Eight Days a Week 17/17, R
And . . . done.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 17/17 (Epilogue)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R
Warnings: Happy endings, some sexual content
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,180 / 24,169 (total)
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, Sixteen
Author's Notes: The end! Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this, and those of you who've commented oh-so-kindly. 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!
*
Sherlock doesn’t stop nagging him about moving in. They have the argument frequently, almost like clockwork. And it’s difficult for John to fight it - not just because Sherlock is a holy terror, but because John can’t say that he’s not tempted. He keeps reminding Sherlock that, by most people’s standards, he and Sherlock are practically strangers, and that no rational person would chuck their entire career and their hometown and all of their (OK, well, all of their few) friends for someone they hardly know. Sherlock finds this line of reasoning tedious, but John is adamant.
Because he knows he has a history of letting things implode - work situations, relationships, even his own feelings, which he pushes down until they rise up to suffocate him - and he wants this thing with Sherlock to work. If that means taking it slow, well, he knows enough to understand that the best things are worth waiting for.
So they compromise. John keeps his job and his flat, and on the weekends, he takes the train into London. John’s never done the whole long-distance relationship thing before, but even by John’s relatively flexible standards, theirs is far from normal.
One weekend, he and Sherlock go chasing after a serial murderer and almost drown in the Thames and then Sherlock takes him home and fucks him until he can’t control his nerve endings anymore. It’s hands-down the best two days of John’s life.
Sherlock introduces him to his new contact on the police force, a good-natured man named Lestrade, recently promoted from Detective Sergeant and already greying handsomely at the temples, a condition John feels certain Sherlock will only exacerbate.
John’s thinking about finishing up the last few credits he needs for his degree, even considering applying to medical school. He’s not that old, after all - plenty of people take a few years off between college and graduate school - and Sherlock likes the idea of having a proper doctor helping him out on cases. John likes it, too.
It takes everyone at the office about six seconds to discover that John’s currently seeing the independent consultant who, oh, haven’t you heard, is really a private detective! All the overbearing motherly types keep asking how “his detective” is doing and John threatens to move to London just so that people will stop taking liberties with his personal life. Sherlock seems to find John’s discomfiture hilarious, and fuels the gossip by sending disgustingly extravagant flower arrangements - not because he’s sentimental, but because he takes an indecent amount of pleasure in how much workplace displays of affection annoy John.
The fact that they now share a bed doesn’t stop Sherlock being insufferably superior sometimes, or lashing out cruelly when John is grating on his nerves. Sometimes - usually after Sherlock has been exceptionally callous at one moment or another - John starts to feel things are getting too serious too fast and he panics and invents a reason why he shouldn’t come into the city for the weekend, but Sherlock always sees right through it and talks him down. He can be imminently reasonable when he wants to be, and, on the rare occasions when logic fails, John finds his lips and tongue extremely convincing.
They learn things about one another. John discovers that Sherlock loves Bach and trashy TV, that he’s trying to kick a smoking habit. He’s stunned to find out about the drugs, and for a while he’s sure that will be the deal breaker, because he’s known enough addicts in his time, but Sherlock swears that all of that is in his past, and John believes him. For his part, Sherlock isn’t terribly surprised by anything he learns about John, not his temper or his troubled relationship with his sister or anything else. In fact, Sherlock seems to delight in every little detail he can glean about John, good or bad, and, really, John understands why. Because even the worst things he learns about Sherlock mean there’s more Sherlock, and that could never be a bad thing.
John savors his time in London: the noise and chaos of the city, the thrill of pursuing a suspect and the aching pleasure of Sherlock’s mouth against his, the quiet Sunday mornings spent reading the paper on the sofa while Sherlock works on some kind of inscrutable experiment in the kitchen. It’s never enough and he always leaves wanting more.
