Eight Days a Week 10/17, PG-13
Whoops, a little behind schedule this morning.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 10/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Spoilers: Brief reference to "The Hounds of Baskerville," but no explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,627
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, Nine
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!
*
Everyone seems to have heard what happened at the hotel by the time they get into the office. Sherlock waves off everyone’s concern and disappears into the conference room, leaving John to put Bill at ease.
“God, Head Office is going to kill me. I almost let their top consultant get blown up.”
“You couldn’t have known,” John says reasonably, but Bill still looks like he’s about to be sick. John does his best to talk Bill down, but he’s itching to get back into the conference room with Sherlock, and as soon as he possibly can, he peels off and makes for Sherlock’s headquarters.
The detective is standing in front of the whiteboard, frowning severely at the papers stuck there.
“Sherlock?”
“Someone’s been here.”
“Are you sure?” John looks around. Everything looks more or less as he remembers it. There are, he thinks, a few more papers pinned to the whiteboard, and a couple of stacks of files have been shifted, but John assumes those are the fruits of Sherlock’s labors over the weekend. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, and John can tell that the mere fact that he can’t figure it out is grating on him. “But I’m sure of it. Someone’s been in here, and they’re not afraid if I know it . . .” He breathes deeply, scenting the air. “In fact, he wants me to know.”
“What?” Who would be mad enough to do that? He hardly knows Sherlock, but he sure as hell wouldn’t want to cross the man.
Before Sherlock can reply, his mobile starts buzzing, and he’s speaking sharply to someone on the other line. “No, of course not,” he bites out. “Fine, obviously.”
Sherlock falls silent, listening mutinously, and John watches, rapt, as a veritable storm crosses his features. “I’m quite aware, Mycroft,” he says at last. “And as much as I appreciate your concern, I have more pressing matters at hand.” He hangs up abruptly and looks like he’s about a second away from throwing his phone against the wall.
“Friend of yours?” John ventures, trying to lighten the mood.
“I don’t have friends, John,” Sherlock snaps. “There’s only the work.”
The truth of this hits John squarely in his chest.
Whatever he is to Sherlock - assistant, errand boy, sometimes not-quite-make-out partner - he’s decidedly not his friend. They haven’t even known one another for a week and while Sherlock obviously deduced everything about him within minutes of meeting him, John realizes that he still knows virtually nothing about the detective. Nor has Sherlock seen fit to tell him anything - not about himself, not even about this case. Apparently John doesn’t rate high enough to get the whole story. And suddenly all that giddy excitement he felt this morning seems so hopelessly, pathetically stupid. This is just an interlude, of course it is. He’s known that from the beginning, but somehow he managed to convince himself that, just maybe, it could be something else. Sherlock showed up, this bright, trailing star, and for a moment John thought it was the sun, let himself be pulled out of orbit, but soon it’ll be gone, and everything will go back to the way it was before.
“Right,” John says shortly, swallowing down everything else he wants to say instead, because there’s no point saying any of it, anyway. “You said you wanted to work, so I guess we should get to it.”
The silence that falls between them today is nothing at all like it was before. Every time he moves, every time he so much as takes a breath, he can feel Sherlock’s attention bearing down on him and it makes him want to choke. He’s going to suffocate in this room, under that gaze.
He’s so agitated that he can hardly get through the reading Sherlock’s given him. He keeps turning pages and then realizing that he hasn’t actually been looking at them, just staring blindly at the columns of numbers. Every second of every minute seems to move more slowly than the one before. He can hardly believe that the happy, whistling John Watson who stopped for Danish on the way to work this morning is the same man sitting in his seat now, about to crawl out of his skin.
Sherlock, too, is getting tense. He hardly sits down before he’s back on his feet, pacing and muttering to himself, and when he accidentally knocks over a carefully ordered stack of papers, he throws the whole pile from the desk with a growl that startles even John.
