Eight Days a Week 16/17, PG-13
Almost there.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 16/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 2,041
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, Fourteen, Fifteen
Author's Notes: OK, this is technically the last part -- epilogue to follow tomorrow. Almost done! 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. Please do let me know if you enjoy!
*
John and Sherlock get side-by-side seats in the ambulance.
“I told you it would be safer if you didn’t get involved,” Sherlock says mildly.
Despite the dull agony still jangling through his nerves, John can’t help grinning. “Maybe I like a little danger.” It’s something of a revelation. Any reasonable person would be swearing off Sherlock’s company forever - or at least swearing at him for taking such an idiotic risk. But John, he’s coming to realize, is not entirely reasonable when it comes to Sherlock.
All things considered, though, they’ve both gotten off lightly, John with some nasty burns and a few minor cuts, Sherlock with several bruises and a sprained wrist. They’re both mildly concussed, too, with matching his-and-his head injuries. The hospital staff want to keep them overnight to monitor their condition, but Sherlock waves them off, insisting he knows how to handle a simple concussion. The doctor frowns, but agrees to release them, under the condition that neither of them lets the other sleep for the next twenty-four hours. It occurs to John that this may not be very responsible, medically speaking, but he can’t blame the man for giving in - Sherlock’s a bit terrifying when he’s in a strop. And, anyway, John doesn’t think it will be much of a problem, as he has no intention of letting Sherlock out of his sight any time soon - possibly ever, some voice at the back of his head points out.
Bill turns up as they’re being discharged, wearing his coat over a pair of pajamas and looking exceedingly nervous. Once he’s been reassured that both John and Sherlock are more or less OK, his anxiety subsides somewhat, although not entirely because there’s still the matter of his maniac former IT tech on the loose. The more they explain about the situation, the whiter Bill’s face gets, and John realizes, through the lens of Bill’s horror, how truly insane this all must sound, but frankly he can’t be bothered to care. John is sure Bill’s imagining the reaming out he’s going to get from Head Office when they hear about this, but, gentleman that he is, all Bill says is that he’s glad they’re both all right.
Bill offers to give them a ride back to John’s flat, but Sherlock declines, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. John doesn’t understand why until he sees a tall man in an impeccable suit striding towards them down the corridor.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock says sullenly.
So this is Sherlock’s contact, the one who turned him on to this case.
“I understand you let young Mr. Moriarty get away,” Mycroft says by way of greeting.
“For now.” Sherlock scowls at no one in particular, and John realizes that it bothers him - not just that they lost Jim specifically, but that there’s now one who got away. John has the feeling Sherlock doesn’t leave cases unsolved very often. He’s also sure that Sherlock isn’t just blowing smoke when he says that Jim’s escape is only temporary. He can’t say when or how, but he’s certain Jim Moriarty will come into Sherlock’s life again some day, and when he does, no doubt the results will be explosive.
“To be fair,” he puts in, “it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
And then suddenly Mycroft’s cool, steady gaze is fixed on him, and he feels rather like he’s being pinned under glass. “You must be John Watson. I’ve been hearing very interesting things about you, I must say.”
“Er . . . all good, I hope,” John replies lamely, because what on earth is he supposed to say to that?
“Quite,” Mycroft replies, and there’s an odd little quirk to his mouth, almost as if he has an unpleasant taste on his tongue, but the look in his eyes is one of amusement. Really, John has no idea what to make of it.
“Are you done checking up on me now, Mycroft?” Sherlock snaps. “Don’t you have a country somewhere to invade?”
Mycroft executes a very posh version of an eye roll and says, “I am at least satisfied you’ve come through this in one piece.” He looks Sherlock up and down, half despairing, half fond. “I do so worry about you, you know.”
