Eight Days a Week 12/17, NC-17
Hopefully this is worth the wait.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 12/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit m/m sex, some strong language
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,557
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, Ten, Eleven
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!
*
And then, Sherlock is kissing him.
Sherlock’s mouth is supple and warm, and John holds himself perfectly still, trying to convince himself that, yes, this is really happening. Sherlock certainly seems intent on moving forward, working his hand into John’s hair and kissing him insistently, his lips in constant motion.
How can John resist? He opens his mouth to the sure sweep of Sherlock’s tongue, giving in to the kiss, to the man he’s wanted since the first second he saw him. And, God, it’s every bit as good as he remembers from the last time, Sherlock’s touch self-assured, unerring. Only this time, it doesn’t stop.
Arms sliding down John’s back, Sherlock pulls him close, easing back against the sofa so that John’s caught between his thighs above him, their hips flush, their legs tangled together. And then he rolls his hips, one long, slow press, and John can’t help groaning. He can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body through his trousers and for a moment all he can think of is Sherlock’s cock, in his mouth, sliding across his cheek, fucking into him long and slow.
“John,” Sherlock says seriously, his fingers tugging at John’s tie. John rushes to his assistance, unbuttoning his shirt while Sherlock slides the tie from his neck and tosses it aside.
When John pulls his shirt off, Sherlock goes still beneath him, fingers skating lightly over the scar tissue on his left shoulder. It’s ugly, John knows, and other people he’s been with since the accident have been almost horrified by the sight of it, but Sherlock just seems curious, almost awed at the sight.
“Car accident,” he explains. Normally he doesn’t like to talk about it, but Sherlock already knows everything else about him. It’s only right that he should know this, too. “It was Christmas, my last year at university. We were driving home from some party. He was drunk, drifted into oncoming traffic. He died on impact, my mum on the way to hospital. My sister and I were better off because we were in the back seat, but obviously . . .” He gestures to his shoulder, shrugs.
Sherlock’s fingers continue to map the shape of the scar, and when John finally dares to glance at Sherlock’s face, his expression is mercifully free of pity. He seems, instead, to be thinking.
“How did I miss this?” he murmurs finally, and John laughs, because of course it’s his initial deduction Sherlock is thinking of. John loves him a little for it. “I noticed the injury, of course - that day in the warehouse, you were favoring your shoulder, but it never occurred to me that it had anything to do with your dropping out of school. Stupid, I should have realized.”
“It was a long time ago,” he says. “It hardly bothers me any more. But I was pretty messed up, physically and otherwise, for a long time. I was in no shape to go back to school, and then it turned out I couldn’t afford to, anyway. He owed a lot of money. I couldn’t go to medical school and pay off his debts at the same time, so I just . . . stopped thinking about it.”
Sherlock frowns, his fingers slipping down John’s arm to his wrist. “So then the watch?”
“Oh, it’s his, you were right about that. But I don’t wear it to remind me of him.” He smiles a little. “I wear it to remind myself that, no matter what happens, I don’t want to end up like him.”
“John . . .”
“It’s fine,” he says, and he means it. “I’m fine, really. Besides,” he adds brightly, “I can think of much better things to do than talk about my ordinary, little tale of woe.” And he tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him close for a kiss.
Sherlock makes a low, satisfied noise against John’s mouth, one leg wrapping around his waist. They kiss like that for a while, just getting the feel for it again, but soon the slow roll of Sherlock’s hips is becoming more concerted, more goal-oriented, until Sherlock says, “Condoms, John,” his voice so dark and promising that John’s synapses spark.
“Right.” He almost falls trying to untangle himself from Sherlock’s legs, and hurries into the bedroom in search of prophylactics.
“And lubricant,” Sherlock calls from the living room, like John’s likely to forget.
As he ransacks the drawer of his bedside table, the terrible thought occurs to him that he might not have any condoms in the house. It’s been a while since he’s seen anyone on a regular basis, a pathetically long time, actually, and, God, it’s going to kill the mood if he has to drive across town buy condoms right now, but, damn it, he’s not letting this opportunity slip past him a second time. He’ll drive to bloody Aberdeen for condoms if it means he actually gets to sleep with Sherlock tonight.
And then he remembers, mercy of mercies, that he’s got one condom in his wallet - break glass in case of emergency, he’d joked with Mike one night - and when he finally finds it tucked behind a crumpled receipt, he could almost kiss that little foil packet.
“What on earth is taking you so long?”
John turns and almost drops his wallet at the sight of Sherlock standing stark naked in the doorway, his cock full and red against his white stomach.
John opens his mouth to explain, but nothing sensible comes out.
“I was getting bored,” Sherlock says, and, oh, no, that’s absolutely unacceptable.
“Can’t have that,” John replies, closing the distance between them. And then he’s sliding his palms down the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s back.
“Now,” Sherlock growls, and John couldn’t agree more.
It takes both of them entirely too long to get the rest of John’s clothes off, and then they’re tumbling onto the bed and John finally has Sherlock’s skin against his, and it feels so fucking good. Sherlock’s cock slots smoothly into the hollow of John’s hip and he exploits it shamelessly. The smell of him is incredible, clear and slightly tannic, and John could just rut like this until that gorgeous smell is all over his body, but Sherlock has other plans.