It only gets worse as the day wears on. Sherlock snaps at him on three separate occasions for sighing too heavily, and things finally come to a head when Sherlock throws up his hands and says, “If you’re going to think so loudly, you ought to do it somewhere else.”
“Fine,” John says, shoving back from the table. “I don’t even know what I’m meant to be doing here, anyway. I’m obviously no use to you, since you won’t trust me with anything more complicated than sorting files. I know I’m not your friend, Sherlock, but you’re the one who said you wanted my help, and I think I deserve to know what the hell it is I’m supposed to be helping you with. I may not be as clever as you, but I’m at least smart enough to understand when I’m not being told the whole truth!”
Sherlock looks over at him, strangely stricken, but before he can open his mouth to speak, John’s up from his seat and out of the conference room, closing the door a little more forcefully than is strictly necessary. A couple of heads turn in his direction, but he ignores his coworkers’ curiosity and heads for the relative shelter of the break room. He focuses on the mechanical motions of making himself a cup of tea and tries not to think about what an utter dick Sherlock can be.
As angry as he is, though, he knows it’s not really Sherlock he’s angry at. If anything, he’s angry with himself for getting his hopes up, for thinking that maybe this time things could turn out differently. But this is how it always goes, always: he grasps desperately at something and, when he finally gets his hands on it, it explodes in his face. He should have known.
There’s also, he realizes, a vein of fear running under all his anger. He’s worried that Sherlock may come to physical harm, of course, that much is obvious, but beyond that is the very real knowledge that, sooner or later, one way or another, he’s going to lose Sherlock, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.
“Everything going all right?”
John looks up to see Bill leaning in the doorway of the break room. His smile is genial, but John can hear the concern in his voice. He’s no doubt heard John’s little tirade at Sherlock, as his office shares a wall with the conference room, but Bill, bless him, has too much tact to bring it up directly.
“It’s fine,” he says, although honestly he has no idea if it’s fine or not. “Just stressed.”
Bill rubs his thumb over his eyebrow, the way he often does when he’s worried, but seems to decide that discretion is the better part of valor. “Well . . . Just let me know if there’s anything you need.”
“Thanks, Bill,” John says, and he means it. Right about now, a reminder of some plain, uncomplicated decency is exactly what John needs, and Bill has that in spades. Bill saw something in John when even John couldn’t see it, and unlike Sherlock, he’s never been disappointed in John for failing to live up impossible standards or neglecting to guess some inscrutable secret message. If what Bill has given him isn’t exactly what John had always hoped for, well, that doesn’t make his offer any less sincere. John has a good life here, all things considered, and he was, if not happy, then at least comfortable before Sherlock Holmes came along. That’s worth remembering.
While his tea brews, he stands in the doorway and watches everyone going about their work. The office outside the conference room seems almost like a different world. Out here, people may be worried about cutbacks and deadlines, but things are simple. There are no embezzlement schemes, no international crime syndicates, no explosions, no tempestuous, handsome detectives. In other words, it’s dull, and that is surprisingly welcome. John can feel the tension easing from his shoulders.
His tea made, John sits down at his desk and catches himself thinking of it as his ‘old desk,’ even though he’s only been away from his regular duties for two working days. He wasn’t wrong last Tuesday when he predicted that Sherlock’s appearance wouldn’t be boring. He just hadn’t anticipated quite how much of a rollercoaster it would be.
It’s only temporary, he reminds himself, and for the first time since Sherlock turned up, that’s a comforting thought. In a few days’ time, Sherlock will have solved this case and moved on to the next one, and everything will go back to the way it was before. Yes, he’ll lose this - whatever it is, this thing between him and Sherlock - but at least John will be free to lapse back into that safe, comfortable anonymous mediocrity that’s been working so well for him all this time. He was kidding himself if he thought he was cut out for anything more.
When he finally lets himself back into the conference room, John’s feeling much calmer. Everything’s going to be fine, he reassures himself. This whole thing with Sherlock will come and go, but he’ll be fine.
