Fic: Eight Days a Week 11/17, PG-13
OK, here's some more of this.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 11/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,200
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
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!
*
The second half of John’s Monday isn’t any less stressful than the first half - although there are considerably fewer explosions. Sherlock is still tense and agitated, pacing the room like a caged animal, but John resolves not to take it personally and just puts his head down and keeps working.
And really, he can’t fault Sherlock for getting a little wound up. After all, he was almost blown up this morning, and the embezzler is openly taunting him. John’s more than a little relieved that he’s not in Sherlock’s shoes, quite honestly, because if their roles were reversed, he would have already cracked from the pressure.
Not that Sherlock doesn’t seem on the verge of it. When the office finally begins to empty out, John decides it might be time for a change of location.
“What if you took some of this work home with you?” he suggests tentatively, watching Sherlock carefully to gauge his reaction.
“And where, exactly, would I go?” Sherlock asks. “In case you’ve forgotten, my hotel room isn’t available.”
As if John could possibly forget. But instead of snapping back, he takes a deep breath and says, “I was rather thinking you could come back to mine.” Sherlock shoots him a sharp glance, and he hastens to add, “Just to work.” It’s the closest either of them has come to acknowledging what happened in Sherlock’s hotel room last Thursday night. “I’ve got a spare room and a lilo, even. It’s quiet, and you’d have more room to spread out.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You’re selling this rather hard.”
“I’m not, I just . . .” He shrugs. “Like you said, you can’t go back to your hotel room, and you can’t very well stay here all night.” From the look on Sherlock’s face, he can see that this is exactly what he was planning to do. “It won’t do you any good to keep retreading the same steps over and over again,” he says gently. “You’ll just drive yourself up a wall. A change of scene might do you good.” What he doesn’t add is that, after the events of this morning, he’d feel much better if Sherlock stayed in shouting distance - not that he knows quite what he’d do if they got into trouble, but at least they’d be in it together.
Sherlock’s evaluative gaze hasn’t yet left John’s face. Those haze-blue eyes keep searching, searching, but they don’t ever seem to find what they’re looking for. “I suppose,” Sherlock says.
John smiles. “I’ll make risotto.”
And that’s exactly what he does. Sherlock packs up the most pertinent files into a couple of cardboard boxes, and pores over them on John’s sofa while John putters around in the kitchen, busying himself with the endless stirring that risotto requires. It’s strangely therapeutic, actually, sweating in the fragrant heat from the stove while Sherlock makes quiet contemplative noises in the next room. By the time dinner’s ready, John is feeling more relaxed than he has all day - hell, all week, probably.
They eat in the living room, plates balanced on their knees while they trade files back and forth, marking relevant portions with sticky notes and complaining about people’s terrible handwriting. It’s almost domestic, or as domestic as he can imagine Sherlock Holmes being.
It’s nice, this thing between them, whatever it is. It doesn’t have to come to anything, he decides, and it doesn’t have to matter that Sherlock will be leaving before too long. John’s just grateful to have someone to talk to, and a problem to solve that doesn’t have anything to do with restocking orders. He doesn’t have to kid himself that this is forever in order for it to be a great adventure.
Sherlock seems to have calmed down a bit, too, settling down onto John’s couch once he’s done eating and stretching out so that he’s taking up the whole length of it. It makes John flush pleasantly to see him spread out so comfortably, so proprietarily, over his things.
“Budge up,” John says when he returns from putting their dishes in the sink. He flicks the sole of one of Sherlock’s bare feet, and the man gives him an irate look over the top of an accordion folder. “Come on, move. I don’t have enough furniture for you to hog it all.”
This is true. Despite the fact that he’s been living here for almost five years, John’s hardly filled the place up. There’s only one other seat, a big plush armchair, but it’s all the way across the room and John really doesn’t feel like dragging it over.
Sherlock seems to see the reason in this and obligingly lifts his feet.
