Author's Note: Another AU one. Gotta start something new because my other Sherlock fic will be coming to a close in a couple of chapters and my in-Sherlock universe one is taking longer to plot out than I thought.
Sorry if this has been done before. Just an idea that popped into my head while at work the other day. I tend to love the personal assistant or boss-subordinate relationships.
Doubly sorry if anyone is OOC.
Summary: John Watson has dreamed of the day that he could be a real journalist. His chance comes when he is given an assignment to go undercover as one of rock music's oddest stars personal assistants to one Sherlock Holmes to find out what makes him tick. John gets more than he bargained for when he finds himself falling head over heels for his assignment and begins to ignore his work. However, all good things have an expiration date, especially when Sherlock discovers John's real identity. Will John be able to win him back?
Rating: M - just to be safe.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sherlock characters. Title of the story is taken from a Pierce the Veil song. No money is made from this.
King for a Day
One
It's late one evening in my shared flat back at 221 Baker Street. The apartment is swank, I'll give it that. One year ago I never could have imagined a flat like this, much less imagined I would live in one. I'm just not sure how much longer I'll be living in it.
Three nights of insomnia are starting to take their toll.
I'm considering writing my story down, the story I was supposed to have been writing nearly a year ago after the day I met him.
Sherlock Holmes.
Known better as 'Lock' to the swarms of fans who scroll the papers, blogs, mobiles, etc. for a glimpse of him. Fans that wait outside the stage door in hopes to have that icy glare – which is one of the few real parts of his persona – turned in their direction. Vie for one of his shredded bows after he is finished.
'Lock' makes up one third of a group known as Lock, Croft, and Smoking Fox.
The other two thirds are Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, who messes about with the keyboard and computer, and Irene Adler, the front woman and voice of the group.
According to reviews, their sound is best described as 'haunting, operatic, and edgy. Lock's violin melds perfectly with Fox's classical voice, held together by Croft's masterful manipulation of electronics.'
Their music is the only thing that holds any of them together I can attest after a year of working with them.
Nearby, the phone is ringing. Sherlock is asleep and I ignore it. It's my editor calling once more to 'remind' – more like scream- that my story is way overdue.
So far, all I've typed is:
My journey from journalism nobody to personal assistant to one of rock music's oddest celebrities.
By John H. Watson
The title has changed from 'I am SherLocked' to 'The Real Lock – Sherlock' to this.
The blinking bar is mocking me to type words that will not live up to the experience I have lived.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
I watch, mesmerized temporarily as I search in the recesses of my mind for the best way to start this story.
The most obvious.
The beginning.
But I don't want to sound self-centered. Sherlock would tell me that it's not being self-centered. Or at least, that's what he would say to me, if we were still talking.
I suppose he would know best, as he is the king of selfishness most days.
Alright.
The beginning.
Starting with me.
Below my name, I start with….'Ever since I could write, I've wanted to be a journalist…'
X
It all begins with my editor throwing a stack of papers and photographs onto my desk early one morning. I have just been in the midst of a call about securing more advertisements to help keep our meager paper going for one more year. The call was not going well.
"Hey!" I snap jumping up as glossy 8 x 11.5 photos slide from between the articles, spreading across my desk like a modern tribute to the little paper fans you received as a child. Lestrade blinks at me, wondering what the problem is. As if, it was perfectly natural to toss junk onto other people's things. "What's all this?"
"All this," he tells me, gesturing to the mess, "is your new story." Now it's my turn to gape and blink.
"But you don't usually let me out in the field," I say, despite the fact I do have a degree –from probably a million years ago- in journalism. Around the paper's office, I am 'desk jockey.'
"Yes. However, this article is going to put The Daily Operator back on the map." I keep my mouth shut that the best way to put the paper back on the map would be to update the name.
He stabs the top most articles with his forefinger. The picture is grainy, so I instead turn to the headline: 'Lock spotted on all night ben-' but I don't finish reading. The name is foreign to me.
