Eight Days a Week 14/17, PG-13
Yes, have some.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 14/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Jim Moriarty
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence and 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, Twelve, Thirteen
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!
*
John’s always found the office a bit creepy when it’s empty. It’s something about the too-white light of the fluorescents, the way sounds are muffled even when the space is at its most cavernous. On the rare occasions that he works late, John can’t help feeling that, if he got into some kind of trouble here one night, no one would be able to hear him scream.
Sherlock, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease, and it occurs to John that, for a man who can’t help noticing everything, being alone like this must be something of a relief. Sherlock uses the set of keys Bill gave him to let them into the first floor, and John leads the way over to the IT department and Jim’s desk.
While Sherlock drops down into Jim’s chair, John sets about looking through his desk drawers to see if he can turn up anything of use. Sitting there in close proximity to Jim’s workspace, John thinks he can detect a lingering hint of the man’s cologne, something deep and woody that he’s associated with Jim without even realizing.
“What time is it?” Sherlock asks.
“About half ten, why?” When John looks up, Sherlock has the flat of his hand on the side of Jim’s CPU.
“Hm, nothing,” he says, dropping his hand. He scans the surface of the desk. “What do you know about him?”
“About Jim?” John has to think. “Well . . .” He bites his lip. “Not much, actually. He’s Irish, obviously. In his mid-to-late twenties, I guess. He’s been dating Molly for a few months, tends to wear rather tight jeans.” Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s always bending over Molly’s desk,” John says in his defense. “I can’t help it if his arse is in my way.”
Sherlock snorts. “Is that all?”
John tries to think of anything else he knows about the man, some off-handed comment he might have made about his family or his hobbies or something, but he can’t think of anything. “Pretty much.”
“Mm, it fits.”
“Fits? With what?”
“Look at this desk.” Sherlock gestures to Jim’s work space. “What do you see?”
John looks. There’s a keyboard and a mouse, a day-by-day desk calendar, and a cup of pencils, all neatly sharpened. “Nothing?”
“Exactly. Nothing. Most office workers think of their desk as their home away from home. They’ll have arranged their things just exactly as they like them, put up family photos or knick-knacks, stashed some snacks in their desks. You keep a Yorkie bar in your supply drawer, for instance.” John doesn't even bother to ask how Sherlock knows. “But there’s nothing here.”
“So he’s not putting down roots, not planning to stay long?” John ventures.
“I’d go even further than that. It’s not just that he hasn’t made himself at home, he’s left no impression at all. There’s hardly any sign he even works here, no clutter, not a single clue as to who he is. The man’s a blank slate. He’s got no personality of his own, can’t define himself except in relation to something else.”
John finds this characterization more than a little chilling. “Poor Molly.”
“And it makes guessing his password all the more difficult. Although he’s hardly the sort to use his birthday or the name of his favorite football player.”
With a heavy sigh, Sherlock subsides into thought and John goes back to searching the desk drawers.
For a long while, the only sound is the flick of Sherlock’s fingers on they keyboard and the soft shuffle of paper. It’s slow going for John, as he’s trying not to disturb anything, and Sherlock’s progress seems to be equally slow.
“He’s careful,” Sherlock replies when John asks him how it’s going. “I got through the first round of encryption, but he’s put in a second level. Clearly he’s been anticipating interference.”
John works his way through Jim’s desk, but, just as Sherlock said, there’s not a single scrap of personal information anywhere. Everything John finds is official company material - intra-office memos, training manuals, flyers. None of this tells him anything about Jim Moriarty, the man. John wonders if that’s even his real name.
John has run out of drawers to search by the time Sherlock finally crows in triumph, having cracked Jim’s second password. As soon as he’s in, he immerses himself fully in the flow of information, searching for that all-important fingerprint that will link Jim to the embezzlement. But the result is that John is left with nothing to do but spin in a chair while the light from the monitor plays across Sherlock’s face.
