to notice anything amiss. It’s a morning just like any other. George is cursing out the coffee machine in the break room and Sarita is tuning her handheld wireless to her favorite soft rock classics station. Linda and Michaelson are already bickering across their desks. John never thought this sight would be such a relief.
John gets halfway through the morning without incident, and he’s almost managed to put his panic behind him - after all, Sherlock’s probably not going to say anything, and John’s sure as hell not about to mention it - when, some time just past ten o’clock, a long shadow falls across his desk. John looks up to see Sherlock standing over him and drops his stapler in shock, then proceeds to knock his head on the underside of his desk when he bends down to pick the stapler up. Damn it.
“Something I can do for you, Mr. Holmes?” he says, trying for composure even though he knows he’s well past any hope of playing it cool.
The small smile that flashes on Sherlock’s lips, quickly squashed, tells him that Sherlock knows it, too. “May I have a word?”
Fucking hell. “Er, yeah - I mean, of course.” Fuck, what had he been thinking last night?
“In private?” Sherlock prompts.
Fucking fuck. “Right.” John forces himself out of his chair and follows Sherlock into the conference room. Sherlock goes through the door ahead of him and John takes a moment to compose himself as he shuts the door, screwing up his courage and trying to figure out what on earth he’s going to say to smooth this over.
Only when he turns around and opens his mouth, Bill is sitting in the third chair.
Oh, Christ, it just keeps getting worse. Forget being grist for the rumor mill, now Sherlock’s gone and reported him for indecent conduct or something. God, this probably counts as sexual harassment. Sherlock wouldn’t sue, would he? He’d been so sure in the moment that Sherlock was interested, and he never would have acted on the impulse if he hadn’t at least thought Sherlock might return his feelings.
“So, I guess you’ve probably got an idea why you’re here,” Bill says and John’s blood runs cold.
“I . . .” What can he even say? How can he tell Sherlock how sorry he is, how he would never do anything he knew Sherlock didn’t want?
“I’d like your help,” Sherlock says.
Wait, what?
His mouth must be hanging open, because Bill gives him an odd look. “Mr. Holmes has asked me if I’d be willing to lend you to him for a bit while he’s here. I thought he might’ve mentioned it to you last night.”
Sherlock’s expression is utterly unreadable. “I find myself in need of an assistant in this matter, and of all the employees I’ve seen, I think you would be . . . uniquely suited to my needs.”
Despite the lingering thread of panic still working through him, John feels his dick jump at Sherlock’s choice of words, and he has to clench his fists under the table to fight the feeling down. “Ah . . . An assistant?”
“He swears it wouldn’t be anything too strenuous,” Bill assures him blithely. “Just helping him go through files, explaining how things are run around here.”
“Your help would be indispensible,” Sherlock says mildly, and, good God, is he just fucking with John now?
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, shooting Bill a pleading look that he hopes against hope his boss will understand.
“I don’t have any problem with it,” Bill says, giving him a look back that obviously says he thinks John’s gone mad. “It won’t be for long. He’s only going to be here for a couple of weeks at the most.”
“I guess . . .”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Problem?”
“Well, it’s just . . .” What can he possibly say to this? Because I was snogging him last night, doesn’t seem like a very good answer, nor does, Because I’ve been thinking about putting his cock in my mouth since the moment I met him. “I’ve got rather a lot on at the moment,” he finishes weakly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bill says, smiling like he’s being fucking helpful here. When this is all over, John’s going to kill him. “George can take care of anything that needs immediate doing while you’re busy, and everything else can wait.”
“That’s settled, then,” Sherlock says smoothly.
John tries to say, “Great,” but all that comes out is an inarticulate little choking sound that sounds like, “Gah.”
Bill gives him a quizzical little smile and stands up. “All right, then, I’ll leave you lads to it.” He claps John reassuringly on the shoulder on his way out and John prays for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow him.
*
Part Eight
Title: Eight Days A Week, 7/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray
Rating: R
Warnings: Strong language, some explicit sexual content
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,279
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: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
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 wakes up on Friday morning from a night of the most intense dreams he can ever remember, all of them about Sherlock, that creamy skin and hot, restless mouth, Sherlock’s fingers sliding into him, or his into Sherlock, he’s not sure, some joining so seamless he couldn’t even tell where one of them ended and the other began. Obviously his brain trying to follow up on their abortive encounter of the night before, but, God, doesn’t his subconscious know that he has to look this man in the eye tomorrow without blushing?
He’s dreading going in to work. Whatever anxiety he had last night about seeing Sherlock again this morning has multiplied tenfold, and he seriously considers calling in sick, but that seems like the coward’s way out. He can do this. It’s not like he’s never had an awkward, regrettable sexual encounter before. He braces for the worst and reminds himself it doesn’t matter, anyway, because in a week or so, Sherlock will be gone again. Oh, hell, a week - he’s not going to make it a week. Why can’t he incur some debilitating injury when it would actually be convenient?
