Eight Days a Week 8/17, PG-13
A little late today.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 8/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,868
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, Seven
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!
*
Sitting across the table from Sherlock, it doesn’t escape John’s notice that this is exactly the position he’s been fantasizing about all week. But his current position is decidedly less sexy than it was in his head, what with the dull tension in his gut and the sweat cooling on his lower back.
He feels vaguely like he’s just run up several flights of stairs, and he’d like nothing more than to put his head between his knees and breathe deeply until all of this - the office, Sherlock Holmes, and his mad desire for the man - just fades away.
Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. Sherlock’s made sure of that. He’s made sure that John will be in close contact with him every single day until the consultant leaves, thus assuring that his stupid infatuation won’t just dissipate the way it should.
What John can’t work out is what Sherlock is playing at here. Is he trying to punish John somehow for coming on to him? He doesn’t seem that vindictive, but, then, John doesn’t really know the man that well. Or is he trying to give them more opportunities to see one another? The thought’s tempting, but then why would he have turned John down the night before? And then there’s the third possibility: that Sherlock Holmes can simply shut off his feelings and do what needs to be done without the slightest twinge of sentiment, and somehow John finds that explanation far more unsettling than the other two options.
“So,” John says, when he finally finds his voice, “what is it you want me to do, exactly?”
Sherlock stands up and crosses the room, and for a delirious half-second, John thinks he’s coming towards him, but he walks right by and picks up a large stack of files from the floor. These he deposits on an empty spot on the table in front of John.
“You can start by checking these for transfers beginning with the code 007-201. Any transfers with that prefix, flag them in yellow.” He tosses John a pack of yellow adhesive tabs, which John catches by reflex alone.
And then, just like that, Sherlock forgets he’s there. He immerses himself in his own work, reading through piles of paperwork at a frankly intimidating speed. John decides that if Sherlock can put the business of last night behind him, then so can he, and digs into the work.
They pass the next couple hours in companionable silence, consulting with one another only occasionally to clarify some question or other. It’s actually quite comfortable. When John finishes with his first task, Sherlock gives him another to do. He doesn’t seem to mind - or even really notice - when John gets up to use the loo or stretch his legs. Sometimes Sherlock gets up himself, pacing or staring out the window, occasionally muttering quietly to himself. Once or twice, John glances up to find Sherlock looking at him, but the other man’s eyes always slide away quickly, and neither of them makes anything of it.
Around noon, John says, “I’m going to get something to eat. D’you want anything?”
“Mm, I think not,” Sherlock replies, checking his watch.
When John comes back a few minutes later with a fresh cup of tea and a bag of crisps from the machine, he thinks at first that the room is empty, but then he spots the tips of Sherlock’s shoes on the other side of the table.
He walks halfway around the table to find Sherlock stretched out on the floor, his eyes closed and fingers steepled in front of his lips.
“Are you-” He stops himself, thinking maybe the man’s asleep, but he can see Sherlock’s eyes moving rapidly behind his eyelids, his lips moving silently as he whispers to himself. “All right?”
“Hm?” Sherlock’s eyes snap open. “Oh, yes. Perfectly well.”
John can tell when he’s been dismissed, and so he settles back down to the task at hand.
A little while later, Sherlock exclaims, “Of course!” and shoots to his feet. In a flurry of movement, he rearranges several stacks of files, throwing some out of the way willy-nilly and tearing others apart in search of some particular slip or receipt. Having found what he’s looking for, he sticks several pieces of paper up on the whiteboard on the far wall of the conference room and then falls back into his chair, slipping into deep contemplation of the board.
John spends a moment looking, too, but if there’s logic to it, it’s beyond him. There are a couple of packing slips, an invoice or two, some bank statements, but none of it seems to fit together into any discernable pattern. Glancing over at the consultant, looking as intense in reflection as he is in everything else, it occurs to John then that he might as well just go ahead and accept that Sherlock is simply not like other people.
It’s quitting time almost before John realizes the afternoon is out. He listens to everyone gathering up their things and saying their goodbyes, but, strangely, he isn’t the least bit anxious to be getting home. He isn’t even all that tired. He can’t pretend reviewing old paperwork is the most gripping work he’s ever done, but it’s definitely different, and, really, he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.
Around six, he gets up and stretches out his shoulder, which always aches a bit when he’s been leaning on it too much. His eyes are dry from all the recycled air, and while he’s not really ready to stop working, he could use a break. Sherlock, too, is starting to get a bit restless.