“Good-bye, Mycroft.” Something about the pointed way he says it reminds John of a petulant teenager brushing off a parent’s concern, and as Mycroft departs, John fancies he sees a certain family resemblance between the two of them - their height, their hair, that same long, striding gait. The thought that Sherlock has an actual family, that there might be other people like him, is both slightly unbelievable and strangely wonderful. Somewhere out there, there are people who knew Sherlock as a boy, who have seen him grow up. John thinks he’d like to know more about that boy, about who Sherlock was. He’d like to know more about who Sherlock is now, for that matter. He’s only known Sherlock for eight days, after all - a week and a day. It’s almost hard to believe that a week ago, the man beside him was a complete stranger. There’s so much more he’d like to discover about him, so much more he’d like to do.
He wonders what will happen now that the case is over. Jim Moriarty may still be at large, but Sherlock’s time here, with John, is drawing to a close. And despite everything he’s told himself, all his assurances that it didn’t matter that it was only temporary, that he’d take what he could get, John finds himself wishing it didn’t have to end.
“So.” He glances up at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “What now?”
“Now we get a cab,” Sherlock says decisively. “We go back to your flat, where you’ll make breakfast, because you’re starving. And then . . . we’ll talk.”
This is exactly what they do. John is starving, as it happens. Apparently, being tortured really whets the appetite. He makes toast and eggs and coffee, the last of which he forces Sherlock to drink in copious quantities, because it won’t do to have him fall asleep and slip into a coma.
They sit together on the sofa, thighs just touching, and Sherlock drinks his coffee while John wolfs down his breakfast. Once he’s deposited his empty plate on the coffee table, though, John starts to get nervous. It seems like all of this could be over very soon, but he doesn’t know what to say or do to change that.
“You said you wanted to talk?” he asks, fidgeting with his empty coffee cup.
“Yes.” Sherlock takes the coffee cup from his hands and puts it down before turning to face John fully. “John, I . . .”
So this is it. Here comes the kiss off, the moment where Sherlock tells him, This has been great, let’s stay friends. John braces himself.
“I think you should resign.”
Well, that’s not at all what he was expecting. “Come again?”
“I think you should quit. Your talents are obviously wasted here, and I think you would be able to make much better uses of your time in London.”
“What, you mean, at Head Office?”
Sherlock frowns at him, as if he can’t understand why John is being so dense. “I mean with me.”
John wonders if this is the concussion talking. He’s certainly feeling a bit muddled at the moment. “Wait, what?”
“I think you should come to London with me. You asked me before if this work was my livelihood, and I think you’re right that it could be, with the proper attention to the particulars. You’ve proven yourself to be truly invaluable over the past several days and I think with your business sense and my deductive skills, we could do quite well for ourselves. Furthermore, I find I . . .” His mouth works silently for a moment as he struggles to find the words. “I don’t want to leave you.”
John can’t - he doesn’t - He’s acutely aware that his mouth is hanging open, but he can’t seem to shut it.
Sherlock glances over at him, and John’s not sure, but he looks almost nervous. “I have a reasonably spacious flat with more than enough room for a second tenant, or, if you preferred, we could look for larger accommodations. I’m sure between the two of us we could afford something quite nice - I know a woman, a former client of mine, I suppose you’d say, who owns some property in central London. I could see if she might be willing to do us a deal.”
And then, unaccountably, John is laughing.
Sherlock tenses. “What?”
“No, it’s just - You’re selling this a little hard, aren’t you?”
Sherlock frowns at first. Then, recognizing John’s reference, offers a tentative smile, though his shoulders are still stiff. “I suppose I wanted to make a convincing case.”
John privately thinks Sherlock’s smile alone is convincing enough. But all the same . . . He bites his lip, reaches down and takes both of Sherlock’s lovely hands in his. “Sherlock, I . . . I don’t know if I can tell you how tempting I find that offer, but . . .”
The tension redoubles in Sherlock’s lean frame instantly. “It’s fine, forget it,” he says shortly, trying to draw his hands back.
“Sherlock, no. Just-No. Hear me out.”
Sherlock doesn’t relax, but he does sit still.
