Eight Days a Week 9/17, PG-13
And . . . back on track, more or less.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 9/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language and implied violence
Spoilers: References to "The Great Game," but no explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,186
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, Eight
Author's Notes: Officially halfway through! Thanks to those of you who've been following and kindly commenting so far! 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!
*
They finally call it a night just past one in the morning, and John locks up the office and drives Sherlock back to his hotel. There’s a breathless moment - just a split-second - where John thinks Sherlock’s going to invite him up, but then the moment passes, and John is watching Sherlock’s dark coat swirl around his legs as he walks away from the car.
Honestly, John’s too intrigued by the case to be terribly bothered about striking out on the romantic front. When Sherlock showed up at reception on Tuesday morning, John’s biggest worry had been redundancy, and the most pressing question was what he was going to have for lunch. Now he’s working with a sexy detective to solve a bona fide embezzlement scheme. This is more excitement than John’s had, well, pretty much ever.
John feels sure Sherlock spends the entire weekend at the office, working away, and he half expects him to demand John come in and help. He actually finds himself hoping Sherlock will call.
Late Saturday night, he gets a text from a number he doesn’t recognize, and for a moment his heart speeds up. But all it says is, Are any products VAT exempt? SH. John texts back the answer and waits, stomach in knots, to see if there’s anything further - and, damn it, he can’t help it if his imagination runs away with him, supplying countless scenarios in which Sherlock calls him back to the office and they pass the evening in a variety of decidedly unprofessional pursuits. But half an hour goes by, and then an hour, and John has to accept that Sherlock’s interest lies elsewhere. He’s tempted to text Sherlock again, ask if he wants help, but he doesn’t want to appear too pushy. He’ll take what he can get, frankly, every little bit.
Because he likes the work he’s doing for Sherlock, which is something he’s never really been able to say before in his professional life, and, what’s more, he enjoys Sherlock’s company. He thinks he can live with never getting another chance to act on his attraction to the other man, because just being around him, talking through problems with him - it’s thrilling. It’s probably a measure of just how sad his life is these days, but he’s actually having fun for the first time since he can’t remember when.
And when Monday morning comes around, he finds himself looking forward to going into the office. The sight of his face in the mirror doesn’t depress the hell out of him, and when he puts on his suit, he even fancies he cuts a rather dashing figure. Well, all right, he’s not a patch on Sherlock, who wears a suit like he was born in one, but, still, he could do a lot worse.
It’s spitting down rain outside, but not even a thunderstorm could dampen his mood today. He stops at the bakery down the road from his flat for a box of pastries for the office, because he’s looking forward to the day and he wants to spread that feeling around a bit. Once he’s settled the pink box of Danish in the passenger seat, he starts up the car and turns on the radio in the hopes of hearing some stupid pop song that’ll match his buoyant mood. He wouldn’t even object to hearing “Manic Monday” right about now.
But instead of music, he gets a news report from a harried-sounding reporter. “And now,” she says, “we return to our breaking report: Authorities have just confirmed a massive explosion at the downtown Holiday Inn Express at just before eight this morning. It is not yet known if the explosion is linked to any known terrorist organization.”
John’s arms go numb, and for a moment, he can’t think of anything at all. And then his mind is racing a mile a minute, but all he’s thinking is Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock.
He has to force his fingers to turn over the key, to put the car in gear. He’s watching the traffic, but he’s not really paying attention, too busy willing Sherlock to be OK. It’s a wonder he makes it to the hotel at all.
There are police everywhere, and ambulances and fire trucks, although it looks like the worst of the fire’s already been put out. There’s shattered glass and drywall and tufts of pink insulation all over the car park, and it’s all John can do not leap out of the car and run across the pavement screaming Sherlock’s name.