"Who is this?"
"That," Lestrade tells me, this time gesturing to one of the 8 x 11.5s, "is Lock- real name Sherlock – of the trio Lock, Croft, and Smoking Fox."
"Let me guess, music?" I ask, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. The story must be quite important to Lestrade because he ignores me and forges on ahead.
"Yes. They are rock music's hottest group right now. They are on the tip of everyone's tongue." Lestrade continues dithering for what feels like minutes. I also refrain from pointing out that they're not on the tip of my tongue. Before today, I've never heard of them.
Give me something like The Cure or The Smiths any day. "But Lock," he tells me, pointing to a better picture, "is notorious for reckless behavior and a nasty temper."
Bloody typical rock star behavior if you ask me. But no one did.
I take a better look at the picture.
He doesn't look quite like the rock stars of old I remember, like Alice Cooper, Axel Rose, or even David Bowie. His hair hasn't been backcombed into a rat's nest, there's no trace of leather and studs in sight, and no glitter or outlandish makeup.
Instead, crystal-clear blue eyes are rimmed in eyeliner that looks borrowed from Robert Smith, a fitted black suit hides the majority of his skin, and dark curls fall almost over one eye. He's probably one of the most beautiful but tragic things I've seen in a long time.
But I fail to see how this is relevant to me and the clutter on my desk.
"So what?" I ask. "You want me to interview him?"
"No." I glance uneasily Lestrade's receptionist, Molly Hooper. She's biting her bottom lip; the red lipstick she is wearing today will surely be on at least one of her teeth.
"Then what?"
"You're going to be his personal assistant."
I laugh, cold and throaty.
"Elaborate joke Lestrade," I tell him, preparing to move the whole mess to the side of the desk.
"This is no joke, Watson. Do you want to be a journalist or not? I'm sure I could find someone else."
"And just how am I going to be his personal assistant?"
"I know someone, who knows someone else, that type of thing. Does it matter? He just terminated his last one, or he quit, I don't know. What I do know is that you're in and they're out. You'll be undercover."
"Lestrade, why am I doing this?" He has so far failed to give me a proper answer.
"Because I want to know his story, what makes him tick, the real Lock. The part of him that he keeps locked away. No other paper has that story."
"So I'm to be his personal assistant and become friends with him?" The article headlines I'm seeing do not make me believe my task will be a simple one at best. Words like 'argument' or 'condescending' jump out at me from the black and white.
"Yes. Word on the street is that celebs tend to divulge goodies to their personal assistants, mostly because they always seem to be there." The more I take a quick appraisal of Lestrade's research, the more daunting the task seems to be.
This man, at least on print, seems to be the most hateful creature on the planet according to his peers.
"I don't know," I say.
"Watson, you're the only person here who could do it. You're a nobody." I feel my temper rise. Lestrade senses that he has crossed a line. "I don't mean that the way it came out. I mean, this could be your big break." I'm still not biting. I'm considering a list of other jobs. "Do this for me, this one story and I can guarantee you another job with a better newspaper."
"How?"
"I have a friend at The Daily Mail," Lestrade tells me, "could get you on the staff there. Though, after the article here, you would probably be famous enough to choose your own path."
Now the offer seems more tempting.
I would be a real journalist. Writing stories that matter.
But why do I feel like I'm selling my soul to the very Devil himself?
"Alright," I finally agree, after keeping Lestrade in a few minutes of well-deserved suspense for the 'nobody' comment. "I'll do it."
"Good." He looks relieved, although I've probably contributed a few more grey hairs to his already graying head. He provides me with a laundry list of instructions, which include an interview with the group's manager just to be sure that 'I'm up to the task.' "I want frequent updates too," Lestrade tells me, handing over a PDA that looks quite expensive. Must come with the job.
Tomorrow, I start my new life at eight am.
Too bad it doesn't come with a more 'rock god' name than just John Watson.
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