“Fancy a curry?”
“What?” Sherlock looks up at him, frowning.
“Curry,” John says slowly, teasing. “It’s food. You eat it?”
Sherlock snorts. “I’m aware,” he says, but he’s smiling, just a little.
“Well?” John can feel his smile getting wider. It feels good to joke around with someone, even someone as intractable as Sherlock Holmes. “Do you want to get a takeaway? I’m pretty hungry, and I know for a fact you haven’t eaten all day.”
Sherlock checks his watch and for a moment seems to consider the issue.
“I know a very good Thai place,” he says coaxingly. “Spring rolls I’d kill a man for.”
“Yes, all right,” Sherlock says curtly, and John counts it as a victory.
John places the order - Sherlock says he doesn’t care what he eats, but John makes a guess, anyway, as he’s usually pretty good at ordering for people - and they keep working while they wait for the food to show up. It’s nice, really. He could get used to this.
Except he can’t, obviously, because in a few days’ time, Sherlock will be done with whatever it is he’s doing here and he’ll leave and John will be alone again and everything will be just the same as it was before. But by then John will have had some taste of what it might’ve been like if things had turned out differently for him, and he has the feeling that that it will be hard to forget.
John’s mobile buzzes a little while later and he goes downstairs to collect their order. When he gets back, with some plastic cutlery filched from the break room, there are a few more pieces of paper pinned to the dry wipe board, and Sherlock is standing there, examining them carefully.
For a moment, John is caught in the doorway, stuck on the sight of him. He’s gorgeous, of course, but it’s not just his obvious physical qualities. Sure, he’s Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, right out of some international spy thriller, but it’s more than that. It’s Sherlock’s intensity that John finds most magnetic, the way he focuses everything all at once on whatever it is he’s interested in. It makes John wish he knew how that felt, to be the sole object of someone’s unerring attention, to matter that much.
He’s got to stop thinking like that. Nothing’s going to happen. Sherlock’s made that perfectly clear. He shakes his head, puts the bag down on the table. “Food’s here,” he says, and Sherlock looks over at him, surprised, like he’d forgotten about John entirely in the short time he was gone.
Of course, John thinks. He probably had.
Sherlock works more than he eats, but he does seem to appreciate the four bites he takes of his meal. John, for his part, is starving, and grateful for something to do that isn’t pining over Sherlock, and so he makes short work of all of his food and also a fair portion of Sherlock’s, as well.
When they’ve both had their fill and John has sunken in into the lethargy of a full stomach, he finally feels relaxed enough to ask the question he’s been itching to ask all day.
“So . . . What is it you’re actually doing here?”
“An independent review,” Sherlock answers, and John’s impressed at the way he manages to tell both the truth and a lie at once.
“I mean what you’re really doing here.” He’s careful to keep voice calm, his expression neutral. “This isn’t any ordinary audit.”
For a long moment, Sherlock just looks at him, and John thinks he might almost approve of whatever it is he sees in John’s face. “No, it isn’t.”
“So? What, then?”
Sherlock clasps his fingers in front of his lips, that prayer-like position John’s already come to understand means the other man is thinking hard. At last, he says, “For some time now, someone within this office has been embezzling funds. This money has turned up in the hands of a number of dangerous international criminal organizations, including drug traffickers and a smuggling ring. I’ve been asked by an . . . interested party to look into the matter.”
And this is what it feels like when the penny drops. “So you’re not a corporate downsizer.”
“Not quite.”
“So, what, then? Are you with the police? The government? Are you a spy?”
“Oh, no,” Sherlock says, a bit smugly, “I wasn’t lying when I said I’m an independent consultant, it’s just not the way they think.” He gestures to the empty office beyond the conference room door. “I have a particular skill set, and from time to time, I have occasion to apply my expertise to criminal cases.”
“And somebody asked you to investigate this embezzlement case.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows rise, mocking. “Yes, John, that’s very good.”
“That’s what you do for a living, investigate crimes on your own? Like a consulting detective?”
Sherlock blinks, apparently surprised. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but, yes, I suppose it could be a livelihood, of sorts.”
Well, OK. How did he think of it, then, John wonders. A hobby? God, he probably did. He can’t help grinning at the thought of Sherlock running headlong into danger just for the kick of it.
“So what more are you going to tell me about this case of yours? Am I allowed to know, or do you have to kill me?”
Sherlock snorts. “I wouldn’t dream of killing you, John. That would be terribly dull.”