He spots Sherlock almost as soon as he pulls up. The man stands out starkly from the crush of stunned hotel guests, though John imagines he’d stand out in any crowd. He’s sitting in an ambulance in front of the hotel, a hideous orange shock blanket around his shoulders, being fussed over by a paramedic while a fine haze of rain drifts down from the grey sky. As far as he can tell from looking, Sherlock seems unhurt, which is a good thing, but doesn’t actually do much to put John at ease.
John hangs back, watching Sherlock’s face - his expression is flat, blank, and it doesn’t waver once - until the paramedic moves away to see to someone else. Then, when Sherlock is alone, John gets out of the car and approaches him. His hands are shaking, slightly, and he clenches them to hide it.
“What happened?” he asks, and he means to stop there, but the words just keep pouring out. “Are you all right? I heard about it on the radio on the way into work, I came right away. You’re not hurt, are you? You look all right. I-” He stops, takes a deep breath, forces himself to back up. “Sherlock, what happened?”
“There was a gas leak in my hotel room, apparently.”
“Apparently?” John asks sharply.
“That’s the official explanation, yes.”
“But that’s not what you think.”
Sherlock is silent, staring out across the car park at the dispersing emergency response vehicles. There’s a smudge of ash on that impeccable cheekbone. He must have been close when the blast went off.
“You think someone did this on purpose,” John says.
“Impossible to say, I haven’t enough data.”
“But you must have some idea.” Sherlock glances away from him and a spike of pure fear goes through him. “Jesus, you do. You know they did.”
He doesn’t even have to ask if this is the first warning Sherlock’s received, instantly certain that it’s not. He remembers Sherlock’s run-in with the forklift the other day, and can’t help wondering what else has happened that Sherlock hasn’t even bothered to mention.
“It’s a distinct possibility, yes.” The words are short, and at first John thinks Sherlock’s angry, but there’s something else in his expression, something that John reads as, Don’t - a warning, a caution, what?
He doesn’t understand it, but he knows Sherlock well enough by now to trust his methods. “OK,” he says, forcing himself to be calm. “What do we do now?”
“Now?” Sherlock throws the orange blanket from his shoulders. “Now we work.”
*
Part Ten
Title: Eight Days A Week, 9/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language and implied violence
Spoilers: References to "The Great Game," but no explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,186
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, Eight
Author's Notes: Officially halfway through! Thanks to those of you who've been following and kindly commenting so far! 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!
*
They finally call it a night just past one in the morning, and John locks up the office and drives Sherlock back to his hotel. There’s a breathless moment - just a split-second - where John thinks Sherlock’s going to invite him up, but then the moment passes, and John is watching Sherlock’s dark coat swirl around his legs as he walks away from the car.
Honestly, John’s too intrigued by the case to be terribly bothered about striking out on the romantic front. When Sherlock showed up at reception on Tuesday morning, John’s biggest worry had been redundancy, and the most pressing question was what he was going to have for lunch. Now he’s working with a sexy detective to solve a bona fide embezzlement scheme. This is more excitement than John’s had, well, pretty much ever.
John feels sure Sherlock spends the entire weekend at the office, working away, and he half expects him to demand John come in and help. He actually finds himself hoping Sherlock will call.
Late Saturday night, he gets a text from a number he doesn’t recognize, and for a moment his heart speeds up. But all it says is, Are any products VAT exempt? SH. John texts back the answer and waits, stomach in knots, to see if there’s anything further - and, damn it, he can’t help it if his imagination runs away with him, supplying countless scenarios in which Sherlock calls him back to the office and they pass the evening in a variety of decidedly unprofessional pursuits. But half an hour goes by, and then an hour, and John has to accept that Sherlock’s interest lies elsewhere. He’s tempted to text Sherlock again, ask if he wants help, but he doesn’t want to appear too pushy. He’ll take what he can get, frankly, every little bit.
Because he likes the work he’s doing for Sherlock, which is something he’s never really been able to say before in his professional life, and, what’s more, he enjoys Sherlock’s company. He thinks he can live with never getting another chance to act on his attraction to the other man, because just being around him, talking through problems with him - it’s thrilling. It’s probably a measure of just how sad his life is these days, but he’s actually having fun for the first time since he can’t remember when.