It’s nearly midnight when John catches himself dozing, and he forces himself up out of his chair, cracks his back, stretches his arms. Sherlock is still engrossed in the contents of Jim’s computer, and John has to say his name a couple of times to get his attention.
“I’m going to go stretch my legs, unless you need anything?”
“Mm,” Sherlock replies, his gaze never moving from the screen in front of him.
“D’you want some coffee? I think I’ll need some, if we’re going to be at this much longer.”
“Mm.”
John snorts. “Right, then. I’ll be back in a bit.”
John fully expects another noncommittal noise, but then Sherlock’s fingers close around his wrist, and John turns back to look at him. “Be careful,” he says, and it’s almost tender.
“I will,” John assures him, although he’s not entirely sure what he ought to be careful about, at this time of night. “Don’t worry.”
And just like that, Sherlock’s attention is back on the task at hand. Typical.
Stretching his arms high over his head, John wanders out of the first floor office and down the hall to the toilets. He’s got his fingers on the doorknob when there’s a sound behind him and everything goes suddenly dark.
*
When John comes to, he’s got a throbbing headache and his nose is full of the smell of concrete and petrol. Oh, that can’t be good. To make matters worse, he discovers that he’s bound tightly to a chair. Shit, definitely not good.
“Oh, hi, there, John,” Jim drawls.
John’s vision is blurry, probably from the blow to the back of his head, but he can make out Jim’s form looming over him. As things come further into focus, he realizes he’s in the warehouse, far in the back where the extra packing supplies are kept, the chair just past the end of what seems now like an impossibly long, dark aisle.
Jim is smiling at him, a smug, lazy grin that John wants very badly to wipe off his face. “So, who’s your friend, then?”
John wonders how much time has passed. There are no windows in this part of the warehouse, so he can’t see if it’s still dark outside, and the wrist with his watch on it is held firmly behind his back. A knock like that to the head might have put him down for a while - which is good, actually, means enough time has probably gone by that Sherlock will have noticed he’s gone. Provided he’s even looked up from Jim’s computer, that is.
Until Sherlock turns up, John knows the best course of action is to keep calm and play for time. “He’s a corporate downsizer.”
Jim laughs, and the sound sends a chill straight up John’s spine. “Oh, sorry, silly me. I mean who is he really?”
It occurs to John that he should be afraid. He’s been tied to a chair by a madman and there’s no sign of imminent rescue. By all rights he should be panicking. But he’s not. He’s not exactly overjoyed to be in this position, but it’s actually strangely centering. He’s spent most of his life feeling totally rudderless, but right now he knows exactly what to do. “I don’t know what you mean.” He widens his eyes in some facsimile of surprise. “Head Office sent him down to decide who gets sacked.”
“Are you having fun playing dumb, John?” Jim asks, his smile stretching wide. “You’ve very good at it.”
“Seems like you’re pretty good at playacting, yourself,” John replies coolly. “Does Molly know you’ve been harboring a secret desire to tie me up?”
“What Miss Hooper doesn’t know would fill a book.” God, Jim’s smile really is ugly. How could he have failed to notice it all this time? Well, it’s just as Sherlock said: he’s made a game of hiding in plain sight. If John missed what a psychopath he is, so did everyone else in the office.
“You’ve enjoyed yourself, though, haven’t you?” John spits. “You’ve been laughing yourself sick at us all this whole time. You get off on fooling everyone.”
“What, like you’ve gotten off on playing his superhero sidekick?” Jim scoffs. “You’re not good enough to be his Robin, John. He’s too clever for you, much too clever.”
“Oh, is that what this is about? I’m not clever enough for him, but you are?” It’s John’s turn to smile widely. “Jealous, Jim?”
If Jim’s troubled by the taunt, he doesn’t show it. If anything, his nasty grin gets even bigger as he closes the distance between them, and for the first time, John sees that he’s got something in his hands. “Not jealous for long.”
