Eight Days a Week 13/17, PG-13
Yep, this.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 13/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nudity
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,546
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, Twelve
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!
*
“Where do you want me to start?”
They’ve separated only long enough for John to dispose of the condom and tidy them up a bit, after which he promptly collapsed back onto the bed.
“We’ve only just finished, Sherlock,” John teases, still a little breathless from the rather excellent sex they’ve just had. “I’m not sure I’m ready to start again just yet.”
“The case,” Sherlock says reprovingly, although John thinks he detects a touch of warmth in his voice. One of those long-fingered hands drifts along the bare skin of John’s side, tentative in its tenderness. “You were right to say that you deserve to have the full picture. So, where should I start?”
“Oh, er . . . I dunno.” If they’re going to talk about the case, he’d really rather not be completely naked. Where is his bloody shirt? Oh, yes, in the living room. But if he leans over, he can just reach his vest, which is still on the floor where Sherlock threw it, along with the rest of his clothes. He feels around for his pants, too, shimmying awkwardly back into them, and, there, that’s enough, he can talk sensibly now. “How about at the beginning?”
“Hm,” Sherlock says. For his part, he seems to have no similar compunction about his nudity, merely pulling the sheets over his lap. John doesn’t mind in the least, although he suspects it may get a bit distracting later on. “My contact-”
“Your contact? Was he the one on the phone this morning?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says shortly, annoyed at being interrupted. “He was concerned about the explosion at my hotel.”
John lets out a small, stunned laugh. “Imagine that.”
“None of that matters,” Sherlock snaps impatiently, and John gets the sense that he’s had this argument about the importance of his personal wellbeing before, probably many times. “All it means is that I’m getting close, and, anyway, Mycroft isn’t really worried, he just wants an opportunity to interfere.”
“No, of course, why would he be worried about a silly little thing like an explosion?”
“Why should he, when there are so many more important things to worry about?”
It occurs to John that what Sherlock might need is not so much an assistant but a minder, but he raises his hands apologetically and says, “Fine, sorry, continue.”
“When Mycroft first brought this matter to my attention several months ago, I didn’t think it had any merit - the case seemed insignificant compared to some of the other projects I was engaged in at the time.” John trembles to think what those might be. “But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that this isn’t just some petty scam. The genius of it, though, is that it doesn’t seem that way at first.
“As I told you on Friday, someone’s been siphoning funds from your corporate office to a number of highly-placed international criminal organizations. The sums themselves aren’t exorbitant, but the fact is that this isn’t the first time this has happened. A similar case cropped up outside of Dublin a few years ago, and there’ve been several more since then, always fitting the same pattern: a small satellite branch of a larger corporation mysteriously loses a moderate amount of money over the course of several months. By the time the loss is noticed and an investigation launched, the guilty party is long gone and someone else takes the fall. The missing money inevitably turns up in the hands of smugglers or human traffickers, any organization known to engage in underhanded dealings significant enough to rate on an international scale. It’s a neat little scheme, really: hit small targets, never take enough to be noticed, and distribute the funds widely.”
“But why do it?” John asks. “It seems like a lot of work without much result.”
“It depends on what kind of result you care about,” Sherlock says. There’s a wry smile playing at the edges of his lips. “If our embezzler were interested in making his fortune, you’re right, it wouldn’t be worth it, but I don’t think that’s what he’s doing.”
“What, then?”
“For one thing, he’s demonstrating his skill at the long con, but more importantly, I think he’s greasing the wheels.”
“What, you mean like slipping a tenner in the doorman’s pocket?”
“Exactly,” he says, and John can see that Sherlock is pleased he’s keeping up. “Spreading around that kind of money means connections, influence. A little bit of cash can create a lot of good will and open any number of doors. He’ll have a lot of friends, should he want them later on down the line.”
“So . . . he’s establishing a network,” John says.
Sherlock nods. “I think that’s precisely what he’s doing. He’s biding his time, content to bet small for now because he knows his investments will play out in the long run.”
It is sort of genius, John thinks, in a moustache-twirling, I-have-a-secret-underwater-lair sort of way.
“The more I know about him,” Sherlock continues, “the more convinced I am that what we’re looking at is not simply a series of petty cons, but the rise of a criminal mastermind. He’s made a bold start, a very bold start, and in five or ten years’ time, there’s no telling what he might accomplish.” The look in Sherlock’s eye is slightly wild, his voice is almost admiring, like someone speaking of a promising musical prodigy.
John doesn’t quite know what to do with that strange adulation, and so instead he says, “OK, hang on, though, can we back up a second? You keep saying ‘he.’ Isn’t the embezzler just as likely to be a woman?”
“It could be, certainly.” Sherlock tips his head to one side. “Not statistically likely, but possible, at any rate - if it weren’t for the cologne.”
“Cologne?”
“Yes, in the conference room this morning. Didn’t you smell it?”
John could honestly say that he hadn’t, although now that he thinks of it, he does remember Sherlock scenting the air. “OK, that’s fairly definitive.”