When John’s not in London, Sherlock calls him frequently to ask his advice on cases. He never feels he’s much help, but Sherlock assures him that he is. And when Sherlock’s not on a case, they try having phone sex, but Sherlock is disastrously bad at it - which is strange, as John would’ve expected the man who has an opinion about everything to be good at vocalizing his desire. But Sherlock says he gets bored if John’s not there in front of him, and, as John finds this rather flattering, he forgives Sherlock when his mind wanders. They have better luck with video chat, and, as if to make up for his phone sex inadequacies, Sherlock perfects the art of the scorchingly inappropriate mid-work-day text message.
But truth be told, they’re spending less and less time apart. John finds himself delaying his departures more every time - leaving later and later on Sunday night, until finally he’s leaving Monday morning and slinking into work straight from the train station in the same clothes he wore the day before. Sometimes Sherlock even comes up on Friday and they grab a drink at the King’s Arms with Bill before going home to have a quick fuck and catch the last train into London. John’s possessions - his hairbrush, pairs of socks, his second-favorite jumper - seem to be migrating to Sherlock’s flat, and he finds he doesn’t mind in the least. He likes seeing his toothbrush in the cup on Sherlock’s sink, his brand of tea in the pantry. Hell, he likes how he’s learning to distinguish expired takeaway from ongoing experiments in the chaos of Sherlock’s fridge.
Sherlock starts emailing him listings from letting agents. He even pulls some strings with a contact he has at Barts Hospital who seems to think he could get John admitted for the fall, provided he can get his last few undergraduate credits sorted by then.
But in the end, none of that is what clinches it for John. It’s not even the lovely little flat in Westminster, right near Regent’s Park, that Sherlock shows him one sunny afternoon.
In the end, what makes John’s mind up is the giddy feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach as his train pulls into the station on Friday evenings. It’s the fact that the weekends he spends with Sherlock are the fullest, most exciting - sometimes the most insane - part of every week. And it’s the fact that, whether they’re chasing down criminals or just sitting around having a quiet night in, when he’s with Sherlock, for the first time in a long time, he can see the future ahead of him, and one he wants more of.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 17/17 (Epilogue)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Bill Murray, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R
Warnings: Happy endings, some sexual content
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,180 / 24,169 (total)
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, Sixteen
Author's Notes: The end! Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this, and those of you who've commented oh-so-kindly. 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!
*
Sherlock doesn’t stop nagging him about moving in. They have the argument frequently, almost like clockwork. And it’s difficult for John to fight it - not just because Sherlock is a holy terror, but because John can’t say that he’s not tempted. He keeps reminding Sherlock that, by most people’s standards, he and Sherlock are practically strangers, and that no rational person would chuck their entire career and their hometown and all of their (OK, well, all of their few) friends for someone they hardly know. Sherlock finds this line of reasoning tedious, but John is adamant.
Because he knows he has a history of letting things implode - work situations, relationships, even his own feelings, which he pushes down until they rise up to suffocate him - and he wants this thing with Sherlock to work. If that means taking it slow, well, he knows enough to understand that the best things are worth waiting for.
So they compromise. John keeps his job and his flat, and on the weekends, he takes the train into London. John’s never done the whole long-distance relationship thing before, but even by John’s relatively flexible standards, theirs is far from normal.
One weekend, he and Sherlock go chasing after a serial murderer and almost drown in the Thames and then Sherlock takes him home and fucks him until he can’t control his nerve endings anymore. It’s hands-down the best two days of John’s life.
Sherlock introduces him to his new contact on the police force, a good-natured man named Lestrade, recently promoted from Detective Sergeant and already greying handsomely at the temples, a condition John feels certain Sherlock will only exacerbate.
John’s thinking about finishing up the last few credits he needs for his degree, even considering applying to medical school. He’s not that old, after all - plenty of people take a few years off between college and graduate school - and Sherlock likes the idea of having a proper doctor helping him out on cases. John likes it, too.