And when Monday morning comes around, he finds himself looking forward to going into the office. The sight of his face in the mirror doesn’t depress the hell out of him, and when he puts on his suit, he even fancies he cuts a rather dashing figure. Well, all right, he’s not a patch on Sherlock, who wears a suit like he was born in one, but, still, he could do a lot worse.
It’s spitting down rain outside, but not even a thunderstorm could dampen his mood today. He stops at the bakery down the road from his flat for a box of pastries for the office, because he’s looking forward to the day and he wants to spread that feeling around a bit. Once he’s settled the pink box of Danish in the passenger seat, he starts up the car and turns on the radio in the hopes of hearing some stupid pop song that’ll match his buoyant mood. He wouldn’t even object to hearing “Manic Monday” right about now.
But instead of music, he gets a news report from a harried-sounding reporter. “And now,” she says, “we return to our breaking report: Authorities have just confirmed a massive explosion at the downtown Holiday Inn Express at just before eight this morning. It is not yet known if the explosion is linked to any known terrorist organization.”
John’s arms go numb, and for a moment, he can’t think of anything at all. And then his mind is racing a mile a minute, but all he’s thinking is Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock.
He has to force his fingers to turn over the key, to put the car in gear. He’s watching the traffic, but he’s not really paying attention, too busy willing Sherlock to be OK. It’s a wonder he makes it to the hotel at all.
There are police everywhere, and ambulances and fire trucks, although it looks like the worst of the fire’s already been put out. There’s shattered glass and drywall and tufts of pink insulation all over the car park, and it’s all John can do not leap out of the car and run across the pavement screaming Sherlock’s name.
He spots Sherlock almost as soon as he pulls up. The man stands out starkly from the crush of stunned hotel guests, though John imagines he’d stand out in any crowd. He’s sitting in an ambulance in front of the hotel, a hideous orange shock blanket around his shoulders, being fussed over by a paramedic while a fine haze of rain drifts down from the grey sky. As far as he can tell from looking, Sherlock seems unhurt, which is a good thing, but doesn’t actually do much to put John at ease.
John hangs back, watching Sherlock’s face - his expression is flat, blank, and it doesn’t waver once - until the paramedic moves away to see to someone else. Then, when Sherlock is alone, John gets out of the car and approaches him. His hands are shaking, slightly, and he clenches them to hide it.
“What happened?” he asks, and he means to stop there, but the words just keep pouring out. “Are you all right? I heard about it on the radio on the way into work, I came right away. You’re not hurt, are you? You look all right. I-” He stops, takes a deep breath, forces himself to back up. “Sherlock, what happened?”
“There was a gas leak in my hotel room, apparently.”
“Apparently?” John asks sharply.
“That’s the official explanation, yes.”
“But that’s not what you think.”
Sherlock is silent, staring out across the car park at the dispersing emergency response vehicles. There’s a smudge of ash on that impeccable cheekbone. He must have been close when the blast went off.
“You think someone did this on purpose,” John says.
“Impossible to say, I haven’t enough data.”
“But you must have some idea.” Sherlock glances away from him and a spike of pure fear goes through him. “Jesus, you do. You know they did.”
He doesn’t even have to ask if this is the first warning Sherlock’s received, instantly certain that it’s not. He remembers Sherlock’s run-in with the forklift the other day, and can’t help wondering what else has happened that Sherlock hasn’t even bothered to mention.
“It’s a distinct possibility, yes.” The words are short, and at first John thinks Sherlock’s angry, but there’s something else in his expression, something that John reads as, Don’t - a warning, a caution, what?
He doesn’t understand it, but he knows Sherlock well enough by now to trust his methods. “OK,” he says, forcing himself to be calm. “What do we do now?”
“Now?” Sherlock throws the orange blanket from his shoulders. “Now we work.”
*
Part Ten