“I can think of nothing I’d like more than to move in with you and go into business with you and shag you senseless around the clock. But . . . I have a life here, and, no, it’s not exactly what I always dreamed of, but I can’t just chuck it all for someone I’ve known for eight days. I like you, a lot - if I’m being really honest, I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone as much as I like you. But maybe we could just . . . take it slow for a while?”
If it’s possible, Sherlock’s shoulders draw even further in on themselves. “John, if this is about the danger I put you in, I’ll do better. I won’t-”
“Yes, you will,” John says, because he hasn’t known Sherlock very long, it’s true, but he knows he’s not going to stop rushing into danger on John’s account. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He runs his hands over his face. “Honestly, it’s not about the risk - I mean, that was a bloody stupid thing you did back there, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not . . . I could do with a little bit recklessness in my life, I think.”
Sherlock looks up at him, perplexed, almost plaintive. “So what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem, I’m just saying I’d like to get to know one another a little better before we start living together.”
“I could tell you about myself,” Sherlock offers quickly. “I play the violin, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end-”
“No, Sherlock, that’s not the point,” he says, and he can’t help it, he’s laughing. “The point is that it’s fun to get to know one another.”
Sherlock scowls, obviously not comprehending and frustrated by his incomprehension. “I don’t-”
“I don’t want to know everything about you,” he says patiently, “I want to learn everything about you. I want to go places with you, and talk to you about things, see what you’re like in different situations. I want to find out what you like to eat, buy you presents you hate, get into arguments, make up. I- Jesus, I want to watch the bloody sunrise with you.”
“Oh,” Sherlock says quietly.
“Is that . . . Does that sound OK to you?”
“I’d, ah . . .” He nods. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” John says, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple and then another one, gentler, to the bow of his lips.
They sit like that for a long time, kissing quietly, sharing their breath. They’re both too tired and aching to do anything more, but John doesn’t care, because this is perfect just as it is. And since they’re both under doctor’s orders not to sleep, they watch the sun rise.
*
Part Seventeen
Title: Eight Days A Week, 16/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 2,041
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, Fourteen, Fifteen
Author's Notes: OK, this is technically the last part -- epilogue to follow tomorrow. Almost done! 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. Please do let me know if you enjoy!
*
John and Sherlock get side-by-side seats in the ambulance.
“I told you it would be safer if you didn’t get involved,” Sherlock says mildly.
Despite the dull agony still jangling through his nerves, John can’t help grinning. “Maybe I like a little danger.” It’s something of a revelation. Any reasonable person would be swearing off Sherlock’s company forever - or at least swearing at him for taking such an idiotic risk. But John, he’s coming to realize, is not entirely reasonable when it comes to Sherlock.
All things considered, though, they’ve both gotten off lightly, John with some nasty burns and a few minor cuts, Sherlock with several bruises and a sprained wrist. They’re both mildly concussed, too, with matching his-and-his head injuries. The hospital staff want to keep them overnight to monitor their condition, but Sherlock waves them off, insisting he knows how to handle a simple concussion. The doctor frowns, but agrees to release them, under the condition that neither of them lets the other sleep for the next twenty-four hours. It occurs to John that this may not be very responsible, medically speaking, but he can’t blame the man for giving in - Sherlock’s a bit terrifying when he’s in a strop. And, anyway, John doesn’t think it will be much of a problem, as he has no intention of letting Sherlock out of his sight any time soon - possibly ever, some voice at the back of his head points out.
Bill turns up as they’re being discharged, wearing his coat over a pair of pajamas and looking exceedingly nervous. Once he’s been reassured that both John and Sherlock are more or less OK, his anxiety subsides somewhat, although not entirely because there’s still the matter of his maniac former IT tech on the loose. The more they explain about the situation, the whiter Bill’s face gets, and John realizes, through the lens of Bill’s horror, how truly insane this all must sound, but frankly he can’t be bothered to care. John is sure Bill’s imagining the reaming out he’s going to get from Head Office when they hear about this, but, gentleman that he is, all Bill says is that he’s glad they’re both all right.