*
Part Eleven
Title: Eight Days A Week, 10/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Spoilers: Brief reference to "The Hounds of Baskerville," but no explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,627
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, Nine
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!
*
Everyone seems to have heard what happened at the hotel by the time they get into the office. Sherlock waves off everyone’s concern and disappears into the conference room, leaving John to put Bill at ease.
“God, Head Office is going to kill me. I almost let their top consultant get blown up.”
“You couldn’t have known,” John says reasonably, but Bill still looks like he’s about to be sick. John does his best to talk Bill down, but he’s itching to get back into the conference room with Sherlock, and as soon as he possibly can, he peels off and makes for Sherlock’s headquarters.
The detective is standing in front of the whiteboard, frowning severely at the papers stuck there.
“Sherlock?”
“Someone’s been here.”
“Are you sure?” John looks around. Everything looks more or less as he remembers it. There are, he thinks, a few more papers pinned to the whiteboard, and a couple of stacks of files have been shifted, but John assumes those are the fruits of Sherlock’s labors over the weekend. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, and John can tell that the mere fact that he can’t figure it out is grating on him. “But I’m sure of it. Someone’s been in here, and they’re not afraid if I know it . . .” He breathes deeply, scenting the air. “In fact, he wants me to know.”
“What?” Who would be mad enough to do that? He hardly knows Sherlock, but he sure as hell wouldn’t want to cross the man.
Before Sherlock can reply, his mobile starts buzzing, and he’s speaking sharply to someone on the other line. “No, of course not,” he bites out. “Fine, obviously.”
Sherlock falls silent, listening mutinously, and John watches, rapt, as a veritable storm crosses his features. “I’m quite aware, Mycroft,” he says at last. “And as much as I appreciate your concern, I have more pressing matters at hand.” He hangs up abruptly and looks like he’s about a second away from throwing his phone against the wall.
“Friend of yours?” John ventures, trying to lighten the mood.
“I don’t have friends, John,” Sherlock snaps. “There’s only the work.”
The truth of this hits John squarely in his chest.
Whatever he is to Sherlock - assistant, errand boy, sometimes not-quite-make-out partner - he’s decidedly not his friend. They haven’t even known one another for a week and while Sherlock obviously deduced everything about him within minutes of meeting him, John realizes that he still knows virtually nothing about the detective. Nor has Sherlock seen fit to tell him anything - not about himself, not even about this case. Apparently John doesn’t rate high enough to get the whole story. And suddenly all that giddy excitement he felt this morning seems so hopelessly, pathetically stupid. This is just an interlude, of course it is. He’s known that from the beginning, but somehow he managed to convince himself that, just maybe, it could be something else. Sherlock showed up, this bright, trailing star, and for a moment John thought it was the sun, let himself be pulled out of orbit, but soon it’ll be gone, and everything will go back to the way it was before.
“Right,” John says shortly, swallowing down everything else he wants to say instead, because there’s no point saying any of it, anyway. “You said you wanted to work, so I guess we should get to it.”
The silence that falls between them today is nothing at all like it was before. Every time he moves, every time he so much as takes a breath, he can feel Sherlock’s attention bearing down on him and it makes him want to choke. He’s going to suffocate in this room, under that gaze.
He’s so agitated that he can hardly get through the reading Sherlock’s given him. He keeps turning pages and then realizing that he hasn’t actually been looking at them, just staring blindly at the columns of numbers. Every second of every minute seems to move more slowly than the one before. He can hardly believe that the happy, whistling John Watson who stopped for Danish on the way to work this morning is the same man sitting in his seat now, about to crawl out of his skin.
Sherlock, too, is getting tense. He hardly sits down before he’s back on his feet, pacing and muttering to himself, and when he accidentally knocks over a carefully ordered stack of papers, he throws the whole pile from the desk with a growl that startles even John.