“More than that. It’s a scent someone in your office wears. I know I noticed it during the staff interviews, only I can’t place it. It’s too familiar, or more than one person wears it, I can’t pin it down.” He scowls, shaking his head. “He’s taunting me, standing in plain sight and waiting for me to notice him, to pick him out of the crowd.”
“Someone in accounts, maybe?” He thinks of the men in the accounts department, Raj and Allen and Oscar, trying to call to mind what kind of cologne they might wear, but nothing particular comes to mind.
“That’s the obvious first choice, but one doesn’t need to work on the financial side of things in order to get to that information. It could simply be someone who has access to the system.”
“OK, well . . . That could be anyone from IT? Or Molly, she has a master list of all the access codes and things in case someone gets locked out, but I hardly think she wears cologne.”
Sherlock nods absently, but then he looks up at John sharply. “No, she doesn’t, does she?”
“No . . . ?” John repeats dubiously. Surely he can’t think sweet, sunny Molly is a master criminal.
“Oh, why didn’t I see it!”
“See what?”
“Think, John!” Sherlock exclaims excitedly. “Molly doesn’t wear chypre musk, but she spends quite a lot of time with someone who does.”
For a moment, John doesn’t get it. And then he does. “Jim from IT?”
“It’s perfect,” Sherlock says, clapping his hands. “His position in IT gives him access to the system, and he can get whatever codes he needs from Molly if he asks nicely enough. She’s clearly so anxious to keep him that she wouldn’t mind bending a few rules. With a little bit of unwitting help, he can approve transfers, falsify shipping lots - whatever he wants.”
“Jim?” he says again, because it just seems so far fetched that the man who wastes his lunch breaks chatting to Molly at reception is an international criminal. But then he remembers the slow, almost predatory smile that’d appeared on Jim’s face the first time he met Sherlock, and suddenly it isn’t so hard to believe anymore. He remembers wondering at the time whether Jim was coming on to Sherlock, and it was a come-on of sorts: Come and get me, catch me if you can. He feels vaguely sick. “How do we prove it?”
Sherlock is already up and on his feet, dashing out of the room to collect his clothes. “There’s bound to be a record of his movements on his computer,” he calls from the living room. “He’s clever enough to know how to cover his tracks, but there’s always some trace left, if you know where to look.” He reappears in the bedroom doorway, already buckling his belt. “What are you waiting for, John?”
“You want to go now? It’s the middle of the night!”
“We’ve waited long enough,” he says, tugging on his socks. “The longer we wait, the more time he has to plan his escape. We’ve got to move now!”
John has to admit he has a point.
*
Part Fourteen
Title: Eight Days A Week, 13/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nudity
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,546
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, Twelve
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!
*
“Where do you want me to start?”
They’ve separated only long enough for John to dispose of the condom and tidy them up a bit, after which he promptly collapsed back onto the bed.
“We’ve only just finished, Sherlock,” John teases, still a little breathless from the rather excellent sex they’ve just had. “I’m not sure I’m ready to start again just yet.”
“The case,” Sherlock says reprovingly, although John thinks he detects a touch of warmth in his voice. One of those long-fingered hands drifts along the bare skin of John’s side, tentative in its tenderness. “You were right to say that you deserve to have the full picture. So, where should I start?”
“Oh, er . . . I dunno.” If they’re going to talk about the case, he’d really rather not be completely naked. Where is his bloody shirt? Oh, yes, in the living room. But if he leans over, he can just reach his vest, which is still on the floor where Sherlock threw it, along with the rest of his clothes. He feels around for his pants, too, shimmying awkwardly back into them, and, there, that’s enough, he can talk sensibly now. “How about at the beginning?”
“Hm,” Sherlock says. For his part, he seems to have no similar compunction about his nudity, merely pulling the sheets over his lap. John doesn’t mind in the least, although he suspects it may get a bit distracting later on. “My contact-”
“Your contact? Was he the one on the phone this morning?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says shortly, annoyed at being interrupted. “He was concerned about the explosion at my hotel.”
John lets out a small, stunned laugh. “Imagine that.”
“None of that matters,” Sherlock snaps impatiently, and John gets the sense that he’s had this argument about the importance of his personal wellbeing before, probably many times. “All it means is that I’m getting close, and, anyway, Mycroft isn’t really worried, he just wants an opportunity to interfere.”
“No, of course, why would he be worried about a silly little thing like an explosion?”
“Why should he, when there are so many more important things to worry about?”
It occurs to John that what Sherlock might need is not so much an assistant but a minder, but he raises his hands apologetically and says, “Fine, sorry, continue.”
“When Mycroft first brought this matter to my attention several months ago, I didn’t think it had any merit - the case seemed insignificant compared to some of the other projects I was engaged in at the time.” John trembles to think what those might be. “But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that this isn’t just some petty scam. The genius of it, though, is that it doesn’t seem that way at first.
