Eight Days a Week 15/17, R
This.
Title: Eight Days A Week, 15/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Jim Moriarty
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,175
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
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 first touch of the stun gun shoots straight through to the bone. John doesn’t even bother fighting the shout that tears its way out of him. Good, he thinks when his head has cleared enough to allow him to think, and wills Sherlock to hear him.
“I hope you know I take no pleasure in doing this, John,” Jim says. He’s tipping his head from one side to the other, observing. Then he stops himself, reconsiders. “Well, I mean, I don’t like doing it to you myself. I do love watching you squirm, though. Shall we try it again?”
It isn’t any more fun the second time.
“That is just dy-na-mite!” Jim claps his hands, delighted.
Come on, Sherlock, John thinks, his limbs still twitching against his restraints from the residual energy of the concentrated shock. Where are you?
“As fun as this is,” John gasps out, struggling to form the words around his clumsy tongue, “it isn’t going to stop me telling the authorities what I know.”
Jim’s shoulders slump in exaggerated disappointment. “Oh, John, you don’t really think this is about you, do you?” He lets out a put-upon sigh. “You’re just the dangling carrot, darling. I was getting so bored waiting for your boyfriend to come find me. I’ve been expecting him for ages. When you turned up in the hallway, I just couldn’t resist. Finally, a gesture grand enough to get his attention.”
Jim steps back and he looks John over, admiring his handiwork with cruel, dark delight. “Do you think he’ll like his present? I went to so much trouble wrapping it for him.”
“I think you’re insane.”
“Well, duh,” Jim says, rolling his eyes. “And that’s what makes you so boring. No imagination at all, no sense of the possibilities in life. I don’t know how you think you’re going to hold Sherlock’s interest, with an attitude like that. You know what they say, variety is the spice of life!”
By variety, Jim seems to mean testing out the stun gun on different parts of John’s body, for differing lengths of time. At one point, John is fairly certain he’s tapping out a message in Morse code, but his brain is too scrambled to parse it. By the time he lets up, John’s throat is raw, his head reeling, and every inch of his skin feels like it’s on fire. He can’t seem to stop is limbs from jerking.
“Ugh,” Jim huffs, “there’s only so many ways I can hurt you before it all starts getting repetitive.” He tosses the stun gun aside and checks his watch. “I really didn’t think it would take him this long to work it out.”
“Sorry, am I late?”
And John’s never been so glad to hear anyone’s voice in his life. He lifts his head and can just make out Sherlock’s form at the end of the long aisle.
“All right, John?” Sherlock asks calmly, and John manages to grind out something that he hopes is reassuring.
“But enough about him!” Jim exclaims gaily. “Let’s talk about me!”
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock replies, “let’s. It’s very impressive work you’ve been doing. Amateur, but impressive.”
Jim’s expression darkens. “This is just the first step,” he says petulantly.
“So I assumed. Unfortunately, you won’t have a chance to step up your game.”
“Why, because you’re going to stop me?”
Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Yes.”
“Why would you want to do that?” It sounds as if he’s genuinely curious. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to wait and see what I’ve got in store?”
Sherlock makes an indifferent noise at the back of his throat. “Why read the whole book when the dust jacket bores me?”
At this, Jim looks perfectly livid. “Bored, are you? You’ve got no idea, dear, what I’m capable of. If you think embezzling is my great game, you’re sadly mistaken. You don’t even know the half of what I’ve done.”
“I’m sure you’re very promising,” Sherlock replies blandly, and John realizes belated that Sherlock winding Jim up.
“Oh, I am.” Jim shakes his head, delighting in his own malice. “I’m going places, baby, my star is on the rise. The future’s so bright I gotta wear shades.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt.”
John’s not sure when Sherlock got so close, but he and Jim are only a few feet away from one another. The stun gun is lying only a few feet away, on top of a pile of unused cardboard boxes. Come on, Sherlock. He wills the man to notice the gun, but Sherlock only has eyes for Jim, his attention locked on the other man.