*
Part Fifteen
Title: Eight Days A Week, 14/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Jim Moriarty
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence and 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, Twelve, Thirteen
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!
*
John’s always found the office a bit creepy when it’s empty. It’s something about the too-white light of the fluorescents, the way sounds are muffled even when the space is at its most cavernous. On the rare occasions that he works late, John can’t help feeling that, if he got into some kind of trouble here one night, no one would be able to hear him scream.
Sherlock, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease, and it occurs to John that, for a man who can’t help noticing everything, being alone like this must be something of a relief. Sherlock uses the set of keys Bill gave him to let them into the first floor, and John leads the way over to the IT department and Jim’s desk.
While Sherlock drops down into Jim’s chair, John sets about looking through his desk drawers to see if he can turn up anything of use. Sitting there in close proximity to Jim’s workspace, John thinks he can detect a lingering hint of the man’s cologne, something deep and woody that he’s associated with Jim without even realizing.
“What time is it?” Sherlock asks.
“About half ten, why?” When John looks up, Sherlock has the flat of his hand on the side of Jim’s CPU.
“Hm, nothing,” he says, dropping his hand. He scans the surface of the desk. “What do you know about him?”
“About Jim?” John has to think. “Well . . .” He bites his lip. “Not much, actually. He’s Irish, obviously. In his mid-to-late twenties, I guess. He’s been dating Molly for a few months, tends to wear rather tight jeans.” Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s always bending over Molly’s desk,” John says in his defense. “I can’t help it if his arse is in my way.”
Sherlock snorts. “Is that all?”
John tries to think of anything else he knows about the man, some off-handed comment he might have made about his family or his hobbies or something, but he can’t think of anything. “Pretty much.”
“Mm, it fits.”
“Fits? With what?”
“Look at this desk.” Sherlock gestures to Jim’s work space. “What do you see?”
John looks. There’s a keyboard and a mouse, a day-by-day desk calendar, and a cup of pencils, all neatly sharpened. “Nothing?”
“Exactly. Nothing. Most office workers think of their desk as their home away from home. They’ll have arranged their things just exactly as they like them, put up family photos or knick-knacks, stashed some snacks in their desks. You keep a Yorkie bar in your supply drawer, for instance.” John doesn't even bother to ask how Sherlock knows. “But there’s nothing here.”
“So he’s not putting down roots, not planning to stay long?” John ventures.
“I’d go even further than that. It’s not just that he hasn’t made himself at home, he’s left no impression at all. There’s hardly any sign he even works here, no clutter, not a single clue as to who he is. The man’s a blank slate. He’s got no personality of his own, can’t define himself except in relation to something else.”
John finds this characterization more than a little chilling. “Poor Molly.”
“And it makes guessing his password all the more difficult. Although he’s hardly the sort to use his birthday or the name of his favorite football player.”
With a heavy sigh, Sherlock subsides into thought and John goes back to searching the desk drawers.
For a long while, the only sound is the flick of Sherlock’s fingers on they keyboard and the soft shuffle of paper. It’s slow going for John, as he’s trying not to disturb anything, and Sherlock’s progress seems to be equally slow.
“He’s careful,” Sherlock replies when John asks him how it’s going. “I got through the first round of encryption, but he’s put in a second level. Clearly he’s been anticipating interference.”
John works his way through Jim’s desk, but, just as Sherlock said, there’s not a single scrap of personal information anywhere. Everything John finds is official company material - intra-office memos, training manuals, flyers. None of this tells him anything about Jim Moriarty, the man. John wonders if that’s even his real name.
John has run out of drawers to search by the time Sherlock finally crows in triumph, having cracked Jim’s second password. As soon as he’s in, he immerses himself fully in the flow of information, searching for that all-important fingerprint that will link Jim to the embezzlement. But the result is that John is left with nothing to do but spin in a chair while the light from the monitor plays across Sherlock’s face.