Bill offers to give them a ride back to John’s flat, but Sherlock declines, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. John doesn’t understand why until he sees a tall man in an impeccable suit striding towards them down the corridor.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock says sullenly.
So this is Sherlock’s contact, the one who turned him on to this case.
“I understand you let young Mr. Moriarty get away,” Mycroft says by way of greeting.
“For now.” Sherlock scowls at no one in particular, and John realizes that it bothers him - not just that they lost Jim specifically, but that there’s now one who got away. John has the feeling Sherlock doesn’t leave cases unsolved very often. He’s also sure that Sherlock isn’t just blowing smoke when he says that Jim’s escape is only temporary. He can’t say when or how, but he’s certain Jim Moriarty will come into Sherlock’s life again some day, and when he does, no doubt the results will be explosive.
“To be fair,” he puts in, “it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
And then suddenly Mycroft’s cool, steady gaze is fixed on him, and he feels rather like he’s being pinned under glass. “You must be John Watson. I’ve been hearing very interesting things about you, I must say.”
“Er . . . all good, I hope,” John replies lamely, because what on earth is he supposed to say to that?
“Quite,” Mycroft replies, and there’s an odd little quirk to his mouth, almost as if he has an unpleasant taste on his tongue, but the look in his eyes is one of amusement. Really, John has no idea what to make of it.
“Are you done checking up on me now, Mycroft?” Sherlock snaps. “Don’t you have a country somewhere to invade?”
Mycroft executes a very posh version of an eye roll and says, “I am at least satisfied you’ve come through this in one piece.” He looks Sherlock up and down, half despairing, half fond. “I do so worry about you, you know.”
“Good-bye, Mycroft.” Something about the pointed way he says it reminds John of a petulant teenager brushing off a parent’s concern, and as Mycroft departs, John fancies he sees a certain family resemblance between the two of them - their height, their hair, that same long, striding gait. The thought that Sherlock has an actual family, that there might be other people like him, is both slightly unbelievable and strangely wonderful. Somewhere out there, there are people who knew Sherlock as a boy, who have seen him grow up. John thinks he’d like to know more about that boy, about who Sherlock was. He’d like to know more about who Sherlock is now, for that matter. He’s only known Sherlock for eight days, after all - a week and a day. It’s almost hard to believe that a week ago, the man beside him was a complete stranger. There’s so much more he’d like to discover about him, so much more he’d like to do.
He wonders what will happen now that the case is over. Jim Moriarty may still be at large, but Sherlock’s time here, with John, is drawing to a close. And despite everything he’s told himself, all his assurances that it didn’t matter that it was only temporary, that he’d take what he could get, John finds himself wishing it didn’t have to end.
“So.” He glances up at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “What now?”
“Now we get a cab,” Sherlock says decisively. “We go back to your flat, where you’ll make breakfast, because you’re starving. And then . . . we’ll talk.”
This is exactly what they do. John is starving, as it happens. Apparently, being tortured really whets the appetite. He makes toast and eggs and coffee, the last of which he forces Sherlock to drink in copious quantities, because it won’t do to have him fall asleep and slip into a coma.
They sit together on the sofa, thighs just touching, and Sherlock drinks his coffee while John wolfs down his breakfast. Once he’s deposited his empty plate on the coffee table, though, John starts to get nervous. It seems like all of this could be over very soon, but he doesn’t know what to say or do to change that.
“You said you wanted to talk?” he asks, fidgeting with his empty coffee cup.
“Yes.” Sherlock takes the coffee cup from his hands and puts it down before turning to face John fully. “John, I . . .”
So this is it. Here comes the kiss off, the moment where Sherlock tells him, This has been great, let’s stay friends. John braces himself.
“I think you should resign.”
Well, that’s not at all what he was expecting. “Come again?”
“I think you should quit. Your talents are obviously wasted here, and I think you would be able to make much better uses of your time in London.”