It only gets worse as the day wears on. Sherlock snaps at him on three separate occasions for sighing too heavily, and things finally come to a head when Sherlock throws up his hands and says, “If you’re going to think so loudly, you ought to do it somewhere else.”
“Fine,” John says, shoving back from the table. “I don’t even know what I’m meant to be doing here, anyway. I’m obviously no use to you, since you won’t trust me with anything more complicated than sorting files. I know I’m not your friend, Sherlock, but you’re the one who said you wanted my help, and I think I deserve to know what the hell it is I’m supposed to be helping you with. I may not be as clever as you, but I’m at least smart enough to understand when I’m not being told the whole truth!”
Sherlock looks over at him, strangely stricken, but before he can open his mouth to speak, John’s up from his seat and out of the conference room, closing the door a little more forcefully than is strictly necessary. A couple of heads turn in his direction, but he ignores his coworkers’ curiosity and heads for the relative shelter of the break room. He focuses on the mechanical motions of making himself a cup of tea and tries not to think about what an utter dick Sherlock can be.
As angry as he is, though, he knows it’s not really Sherlock he’s angry at. If anything, he’s angry with himself for getting his hopes up, for thinking that maybe this time things could turn out differently. But this is how it always goes, always: he grasps desperately at something and, when he finally gets his hands on it, it explodes in his face. He should have known.
There’s also, he realizes, a vein of fear running under all his anger. He’s worried that Sherlock may come to physical harm, of course, that much is obvious, but beyond that is the very real knowledge that, sooner or later, one way or another, he’s going to lose Sherlock, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.
“Everything going all right?”
John looks up to see Bill leaning in the doorway of the break room. His smile is genial, but John can hear the concern in his voice. He’s no doubt heard John’s little tirade at Sherlock, as his office shares a wall with the conference room, but Bill, bless him, has too much tact to bring it up directly.
“It’s fine,” he says, although honestly he has no idea if it’s fine or not. “Just stressed.”
Bill rubs his thumb over his eyebrow, the way he often does when he’s worried, but seems to decide that discretion is the better part of valor. “Well . . . Just let me know if there’s anything you need.”
“Thanks, Bill,” John says, and he means it. Right about now, a reminder of some plain, uncomplicated decency is exactly what John needs, and Bill has that in spades. Bill saw something in John when even John couldn’t see it, and unlike Sherlock, he’s never been disappointed in John for failing to live up impossible standards or neglecting to guess some inscrutable secret message. If what Bill has given him isn’t exactly what John had always hoped for, well, that doesn’t make his offer any less sincere. John has a good life here, all things considered, and he was, if not happy, then at least comfortable before Sherlock Holmes came along. That’s worth remembering.
While his tea brews, he stands in the doorway and watches everyone going about their work. The office outside the conference room seems almost like a different world. Out here, people may be worried about cutbacks and deadlines, but things are simple. There are no embezzlement schemes, no international crime syndicates, no explosions, no tempestuous, handsome detectives. In other words, it’s dull, and that is surprisingly welcome. John can feel the tension easing from his shoulders.
His tea made, John sits down at his desk and catches himself thinking of it as his ‘old desk,’ even though he’s only been away from his regular duties for two working days. He wasn’t wrong last Tuesday when he predicted that Sherlock’s appearance wouldn’t be boring. He just hadn’t anticipated quite how much of a rollercoaster it would be.
It’s only temporary, he reminds himself, and for the first time since Sherlock turned up, that’s a comforting thought. In a few days’ time, Sherlock will have solved this case and moved on to the next one, and everything will go back to the way it was before. Yes, he’ll lose this - whatever it is, this thing between him and Sherlock - but at least John will be free to lapse back into that safe, comfortable anonymous mediocrity that’s been working so well for him all this time. He was kidding himself if he thought he was cut out for anything more.
When he finally lets himself back into the conference room, John’s feeling much calmer. Everything’s going to be fine, he reassures himself. This whole thing with Sherlock will come and go, but he’ll be fine.
*
Part Eleven