John tries to marshal his limbs to strain against his bonds, trying to loosen them enough to slip free, but they’re plastic zip ties and John’s far too uncoordinated to budge them. In fact, they’re so tight that John’s not sure he has feeling in his hands anymore. It’s hard to tell the sensations apart, under the general screaming hurt from the electric shocks. But if he could just get free, get the stun gun, they’d have the upper hand . . .
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock give him a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Can that really be meant for him? Can Sherlock really have deduced what he’s trying to do? Of course he can, John chides himself; this is Sherlock.
So what, then? He’ll be damned if he’ll just sit tight and watch the two of them fight it out. Or maybe Sherlock means he’s got the police on their way. Surely once he figured out that John was missing, he would’ve called someone, alerted them to what was happening. Maybe he’s just biding his time until the reinforcements arrive.
Sherlock is still advancing slowly, barely creeping forward, and then with a cold shock John realizes that he’s not approaching Jim at all. He’s driving him, edging him into position so that he’ll be ready when Sherlock strikes. Oh, no, this isn’t good at all.
He tries to catch Sherlock’s eye so that he can warn him. He wants to shout out but he knows that would give the play away to Jim, and he doesn’t want to cost Sherlock the upper hand. But this can’t be the best idea Sherlock could come up with. It’s a terrible plan, beyond mad. He’s going to get himself killed.
And then he’s moving, launching himself not at Jim but past him, right at the shelving unit behind him, and tugging it down with all his might. John’s chair is right at the end of the aisle, the perfect position to watch the shelves and everything on them come crashing down on top of the two men. Cardboard boxes of copier paper burst open, sending reams of paper flying in the air, a curtain of blinding white.
“Sherlock!” he shouts. He struggles against his bonds, wrenches his arms so hard he can feel the plastic cutting into his skin. “Sherlock!”
Just then, the police burst into the warehouse.
*
Part Sixteen
Title: Eight Days A Week, 15/17
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Jim Moriarty
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers
Word count: 1,175
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
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 first touch of the stun gun shoots straight through to the bone. John doesn’t even bother fighting the shout that tears its way out of him. Good, he thinks when his head has cleared enough to allow him to think, and wills Sherlock to hear him.
“I hope you know I take no pleasure in doing this, John,” Jim says. He’s tipping his head from one side to the other, observing. Then he stops himself, reconsiders. “Well, I mean, I don’t like doing it to you myself. I do love watching you squirm, though. Shall we try it again?”
It isn’t any more fun the second time.
“That is just dy-na-mite!” Jim claps his hands, delighted.
Come on, Sherlock, John thinks, his limbs still twitching against his restraints from the residual energy of the concentrated shock. Where are you?
“As fun as this is,” John gasps out, struggling to form the words around his clumsy tongue, “it isn’t going to stop me telling the authorities what I know.”
Jim’s shoulders slump in exaggerated disappointment. “Oh, John, you don’t really think this is about you, do you?” He lets out a put-upon sigh. “You’re just the dangling carrot, darling. I was getting so bored waiting for your boyfriend to come find me. I’ve been expecting him for ages. When you turned up in the hallway, I just couldn’t resist. Finally, a gesture grand enough to get his attention.”
Jim steps back and he looks John over, admiring his handiwork with cruel, dark delight. “Do you think he’ll like his present? I went to so much trouble wrapping it for him.”
“I think you’re insane.”
“Well, duh,” Jim says, rolling his eyes. “And that’s what makes you so boring. No imagination at all, no sense of the possibilities in life. I don’t know how you think you’re going to hold Sherlock’s interest, with an attitude like that. You know what they say, variety is the spice of life!”
By variety, Jim seems to mean testing out the stun gun on different parts of John’s body, for differing lengths of time. At one point, John is fairly certain he’s tapping out a message in Morse code, but his brain is too scrambled to parse it. By the time he lets up, John’s throat is raw, his head reeling, and every inch of his skin feels like it’s on fire. He can’t seem to stop is limbs from jerking.