Reaching across John to the night stand, Sherlock pumps a dollop of hand cream into his palm, and for a moment John’s not sure which way he wants this to go, until he decides it doesn’t matter in the least as long as he gets more of Sherlock.
When Sherlock plucks John’s hand from where it rests on his hip and slowly, deliberately, slicks each of his fingers, John’s cock throbs. And when he guides John’s hand between his legs, he can’t stop the moan that rolls out of him. His muscles clenching greedily, Sherlock spread his legs further and sinks down until John’s up to his knuckle. He rocks slowly on John’s first finger before demanding another, which John heartily supplies.
Sherlock tears open the condom and rolls it onto John’s erection, his touch light and quick as he slicks him up. When John tries to sit up a bit, Sherlock pushes him back down with one flat hand to his chest, and then he’s rising up over him and sliding, oh, so, slow, onto John’s cock.
“Oh, Jesus.” It’s all John can do to watch Sherlock above him, bracing his hands on those lean, powerful thighs as Sherlock fucks himself on John’s cock. He’s never seen someone so in control, so focused, and all that incredible attention is fixed on him. Every clench of every muscle is carefully calculated to push them both further, to make them feel more, and he’s never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life.
Never, that is, until Sherlock’s need begins to get the better of him and he loses his rhythm, his head falling back, arms shaking, his hips jerking indiscriminately as the sensation becomes too much. And when he sees that Sherlock is about to break, John reaches up and closes his fingers tight around Sherlock’s erection, eager to play a part in his undoing. Sherlock falls to pieces under John’s hands, his whole body seizing violently around John’s cock, and the word on his lips when he comes is, “John.”
John holds him through it, caught tight in the clench of Sherlock’s muscles, and when the tremors stop, John flips their weight and lays Sherlock out flat on his back. The impact knocks a surprised breath from Sherlock’s lungs and when John looks down, he’s staring up at him with wide, dark eyes, stunned and still somehow longing. When John pushes back into him, Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s waist and lets out an inarticulate moan.
“John,” he sobs, and John loves it, how Sherlock is totally wrung out and still begging for more. And he gives it to him, fucks him as thoroughly as he knows how, because, God, he doesn’t want this to stop, either, not ever.
He’s close now, so close, and he thrusts hard and fast into Sherlock’s willing heat as his climax builds. When the swell hits him, he leans in close and seals his mouth against Sherlock’s, muffling a shout on his tongue. Sherlock holds him there as he shakes, and even after.
*
Part Thirteen
Title: Eight Days A Week, 12/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit m/m sex, some strong language
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,557
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, Ten, Eleven
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!
*
And then, Sherlock is kissing him.
Sherlock’s mouth is supple and warm, and John holds himself perfectly still, trying to convince himself that, yes, this is really happening. Sherlock certainly seems intent on moving forward, working his hand into John’s hair and kissing him insistently, his lips in constant motion.
How can John resist? He opens his mouth to the sure sweep of Sherlock’s tongue, giving in to the kiss, to the man he’s wanted since the first second he saw him. And, God, it’s every bit as good as he remembers from the last time, Sherlock’s touch self-assured, unerring. Only this time, it doesn’t stop.
Arms sliding down John’s back, Sherlock pulls him close, easing back against the sofa so that John’s caught between his thighs above him, their hips flush, their legs tangled together. And then he rolls his hips, one long, slow press, and John can’t help groaning. He can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body through his trousers and for a moment all he can think of is Sherlock’s cock, in his mouth, sliding across his cheek, fucking into him long and slow.
“John,” Sherlock says seriously, his fingers tugging at John’s tie. John rushes to his assistance, unbuttoning his shirt while Sherlock slides the tie from his neck and tosses it aside.
When John pulls his shirt off, Sherlock goes still beneath him, fingers skating lightly over the scar tissue on his left shoulder. It’s ugly, John knows, and other people he’s been with since the accident have been almost horrified by the sight of it, but Sherlock just seems curious, almost awed at the sight.
“Car accident,” he explains. Normally he doesn’t like to talk about it, but Sherlock already knows everything else about him. It’s only right that he should know this, too. “It was Christmas, my last year at university. We were driving home from some party. He was drunk, drifted into oncoming traffic. He died on impact, my mum on the way to hospital. My sister and I were better off because we were in the back seat, but obviously . . .” He gestures to his shoulder, shrugs.
Sherlock’s fingers continue to map the shape of the scar, and when John finally dares to glance at Sherlock’s face, his expression is mercifully free of pity. He seems, instead, to be thinking.
“How did I miss this?” he murmurs finally, and John laughs, because of course it’s his initial deduction Sherlock is thinking of. John loves him a little for it. “I noticed the injury, of course - that day in the warehouse, you were favoring your shoulder, but it never occurred to me that it had anything to do with your dropping out of school. Stupid, I should have realized.”
“It was a long time ago,” he says. “It hardly bothers me any more. But I was pretty messed up, physically and otherwise, for a long time. I was in no shape to go back to school, and then it turned out I couldn’t afford to, anyway. He owed a lot of money. I couldn’t go to medical school and pay off his debts at the same time, so I just . . . stopped thinking about it.”