*
Part Nine
Title: Eight Days A Week, 8/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,868
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, Seven
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!
*
Sitting across the table from Sherlock, it doesn’t escape John’s notice that this is exactly the position he’s been fantasizing about all week. But his current position is decidedly less sexy than it was in his head, what with the dull tension in his gut and the sweat cooling on his lower back.
He feels vaguely like he’s just run up several flights of stairs, and he’d like nothing more than to put his head between his knees and breathe deeply until all of this - the office, Sherlock Holmes, and his mad desire for the man - just fades away.
Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. Sherlock’s made sure of that. He’s made sure that John will be in close contact with him every single day until the consultant leaves, thus assuring that his stupid infatuation won’t just dissipate the way it should.
What John can’t work out is what Sherlock is playing at here. Is he trying to punish John somehow for coming on to him? He doesn’t seem that vindictive, but, then, John doesn’t really know the man that well. Or is he trying to give them more opportunities to see one another? The thought’s tempting, but then why would he have turned John down the night before? And then there’s the third possibility: that Sherlock Holmes can simply shut off his feelings and do what needs to be done without the slightest twinge of sentiment, and somehow John finds that explanation far more unsettling than the other two options.
“So,” John says, when he finally finds his voice, “what is it you want me to do, exactly?”
Sherlock stands up and crosses the room, and for a delirious half-second, John thinks he’s coming towards him, but he walks right by and picks up a large stack of files from the floor. These he deposits on an empty spot on the table in front of John.
“You can start by checking these for transfers beginning with the code 007-201. Any transfers with that prefix, flag them in yellow.” He tosses John a pack of yellow adhesive tabs, which John catches by reflex alone.
And then, just like that, Sherlock forgets he’s there. He immerses himself in his own work, reading through piles of paperwork at a frankly intimidating speed. John decides that if Sherlock can put the business of last night behind him, then so can he, and digs into the work.
They pass the next couple hours in companionable silence, consulting with one another only occasionally to clarify some question or other. It’s actually quite comfortable. When John finishes with his first task, Sherlock gives him another to do. He doesn’t seem to mind - or even really notice - when John gets up to use the loo or stretch his legs. Sometimes Sherlock gets up himself, pacing or staring out the window, occasionally muttering quietly to himself. Once or twice, John glances up to find Sherlock looking at him, but the other man’s eyes always slide away quickly, and neither of them makes anything of it.
Around noon, John says, “I’m going to get something to eat. D’you want anything?”
“Mm, I think not,” Sherlock replies, checking his watch.
When John comes back a few minutes later with a fresh cup of tea and a bag of crisps from the machine, he thinks at first that the room is empty, but then he spots the tips of Sherlock’s shoes on the other side of the table.
He walks halfway around the table to find Sherlock stretched out on the floor, his eyes closed and fingers steepled in front of his lips.
“Are you-” He stops himself, thinking maybe the man’s asleep, but he can see Sherlock’s eyes moving rapidly behind his eyelids, his lips moving silently as he whispers to himself. “All right?”
“Hm?” Sherlock’s eyes snap open. “Oh, yes. Perfectly well.”
John can tell when he’s been dismissed, and so he settles back down to the task at hand.
A little while later, Sherlock exclaims, “Of course!” and shoots to his feet. In a flurry of movement, he rearranges several stacks of files, throwing some out of the way willy-nilly and tearing others apart in search of some particular slip or receipt. Having found what he’s looking for, he sticks several pieces of paper up on the whiteboard on the far wall of the conference room and then falls back into his chair, slipping into deep contemplation of the board.
John spends a moment looking, too, but if there’s logic to it, it’s beyond him. There are a couple of packing slips, an invoice or two, some bank statements, but none of it seems to fit together into any discernable pattern. Glancing over at the consultant, looking as intense in reflection as he is in everything else, it occurs to John then that he might as well just go ahead and accept that Sherlock is simply not like other people.
It’s quitting time almost before John realizes the afternoon is out. He listens to everyone gathering up their things and saying their goodbyes, but, strangely, he isn’t the least bit anxious to be getting home. He isn’t even all that tired. He can’t pretend reviewing old paperwork is the most gripping work he’s ever done, but it’s definitely different, and, really, he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.
Around six, he gets up and stretches out his shoulder, which always aches a bit when he’s been leaning on it too much. His eyes are dry from all the recycled air, and while he’s not really ready to stop working, he could use a break. Sherlock, too, is starting to get a bit restless.