“Ugh,” Jim huffs, “there’s only so many ways I can hurt you before it all starts getting repetitive.” He tosses the stun gun aside and checks his watch. “I really didn’t think it would take him this long to work it out.”
“Sorry, am I late?”
And John’s never been so glad to hear anyone’s voice in his life. He lifts his head and can just make out Sherlock’s form at the end of the long aisle.
“All right, John?” Sherlock asks calmly, and John manages to grind out something that he hopes is reassuring.
“But enough about him!” Jim exclaims gaily. “Let’s talk about me!”
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock replies, “let’s. It’s very impressive work you’ve been doing. Amateur, but impressive.”
Jim’s expression darkens. “This is just the first step,” he says petulantly.
“So I assumed. Unfortunately, you won’t have a chance to step up your game.”
“Why, because you’re going to stop me?”
Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Yes.”
“Why would you want to do that?” It sounds as if he’s genuinely curious. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to wait and see what I’ve got in store?”
Sherlock makes an indifferent noise at the back of his throat. “Why read the whole book when the dust jacket bores me?”
At this, Jim looks perfectly livid. “Bored, are you? You’ve got no idea, dear, what I’m capable of. If you think embezzling is my great game, you’re sadly mistaken. You don’t even know the half of what I’ve done.”
“I’m sure you’re very promising,” Sherlock replies blandly, and John realizes belated that Sherlock winding Jim up.
“Oh, I am.” Jim shakes his head, delighting in his own malice. “I’m going places, baby, my star is on the rise. The future’s so bright I gotta wear shades.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt.”
John’s not sure when Sherlock got so close, but he and Jim are only a few feet away from one another. The stun gun is lying only a few feet away, on top of a pile of unused cardboard boxes. Come on, Sherlock. He wills the man to notice the gun, but Sherlock only has eyes for Jim, his attention locked on the other man.
John tries to marshal his limbs to strain against his bonds, trying to loosen them enough to slip free, but they’re plastic zip ties and John’s far too uncoordinated to budge them. In fact, they’re so tight that John’s not sure he has feeling in his hands anymore. It’s hard to tell the sensations apart, under the general screaming hurt from the electric shocks. But if he could just get free, get the stun gun, they’d have the upper hand . . .
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock give him a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Can that really be meant for him? Can Sherlock really have deduced what he’s trying to do? Of course he can, John chides himself; this is Sherlock.
So what, then? He’ll be damned if he’ll just sit tight and watch the two of them fight it out. Or maybe Sherlock means he’s got the police on their way. Surely once he figured out that John was missing, he would’ve called someone, alerted them to what was happening. Maybe he’s just biding his time until the reinforcements arrive.
Sherlock is still advancing slowly, barely creeping forward, and then with a cold shock John realizes that he’s not approaching Jim at all. He’s driving him, edging him into position so that he’ll be ready when Sherlock strikes. Oh, no, this isn’t good at all.
He tries to catch Sherlock’s eye so that he can warn him. He wants to shout out but he knows that would give the play away to Jim, and he doesn’t want to cost Sherlock the upper hand. But this can’t be the best idea Sherlock could come up with. It’s a terrible plan, beyond mad. He’s going to get himself killed.
And then he’s moving, launching himself not at Jim but past him, right at the shelving unit behind him, and tugging it down with all his might. John’s chair is right at the end of the aisle, the perfect position to watch the shelves and everything on them come crashing down on top of the two men. Cardboard boxes of copier paper burst open, sending reams of paper flying in the air, a curtain of blinding white.
“Sherlock!” he shouts. He struggles against his bonds, wrenches his arms so hard he can feel the plastic cutting into his skin. “Sherlock!”
Just then, the police burst into the warehouse.
*
Part Sixteen