It’s nearly midnight when John catches himself dozing, and he forces himself up out of his chair, cracks his back, stretches his arms. Sherlock is still engrossed in the contents of Jim’s computer, and John has to say his name a couple of times to get his attention.
“I’m going to go stretch my legs, unless you need anything?”
“Mm,” Sherlock replies, his gaze never moving from the screen in front of him.
“D’you want some coffee? I think I’ll need some, if we’re going to be at this much longer.”
“Mm.”
John snorts. “Right, then. I’ll be back in a bit.”
John fully expects another noncommittal noise, but then Sherlock’s fingers close around his wrist, and John turns back to look at him. “Be careful,” he says, and it’s almost tender.
“I will,” John assures him, although he’s not entirely sure what he ought to be careful about, at this time of night. “Don’t worry.”
And just like that, Sherlock’s attention is back on the task at hand. Typical.
Stretching his arms high over his head, John wanders out of the first floor office and down the hall to the toilets. He’s got his fingers on the doorknob when there’s a sound behind him and everything goes suddenly dark.
*
When John comes to, he’s got a throbbing headache and his nose is full of the smell of concrete and petrol. Oh, that can’t be good. To make matters worse, he discovers that he’s bound tightly to a chair. Shit, definitely not good.
“Oh, hi, there, John,” Jim drawls.
John’s vision is blurry, probably from the blow to the back of his head, but he can make out Jim’s form looming over him. As things come further into focus, he realizes he’s in the warehouse, far in the back where the extra packing supplies are kept, the chair just past the end of what seems now like an impossibly long, dark aisle.
Jim is smiling at him, a smug, lazy grin that John wants very badly to wipe off his face. “So, who’s your friend, then?”
John wonders how much time has passed. There are no windows in this part of the warehouse, so he can’t see if it’s still dark outside, and the wrist with his watch on it is held firmly behind his back. A knock like that to the head might have put him down for a while - which is good, actually, means enough time has probably gone by that Sherlock will have noticed he’s gone. Provided he’s even looked up from Jim’s computer, that is.
Until Sherlock turns up, John knows the best course of action is to keep calm and play for time. “He’s a corporate downsizer.”
Jim laughs, and the sound sends a chill straight up John’s spine. “Oh, sorry, silly me. I mean who is he really?”
It occurs to John that he should be afraid. He’s been tied to a chair by a madman and there’s no sign of imminent rescue. By all rights he should be panicking. But he’s not. He’s not exactly overjoyed to be in this position, but it’s actually strangely centering. He’s spent most of his life feeling totally rudderless, but right now he knows exactly what to do. “I don’t know what you mean.” He widens his eyes in some facsimile of surprise. “Head Office sent him down to decide who gets sacked.”
“Are you having fun playing dumb, John?” Jim asks, his smile stretching wide. “You’ve very good at it.”
“Seems like you’re pretty good at playacting, yourself,” John replies coolly. “Does Molly know you’ve been harboring a secret desire to tie me up?”
“What Miss Hooper doesn’t know would fill a book.” God, Jim’s smile really is ugly. How could he have failed to notice it all this time? Well, it’s just as Sherlock said: he’s made a game of hiding in plain sight. If John missed what a psychopath he is, so did everyone else in the office.
“You’ve enjoyed yourself, though, haven’t you?” John spits. “You’ve been laughing yourself sick at us all this whole time. You get off on fooling everyone.”
“What, like you’ve gotten off on playing his superhero sidekick?” Jim scoffs. “You’re not good enough to be his Robin, John. He’s too clever for you, much too clever.”
“Oh, is that what this is about? I’m not clever enough for him, but you are?” It’s John’s turn to smile widely. “Jealous, Jim?”
If Jim’s troubled by the taunt, he doesn’t show it. If anything, his nasty grin gets even bigger as he closes the distance between them, and for the first time, John sees that he’s got something in his hands. “Not jealous for long.”
*
Part Fifteen