“Fancy a curry?”
“What?” Sherlock looks up at him, frowning.
“Curry,” John says slowly, teasing. “It’s food. You eat it?”
Sherlock snorts. “I’m aware,” he says, but he’s smiling, just a little.
“Well?” John can feel his smile getting wider. It feels good to joke around with someone, even someone as intractable as Sherlock Holmes. “Do you want to get a takeaway? I’m pretty hungry, and I know for a fact you haven’t eaten all day.”
Sherlock checks his watch and for a moment seems to consider the issue.
“I know a very good Thai place,” he says coaxingly. “Spring rolls I’d kill a man for.”
“Yes, all right,” Sherlock says curtly, and John counts it as a victory.
John places the order - Sherlock says he doesn’t care what he eats, but John makes a guess, anyway, as he’s usually pretty good at ordering for people - and they keep working while they wait for the food to show up. It’s nice, really. He could get used to this.
Except he can’t, obviously, because in a few days’ time, Sherlock will be done with whatever it is he’s doing here and he’ll leave and John will be alone again and everything will be just the same as it was before. But by then John will have had some taste of what it might’ve been like if things had turned out differently for him, and he has the feeling that that it will be hard to forget.
John’s mobile buzzes a little while later and he goes downstairs to collect their order. When he gets back, with some plastic cutlery filched from the break room, there are a few more pieces of paper pinned to the dry wipe board, and Sherlock is standing there, examining them carefully.
For a moment, John is caught in the doorway, stuck on the sight of him. He’s gorgeous, of course, but it’s not just his obvious physical qualities. Sure, he’s Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, right out of some international spy thriller, but it’s more than that. It’s Sherlock’s intensity that John finds most magnetic, the way he focuses everything all at once on whatever it is he’s interested in. It makes John wish he knew how that felt, to be the sole object of someone’s unerring attention, to matter that much.
He’s got to stop thinking like that. Nothing’s going to happen. Sherlock’s made that perfectly clear. He shakes his head, puts the bag down on the table. “Food’s here,” he says, and Sherlock looks over at him, surprised, like he’d forgotten about John entirely in the short time he was gone.
Of course, John thinks. He probably had.
Sherlock works more than he eats, but he does seem to appreciate the four bites he takes of his meal. John, for his part, is starving, and grateful for something to do that isn’t pining over Sherlock, and so he makes short work of all of his food and also a fair portion of Sherlock’s, as well.
When they’ve both had their fill and John has sunken in into the lethargy of a full stomach, he finally feels relaxed enough to ask the question he’s been itching to ask all day.
“So . . . What is it you’re actually doing here?”
“An independent review,” Sherlock answers, and John’s impressed at the way he manages to tell both the truth and a lie at once.
“I mean what you’re really doing here.” He’s careful to keep voice calm, his expression neutral. “This isn’t any ordinary audit.”
For a long moment, Sherlock just looks at him, and John thinks he might almost approve of whatever it is he sees in John’s face. “No, it isn’t.”
“So? What, then?”
Sherlock clasps his fingers in front of his lips, that prayer-like position John’s already come to understand means the other man is thinking hard. At last, he says, “For some time now, someone within this office has been embezzling funds. This money has turned up in the hands of a number of dangerous international criminal organizations, including drug traffickers and a smuggling ring. I’ve been asked by an . . . interested party to look into the matter.”
And this is what it feels like when the penny drops. “So you’re not a corporate downsizer.”
“Not quite.”
“So, what, then? Are you with the police? The government? Are you a spy?”
“Oh, no,” Sherlock says, a bit smugly, “I wasn’t lying when I said I’m an independent consultant, it’s just not the way they think.” He gestures to the empty office beyond the conference room door. “I have a particular skill set, and from time to time, I have occasion to apply my expertise to criminal cases.”
“And somebody asked you to investigate this embezzlement case.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows rise, mocking. “Yes, John, that’s very good.”
“That’s what you do for a living, investigate crimes on your own? Like a consulting detective?”
Sherlock blinks, apparently surprised. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but, yes, I suppose it could be a livelihood, of sorts.”
Well, OK. How did he think of it, then, John wonders. A hobby? God, he probably did. He can’t help grinning at the thought of Sherlock running headlong into danger just for the kick of it.
“So what more are you going to tell me about this case of yours? Am I allowed to know, or do you have to kill me?”
Sherlock snorts. “I wouldn’t dream of killing you, John. That would be terribly dull.”
*
Part Nine