“What, you mean, at Head Office?”
Sherlock frowns at him, as if he can’t understand why John is being so dense. “I mean with me.”
John wonders if this is the concussion talking. He’s certainly feeling a bit muddled at the moment. “Wait, what?”
“I think you should come to London with me. You asked me before if this work was my livelihood, and I think you’re right that it could be, with the proper attention to the particulars. You’ve proven yourself to be truly invaluable over the past several days and I think with your business sense and my deductive skills, we could do quite well for ourselves. Furthermore, I find I . . .” His mouth works silently for a moment as he struggles to find the words. “I don’t want to leave you.”
John can’t - he doesn’t - He’s acutely aware that his mouth is hanging open, but he can’t seem to shut it.
Sherlock glances over at him, and John’s not sure, but he looks almost nervous. “I have a reasonably spacious flat with more than enough room for a second tenant, or, if you preferred, we could look for larger accommodations. I’m sure between the two of us we could afford something quite nice - I know a woman, a former client of mine, I suppose you’d say, who owns some property in central London. I could see if she might be willing to do us a deal.”
And then, unaccountably, John is laughing.
Sherlock tenses. “What?”
“No, it’s just - You’re selling this a little hard, aren’t you?”
Sherlock frowns at first. Then, recognizing John’s reference, offers a tentative smile, though his shoulders are still stiff. “I suppose I wanted to make a convincing case.”
John privately thinks Sherlock’s smile alone is convincing enough. But all the same . . . He bites his lip, reaches down and takes both of Sherlock’s lovely hands in his. “Sherlock, I . . . I don’t know if I can tell you how tempting I find that offer, but . . .”
The tension redoubles in Sherlock’s lean frame instantly. “It’s fine, forget it,” he says shortly, trying to draw his hands back.
“Sherlock, no. Just-No. Hear me out.”
Sherlock doesn’t relax, but he does sit still.
“I can think of nothing I’d like more than to move in with you and go into business with you and shag you senseless around the clock. But . . . I have a life here, and, no, it’s not exactly what I always dreamed of, but I can’t just chuck it all for someone I’ve known for eight days. I like you, a lot - if I’m being really honest, I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone as much as I like you. But maybe we could just . . . take it slow for a while?”
If it’s possible, Sherlock’s shoulders draw even further in on themselves. “John, if this is about the danger I put you in, I’ll do better. I won’t-”
“Yes, you will,” John says, because he hasn’t known Sherlock very long, it’s true, but he knows he’s not going to stop rushing into danger on John’s account. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He runs his hands over his face. “Honestly, it’s not about the risk - I mean, that was a bloody stupid thing you did back there, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not . . . I could do with a little bit recklessness in my life, I think.”
Sherlock looks up at him, perplexed, almost plaintive. “So what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem, I’m just saying I’d like to get to know one another a little better before we start living together.”
“I could tell you about myself,” Sherlock offers quickly. “I play the violin, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end-”
“No, Sherlock, that’s not the point,” he says, and he can’t help it, he’s laughing. “The point is that it’s fun to get to know one another.”
Sherlock scowls, obviously not comprehending and frustrated by his incomprehension. “I don’t-”
“I don’t want to know everything about you,” he says patiently, “I want to learn everything about you. I want to go places with you, and talk to you about things, see what you’re like in different situations. I want to find out what you like to eat, buy you presents you hate, get into arguments, make up. I- Jesus, I want to watch the bloody sunrise with you.”
“Oh,” Sherlock says quietly.
“Is that . . . Does that sound OK to you?”
“I’d, ah . . .” He nods. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” John says, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple and then another one, gentler, to the bow of his lips.
They sit like that for a long time, kissing quietly, sharing their breath. They’re both too tired and aching to do anything more, but John doesn’t care, because this is perfect just as it is. And since they’re both under doctor’s orders not to sleep, they watch the sun rise.
*
Part Seventeen