“As I told you on Friday, someone’s been siphoning funds from your corporate office to a number of highly-placed international criminal organizations. The sums themselves aren’t exorbitant, but the fact is that this isn’t the first time this has happened. A similar case cropped up outside of Dublin a few years ago, and there’ve been several more since then, always fitting the same pattern: a small satellite branch of a larger corporation mysteriously loses a moderate amount of money over the course of several months. By the time the loss is noticed and an investigation launched, the guilty party is long gone and someone else takes the fall. The missing money inevitably turns up in the hands of smugglers or human traffickers, any organization known to engage in underhanded dealings significant enough to rate on an international scale. It’s a neat little scheme, really: hit small targets, never take enough to be noticed, and distribute the funds widely.”
“But why do it?” John asks. “It seems like a lot of work without much result.”
“It depends on what kind of result you care about,” Sherlock says. There’s a wry smile playing at the edges of his lips. “If our embezzler were interested in making his fortune, you’re right, it wouldn’t be worth it, but I don’t think that’s what he’s doing.”
“What, then?”
“For one thing, he’s demonstrating his skill at the long con, but more importantly, I think he’s greasing the wheels.”
“What, you mean like slipping a tenner in the doorman’s pocket?”
“Exactly,” he says, and John can see that Sherlock is pleased he’s keeping up. “Spreading around that kind of money means connections, influence. A little bit of cash can create a lot of good will and open any number of doors. He’ll have a lot of friends, should he want them later on down the line.”
“So . . . he’s establishing a network,” John says.
Sherlock nods. “I think that’s precisely what he’s doing. He’s biding his time, content to bet small for now because he knows his investments will play out in the long run.”
It is sort of genius, John thinks, in a moustache-twirling, I-have-a-secret-underwater-lair sort of way.
“The more I know about him,” Sherlock continues, “the more convinced I am that what we’re looking at is not simply a series of petty cons, but the rise of a criminal mastermind. He’s made a bold start, a very bold start, and in five or ten years’ time, there’s no telling what he might accomplish.” The look in Sherlock’s eye is slightly wild, his voice is almost admiring, like someone speaking of a promising musical prodigy.
John doesn’t quite know what to do with that strange adulation, and so instead he says, “OK, hang on, though, can we back up a second? You keep saying ‘he.’ Isn’t the embezzler just as likely to be a woman?”
“It could be, certainly.” Sherlock tips his head to one side. “Not statistically likely, but possible, at any rate - if it weren’t for the cologne.”
“Cologne?”
“Yes, in the conference room this morning. Didn’t you smell it?”
John could honestly say that he hadn’t, although now that he thinks of it, he does remember Sherlock scenting the air. “OK, that’s fairly definitive.”
“More than that. It’s a scent someone in your office wears. I know I noticed it during the staff interviews, only I can’t place it. It’s too familiar, or more than one person wears it, I can’t pin it down.” He scowls, shaking his head. “He’s taunting me, standing in plain sight and waiting for me to notice him, to pick him out of the crowd.”
“Someone in accounts, maybe?” He thinks of the men in the accounts department, Raj and Allen and Oscar, trying to call to mind what kind of cologne they might wear, but nothing particular comes to mind.
“That’s the obvious first choice, but one doesn’t need to work on the financial side of things in order to get to that information. It could simply be someone who has access to the system.”
“OK, well . . . That could be anyone from IT? Or Molly, she has a master list of all the access codes and things in case someone gets locked out, but I hardly think she wears cologne.”
Sherlock nods absently, but then he looks up at John sharply. “No, she doesn’t, does she?”
“No . . . ?” John repeats dubiously. Surely he can’t think sweet, sunny Molly is a master criminal.
“Oh, why didn’t I see it!”
“See what?”
“Think, John!” Sherlock exclaims excitedly. “Molly doesn’t wear chypre musk, but she spends quite a lot of time with someone who does.”
For a moment, John doesn’t get it. And then he does. “Jim from IT?”
“It’s perfect,” Sherlock says, clapping his hands. “His position in IT gives him access to the system, and he can get whatever codes he needs from Molly if he asks nicely enough. She’s clearly so anxious to keep him that she wouldn’t mind bending a few rules. With a little bit of unwitting help, he can approve transfers, falsify shipping lots - whatever he wants.”
“Jim?” he says again, because it just seems so far fetched that the man who wastes his lunch breaks chatting to Molly at reception is an international criminal. But then he remembers the slow, almost predatory smile that’d appeared on Jim’s face the first time he met Sherlock, and suddenly it isn’t so hard to believe anymore. He remembers wondering at the time whether Jim was coming on to Sherlock, and it was a come-on of sorts: Come and get me, catch me if you can. He feels vaguely sick. “How do we prove it?”
Sherlock is already up and on his feet, dashing out of the room to collect his clothes. “There’s bound to be a record of his movements on his computer,” he calls from the living room. “He’s clever enough to know how to cover his tracks, but there’s always some trace left, if you know where to look.” He reappears in the bedroom doorway, already buckling his belt. “What are you waiting for, John?”
“You want to go now? It’s the middle of the night!”
“We’ve waited long enough,” he says, tugging on his socks. “The longer we wait, the more time he has to plan his escape. We’ve got to move now!”
John has to admit he has a point.
*
Part Fourteen