It takes everyone at the office about six seconds to discover that John’s currently seeing the independent consultant who, oh, haven’t you heard, is really a private detective! All the overbearing motherly types keep asking how “his detective” is doing and John threatens to move to London just so that people will stop taking liberties with his personal life. Sherlock seems to find John’s discomfiture hilarious, and fuels the gossip by sending disgustingly extravagant flower arrangements - not because he’s sentimental, but because he takes an indecent amount of pleasure in how much workplace displays of affection annoy John.
The fact that they now share a bed doesn’t stop Sherlock being insufferably superior sometimes, or lashing out cruelly when John is grating on his nerves. Sometimes - usually after Sherlock has been exceptionally callous at one moment or another - John starts to feel things are getting too serious too fast and he panics and invents a reason why he shouldn’t come into the city for the weekend, but Sherlock always sees right through it and talks him down. He can be imminently reasonable when he wants to be, and, on the rare occasions when logic fails, John finds his lips and tongue extremely convincing.
They learn things about one another. John discovers that Sherlock loves Bach and trashy TV, that he’s trying to kick a smoking habit. He’s stunned to find out about the drugs, and for a while he’s sure that will be the deal breaker, because he’s known enough addicts in his time, but Sherlock swears that all of that is in his past, and John believes him. For his part, Sherlock isn’t terribly surprised by anything he learns about John, not his temper or his troubled relationship with his sister or anything else. In fact, Sherlock seems to delight in every little detail he can glean about John, good or bad, and, really, John understands why. Because even the worst things he learns about Sherlock mean there’s more Sherlock, and that could never be a bad thing.
John savors his time in London: the noise and chaos of the city, the thrill of pursuing a suspect and the aching pleasure of Sherlock’s mouth against his, the quiet Sunday mornings spent reading the paper on the sofa while Sherlock works on some kind of inscrutable experiment in the kitchen. It’s never enough and he always leaves wanting more.
When John’s not in London, Sherlock calls him frequently to ask his advice on cases. He never feels he’s much help, but Sherlock assures him that he is. And when Sherlock’s not on a case, they try having phone sex, but Sherlock is disastrously bad at it - which is strange, as John would’ve expected the man who has an opinion about everything to be good at vocalizing his desire. But Sherlock says he gets bored if John’s not there in front of him, and, as John finds this rather flattering, he forgives Sherlock when his mind wanders. They have better luck with video chat, and, as if to make up for his phone sex inadequacies, Sherlock perfects the art of the scorchingly inappropriate mid-work-day text message.
But truth be told, they’re spending less and less time apart. John finds himself delaying his departures more every time - leaving later and later on Sunday night, until finally he’s leaving Monday morning and slinking into work straight from the train station in the same clothes he wore the day before. Sometimes Sherlock even comes up on Friday and they grab a drink at the King’s Arms with Bill before going home to have a quick fuck and catch the last train into London. John’s possessions - his hairbrush, pairs of socks, his second-favorite jumper - seem to be migrating to Sherlock’s flat, and he finds he doesn’t mind in the least. He likes seeing his toothbrush in the cup on Sherlock’s sink, his brand of tea in the pantry. Hell, he likes how he’s learning to distinguish expired takeaway from ongoing experiments in the chaos of Sherlock’s fridge.
Sherlock starts emailing him listings from letting agents. He even pulls some strings with a contact he has at Barts Hospital who seems to think he could get John admitted for the fall, provided he can get his last few undergraduate credits sorted by then.
But in the end, none of that is what clinches it for John. It’s not even the lovely little flat in Westminster, right near Regent’s Park, that Sherlock shows him one sunny afternoon.
In the end, what makes John’s mind up is the giddy feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach as his train pulls into the station on Friday evenings. It’s the fact that the weekends he spends with Sherlock are the fullest, most exciting - sometimes the most insane - part of every week. And it’s the fact that, whether they’re chasing down criminals or just sitting around having a quiet night in, when he’s with Sherlock, for the first time in a long time, he can see the future ahead of him, and one he wants more of.