No, no, he can do this. It’s going to be fine. This is what he tells himself all morning, in the shower, as he dresses and chokes down his breakfast, in the car in the inevitable morning traffic snarl.
If he thought the walk to the conference room yesterday had felt like a walk to the gallows, the trip from his car to his desk this morning is even worse - like one of those executions where they chop off your head but you keep on living for a little bit longer, watching everything go to shit.
Because the thing is, when he grabbed Sherlock and started snogging him last night, he hadn’t given a moment’s though to the office rumor mill. News spreads like wildfire around here, whether it’s true or not. And while he doesn’t really think Sherlock is the gossiping type, even the slightest breath of a scandal would be all over the place by lunchtime, and that is absolutely the last thing John needs. The flak he would catch would be bad enough - he shudders to think what the lot from the warehouse would say, for one - but that would be nothing compared to all the overly self-conscious speeches about how, really, everyone’s completely fine with it, as if he needs their permission. Not to mention the inevitable well-meaning offers to set him up. No, there’s a reason he doesn’t talk about his personal life at work.
So when he walks through the door at 9 AM sharp, he steels himself for the collective stares of all his coworkers bearing down on him.
But no one seems to notice anything amiss. It’s a morning just like any other. George is cursing out the coffee machine in the break room and Sarita is tuning her handheld wireless to her favorite soft rock classics station. Linda and Michaelson are already bickering across their desks. John never thought this sight would be such a relief.
John gets halfway through the morning without incident, and he’s almost managed to put his panic behind him - after all, Sherlock’s probably not going to say anything, and John’s sure as hell not about to mention it - when, some time just past ten o’clock, a long shadow falls across his desk. John looks up to see Sherlock standing over him and drops his stapler in shock, then proceeds to knock his head on the underside of his desk when he bends down to pick the stapler up. Damn it.
“Something I can do for you, Mr. Holmes?” he says, trying for composure even though he knows he’s well past any hope of playing it cool.
The small smile that flashes on Sherlock’s lips, quickly squashed, tells him that Sherlock knows it, too. “May I have a word?”
Fucking hell. “Er, yeah - I mean, of course.” Fuck, what had he been thinking last night?
“In private?” Sherlock prompts.
Fucking fuck. “Right.” John forces himself out of his chair and follows Sherlock into the conference room. Sherlock goes through the door ahead of him and John takes a moment to compose himself as he shuts the door, screwing up his courage and trying to figure out what on earth he’s going to say to smooth this over.
Only when he turns around and opens his mouth, Bill is sitting in the third chair.
Oh, Christ, it just keeps getting worse. Forget being grist for the rumor mill, now Sherlock’s gone and reported him for indecent conduct or something. God, this probably counts as sexual harassment. Sherlock wouldn’t sue, would he? He’d been so sure in the moment that Sherlock was interested, and he never would have acted on the impulse if he hadn’t at least thought Sherlock might return his feelings.
“So, I guess you’ve probably got an idea why you’re here,” Bill says and John’s blood runs cold.
“I . . .” What can he even say? How can he tell Sherlock how sorry he is, how he would never do anything he knew Sherlock didn’t want?
“I’d like your help,” Sherlock says.
Wait, what?
His mouth must be hanging open, because Bill gives him an odd look. “Mr. Holmes has asked me if I’d be willing to lend you to him for a bit while he’s here. I thought he might’ve mentioned it to you last night.”
Sherlock’s expression is utterly unreadable. “I find myself in need of an assistant in this matter, and of all the employees I’ve seen, I think you would be . . . uniquely suited to my needs.”
Despite the lingering thread of panic still working through him, John feels his dick jump at Sherlock’s choice of words, and he has to clench his fists under the table to fight the feeling down. “Ah . . . An assistant?”
“He swears it wouldn’t be anything too strenuous,” Bill assures him blithely. “Just helping him go through files, explaining how things are run around here.”
“Your help would be indispensible,” Sherlock says mildly, and, good God, is he just fucking with John now?
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, shooting Bill a pleading look that he hopes against hope his boss will understand.
“I don’t have any problem with it,” Bill says, giving him a look back that obviously says he thinks John’s gone mad. “It won’t be for long. He’s only going to be here for a couple of weeks at the most.”
“I guess . . .”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Problem?”
“Well, it’s just . . .” What can he possibly say to this? Because I was snogging him last night, doesn’t seem like a very good answer, nor does, Because I’ve been thinking about putting his cock in my mouth since the moment I met him. “I’ve got rather a lot on at the moment,” he finishes weakly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bill says, smiling like he’s being fucking helpful here. When this is all over, John’s going to kill him. “George can take care of anything that needs immediate doing while you’re busy, and everything else can wait.”
“That’s settled, then,” Sherlock says smoothly.
John tries to say, “Great,” but all that comes out is an inarticulate little choking sound that sounds like, “Gah.”
Bill gives him a quizzical little smile and stands up. “All right, then, I’ll leave you lads to it.” He claps John reassuringly on the shoulder on his way out and John prays for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow him.
*
Part Eight