Sherlock frowns, his fingers slipping down John’s arm to his wrist. “So then the watch?”
“Oh, it’s his, you were right about that. But I don’t wear it to remind me of him.” He smiles a little. “I wear it to remind myself that, no matter what happens, I don’t want to end up like him.”
“John . . .”
“It’s fine,” he says, and he means it. “I’m fine, really. Besides,” he adds brightly, “I can think of much better things to do than talk about my ordinary, little tale of woe.” And he tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him close for a kiss.
Sherlock makes a low, satisfied noise against John’s mouth, one leg wrapping around his waist. They kiss like that for a while, just getting the feel for it again, but soon the slow roll of Sherlock’s hips is becoming more concerted, more goal-oriented, until Sherlock says, “Condoms, John,” his voice so dark and promising that John’s synapses spark.
“Right.” He almost falls trying to untangle himself from Sherlock’s legs, and hurries into the bedroom in search of prophylactics.
“And lubricant,” Sherlock calls from the living room, like John’s likely to forget.
As he ransacks the drawer of his bedside table, the terrible thought occurs to him that he might not have any condoms in the house. It’s been a while since he’s seen anyone on a regular basis, a pathetically long time, actually, and, God, it’s going to kill the mood if he has to drive across town buy condoms right now, but, damn it, he’s not letting this opportunity slip past him a second time. He’ll drive to bloody Aberdeen for condoms if it means he actually gets to sleep with Sherlock tonight.
And then he remembers, mercy of mercies, that he’s got one condom in his wallet - break glass in case of emergency, he’d joked with Mike one night - and when he finally finds it tucked behind a crumpled receipt, he could almost kiss that little foil packet.
“What on earth is taking you so long?”
John turns and almost drops his wallet at the sight of Sherlock standing stark naked in the doorway, his cock full and red against his white stomach.
John opens his mouth to explain, but nothing sensible comes out.
“I was getting bored,” Sherlock says, and, oh, no, that’s absolutely unacceptable.
“Can’t have that,” John replies, closing the distance between them. And then he’s sliding his palms down the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s back.
“Now,” Sherlock growls, and John couldn’t agree more.
It takes both of them entirely too long to get the rest of John’s clothes off, and then they’re tumbling onto the bed and John finally has Sherlock’s skin against his, and it feels so fucking good. Sherlock’s cock slots smoothly into the hollow of John’s hip and he exploits it shamelessly. The smell of him is incredible, clear and slightly tannic, and John could just rut like this until that gorgeous smell is all over his body, but Sherlock has other plans.
Reaching across John to the night stand, Sherlock pumps a dollop of hand cream into his palm, and for a moment John’s not sure which way he wants this to go, until he decides it doesn’t matter in the least as long as he gets more of Sherlock.
When Sherlock plucks John’s hand from where it rests on his hip and slowly, deliberately, slicks each of his fingers, John’s cock throbs. And when he guides John’s hand between his legs, he can’t stop the moan that rolls out of him. His muscles clenching greedily, Sherlock spread his legs further and sinks down until John’s up to his knuckle. He rocks slowly on John’s first finger before demanding another, which John heartily supplies.
Sherlock tears open the condom and rolls it onto John’s erection, his touch light and quick as he slicks him up. When John tries to sit up a bit, Sherlock pushes him back down with one flat hand to his chest, and then he’s rising up over him and sliding, oh, so, slow, onto John’s cock.
“Oh, Jesus.” It’s all John can do to watch Sherlock above him, bracing his hands on those lean, powerful thighs as Sherlock fucks himself on John’s cock. He’s never seen someone so in control, so focused, and all that incredible attention is fixed on him. Every clench of every muscle is carefully calculated to push them both further, to make them feel more, and he’s never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life.
Never, that is, until Sherlock’s need begins to get the better of him and he loses his rhythm, his head falling back, arms shaking, his hips jerking indiscriminately as the sensation becomes too much. And when he sees that Sherlock is about to break, John reaches up and closes his fingers tight around Sherlock’s erection, eager to play a part in his undoing. Sherlock falls to pieces under John’s hands, his whole body seizing violently around John’s cock, and the word on his lips when he comes is, “John.”
John holds him through it, caught tight in the clench of Sherlock’s muscles, and when the tremors stop, John flips their weight and lays Sherlock out flat on his back. The impact knocks a surprised breath from Sherlock’s lungs and when John looks down, he’s staring up at him with wide, dark eyes, stunned and still somehow longing. When John pushes back into him, Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s waist and lets out an inarticulate moan.
“John,” he sobs, and John loves it, how Sherlock is totally wrung out and still begging for more. And he gives it to him, fucks him as thoroughly as he knows how, because, God, he doesn’t want this to stop, either, not ever.
He’s close now, so close, and he thrusts hard and fast into Sherlock’s willing heat as his climax builds. When the swell hits him, he leans in close and seals his mouth against Sherlock’s, muffling a shout on his tongue. Sherlock holds him there as he shakes, and even after.
*
Part Thirteen