“Thank you,” John says pointedly, and sits down with as much dignity as he can muster, picking up where he left off in his stack of papers.
A little while later, Sherlock’s feet manage to insinuate themselves into John’s lap, which is nice, actually - strangely intimate, but, then, he’s not very well going to complain, is he? And if his hand comes to rest on Sherlock’s ankle, if his thumb winds up stroking the sharp knob of bone there, well, he’s only human, after all.
An hour or more has passed when Sherlock says, “John, about what I said this morning . . .”
John stills his hand, licking his lips nervously. “You don’t have to-”
“Yes, I do.”
At that, he dares to glance over at Sherlock, who’s watching him very closely, the look on his face so intent that it sends shivers over John’s skin.
“I meant it when I said I don’t have friends. I’m not-accustomed to working with anyone else. I don’t, generally.”
John’s no detective, but he could have guessed that.
“I’m used to keeping my observations to myself. As I’ve said, most people don’t take kindly to them, and I find it’s usually more efficient if I don’t have to explain. I wasn’t withholding information from you because I don’t value your help. In fact, you’ve been indispensible to me the past few days.”
“What, because I’m so skilled with a sticky note?” he asks lightly, in part to cover up how his heart is suddenly hammering in his chest.
Sherlock is frowning at him, not upset, just curious, that same searching look in his eyes. After what feels to John like a very long time, he levers himself into a sitting position and sets the papers in his hand aside. Now that he’s upright, his knees bent, feet still in John’s lap, he seems very close, and John has to stop himself from getting his hopes up again. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
John can’t even begin to imagine what Sherlock is talking about. “See what?”
Instead of answering, Sherlock closes his fingers around John’s hand and John doesn’t quite know what’s happening any more. They’re very close, and they seem to be getting closer, although John’s fairly sure he hasn’t moved. And then Sherlock is looking him in the eye, his other hand on John’s cheek, and he has the most wonderfully serious look on his face, like he’s about to explain the laws of quantum physics.
*
Part Twelve
Title: Eight Days A Week, 11/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,200
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
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!
*
The second half of John’s Monday isn’t any less stressful than the first half - although there are considerably fewer explosions. Sherlock is still tense and agitated, pacing the room like a caged animal, but John resolves not to take it personally and just puts his head down and keeps working.
And really, he can’t fault Sherlock for getting a little wound up. After all, he was almost blown up this morning, and the embezzler is openly taunting him. John’s more than a little relieved that he’s not in Sherlock’s shoes, quite honestly, because if their roles were reversed, he would have already cracked from the pressure.
Not that Sherlock doesn’t seem on the verge of it. When the office finally begins to empty out, John decides it might be time for a change of location.
“What if you took some of this work home with you?” he suggests tentatively, watching Sherlock carefully to gauge his reaction.
“And where, exactly, would I go?” Sherlock asks. “In case you’ve forgotten, my hotel room isn’t available.”
As if John could possibly forget. But instead of snapping back, he takes a deep breath and says, “I was rather thinking you could come back to mine.” Sherlock shoots him a sharp glance, and he hastens to add, “Just to work.” It’s the closest either of them has come to acknowledging what happened in Sherlock’s hotel room last Thursday night. “I’ve got a spare room and a lilo, even. It’s quiet, and you’d have more room to spread out.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You’re selling this rather hard.”
“I’m not, I just . . .” He shrugs. “Like you said, you can’t go back to your hotel room, and you can’t very well stay here all night.” From the look on Sherlock’s face, he can see that this is exactly what he was planning to do. “It won’t do you any good to keep retreading the same steps over and over again,” he says gently. “You’ll just drive yourself up a wall. A change of scene might do you good.” What he doesn’t add is that, after the events of this morning, he’d feel much better if Sherlock stayed in shouting distance - not that he knows quite what he’d do if they got into trouble, but at least they’d be in it together.
Sherlock’s evaluative gaze hasn’t yet left John’s face. Those haze-blue eyes keep searching, searching, but they don’t ever seem to find what they’re looking for. “I suppose,” Sherlock says.
John smiles. “I’ll make risotto.”
And that’s exactly what he does. Sherlock packs up the most pertinent files into a couple of cardboard boxes, and pores over them on John’s sofa while John putters around in the kitchen, busying himself with the endless stirring that risotto requires. It’s strangely therapeutic, actually, sweating in the fragrant heat from the stove while Sherlock makes quiet contemplative noises in the next room. By the time dinner’s ready, John is feeling more relaxed than he has all day - hell, all week, probably.
They eat in the living room, plates balanced on their knees while they trade files back and forth, marking relevant portions with sticky notes and complaining about people’s terrible handwriting. It’s almost domestic, or as domestic as he can imagine Sherlock Holmes being.
It’s nice, this thing between them, whatever it is. It doesn’t have to come to anything, he decides, and it doesn’t have to matter that Sherlock will be leaving before too long. John’s just grateful to have someone to talk to, and a problem to solve that doesn’t have anything to do with restocking orders. He doesn’t have to kid himself that this is forever in order for it to be a great adventure.
Sherlock seems to have calmed down a bit, too, settling down onto John’s couch once he’s done eating and stretching out so that he’s taking up the whole length of it. It makes John flush pleasantly to see him spread out so comfortably, so proprietarily, over his things.
“Budge up,” John says when he returns from putting their dishes in the sink. He flicks the sole of one of Sherlock’s bare feet, and the man gives him an irate look over the top of an accordion folder. “Come on, move. I don’t have enough furniture for you to hog it all.”
This is true. Despite the fact that he’s been living here for almost five years, John’s hardly filled the place up. There’s only one other seat, a big plush armchair, but it’s all the way across the room and John really doesn’t feel like dragging it over.
Sherlock seems to see the reason in this and obligingly lifts his feet.
“Thank you,” John says pointedly, and sits down with as much dignity as he can muster, picking up where he left off in his stack of papers.
A little while later, Sherlock’s feet manage to insinuate themselves into John’s lap, which is nice, actually - strangely intimate, but, then, he’s not very well going to complain, is he? And if his hand comes to rest on Sherlock’s ankle, if his thumb winds up stroking the sharp knob of bone there, well, he’s only human, after all.
An hour or more has passed when Sherlock says, “John, about what I said this morning . . .”
John stills his hand, licking his lips nervously. “You don’t have to-”
“Yes, I do.”
At that, he dares to glance over at Sherlock, who’s watching him very closely, the look on his face so intent that it sends shivers over John’s skin.
“I meant it when I said I don’t have friends. I’m not-accustomed to working with anyone else. I don’t, generally.”
John’s no detective, but he could have guessed that.
“I’m used to keeping my observations to myself. As I’ve said, most people don’t take kindly to them, and I find it’s usually more efficient if I don’t have to explain. I wasn’t withholding information from you because I don’t value your help. In fact, you’ve been indispensible to me the past few days.”
“What, because I’m so skilled with a sticky note?” he asks lightly, in part to cover up how his heart is suddenly hammering in his chest.
Sherlock is frowning at him, not upset, just curious, that same searching look in his eyes. After what feels to John like a very long time, he levers himself into a sitting position and sets the papers in his hand aside. Now that he’s upright, his knees bent, feet still in John’s lap, he seems very close, and John has to stop himself from getting his hopes up again. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
John can’t even begin to imagine what Sherlock is talking about. “See what?”
Instead of answering, Sherlock closes his fingers around John’s hand and John doesn’t quite know what’s happening any more. They’re very close, and they seem to be getting closer, although John’s fairly sure he hasn’t moved. And then Sherlock is looking him in the eye, his other hand on John’s cheek, and he has the most wonderfully serious look on his face, like he’s about to explain the laws of quantum physics.
*
Part Twelve