Lord Moran looked across the aisle at his son, his aging face expressionless. A lifetime of politics had granted him that poker face, but never did he think he'd need it more than now. "Yes," he said, voice level. He brought his briefcase into his lap, gave it a single pat. He had questions for the boy, of course, but nothing that could be said aloud. They hadn't spoken in years, after all. And he admitted he shared the blame for that.

He nodded as the train jolted to life again, pulling out his phone to prepare. He'd gotten old, his father. The last few years especially had taken their toll. Sebastian had kept an eye on him on the media, of course, but television was rarely flattering, anyway. Still. Old. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to deal with the man, but he wanted Jim to gloat like the bastard he was even less, so here he was, doing what he disliked to avoid what he hated. There was a twisted sort of pleasure to it, however. The satisfaction that he'd risen above his hatred for his father, risen above him in general and become someone that the man was forced to respect, perhaps fear. He started counting seconds as they moved, waiting for the right time to send the text.

The other man didn't break the silence, remaining still and relaxed in his seat, his eyes somewhere in the space between them. Then, because he could stave off curiosity for only so long, on his son. Fleetingly, he wondered what had caused the lacerations on Sebastian's face. Or the white lines that peeked out from the open collar of his dress shirt. He knew that the life his son had chosen could never even come close to the realm of legal, but he supposed that he hadn't quite realized how hard of a life that would be on one's body. Most of the questions hovering in his head floated off, realizing they'd been demoted in importance. He set his jaw.

He sent the text, the final instructions. There was a pause, but he was confident in Harrison's work, and a moment later the train turned unexpectedly, and he smiled. Another minute, and there was a jolt, and then the car slowed, stopped. He could hear the train fading away, and stood, walking to the door to ensure they were in the right place.

"Everything's going to plan, I hope?" Lord Moran said dryly, eyes the same shade as his son's following the aforementioned man's movements. He refused to move his body until he was required to.

"Unless you've encountered problems on your end," he said smoothly, turning to look at his father. "Everything on our side is moving perfectly, as expected."

He grunted, tilting his head back to rest against the carriage wall. There was quite the cover-up underway on his end. He wasn't yet certain if it would work. He sat up straight. "Then let's start."

He nodded slightly, walking over to a floor panel and removing it, revealing a hook-up point for the briefcase. "My agent says you were contacted about the specs in due time, I hope you've delivered."

"Of course," the older Moran scoffed on principle, as if it were a matter of pride. This wasn't a business transaction, nor a deal. He stood, briefcase in hand, and walked to set it down by the floor panel. "I don't know how it works. Of course."

"No, of course, why would you know that?" The underlying hints of sarcasm were almost questionably existent, but definitely lethal if they were. He took the case without another word, opening it and starting to set up wiring. "You have the twin ready for activation elsewhere?"

"Yes," he confirmed, sliding hands into well-tailored pockets. The other contraption was waiting for him in a hotel room he had reserved just for the occasion. He sighed, eyes drifting down to watch Sebastian work. He noticed that his son's standards of dressing hadn't dropped since they'd last seen one another. A part of him was smug at that.

"Good, well then, you should be able to do everything just fine now that we've gotten the hard work out of the way for you." He made the last connection. This was meant to be quick, they couldn't be here long. "Time to go."

He sighed. Here was the less civilized part. They certainly weren't going to ride this carriage out, were they?

The younger Moran shoved open the car door, and jumped out into the dusty tunnel, starting to walk. "If you don't hurry up, you're going to get lost."

He jumped out a little more stiffly and took a second longer to find his stride. Once he did, he remained several steps behind Sebastian. They had nothing to discuss.

It was a long climb out, but entirely amusing to see his pristine father crawling and climbing through the dust and muck. When they finally hit the street, he straightened, dusted off, and without a word, disappeared in the direction of his vehicle. They were done here.

Lord Moran was almost certain that that was the last he'd see of his son for a long, long time. He sighed, adjusted his blazer, and turned down the street. He'd catch a cab, eventually. He wanted to mull things over on his own two feet for a while.

He headed back to his apartment to finish getting rid of some parts of the evidence and adjusting others. If he was going to pull one over on James Moriarty, things had to be perfect.

It took Jim six hours to learn what had happened. He pressed on his intercom button hard enough for the pad of his finger to go white. "Moran. My office."

He took a breath, reaching for the intercom. "I'm at my external apartment, sir. On my way immediately, but it'll be about fifteen minutes."

"Understood," Jim replied expressionlessly. He sat in his chair, made himself comfortable, and waited. Was he a fool for thinking the cuts on his face would be enough to whip him into shape?

He arrived- quickly but unhurried- fourteen minutes and thirty seconds later, and knocked on the office door crisply.

"Come in," he called, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk. Thankfully, it hadn't been scratched.

He entered, shutting the door behind him and standing at ease. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"I didn't think I would have to call you in again this week, yet here you are," Jim droned, staring up at the sniper. "You interfered in my plans. You know he's not meant to succeed."

He straightened, eyes hardening. "Of course I know that, sir. You honestly think I'd deviate from your orders after..." he indicated his face. "I know a warning when I see one, I value my life. What's happened?"

He considered Moran for a very long moment, wetting his lips absently. Perhaps he truly didn't know... "Then you're unaware? I find it hard to believe that Lord Moran managed to commandeer and rig a tram carriage up with explosives enough to obliterate the palace of Westminster."

"He didn't, sir," he said, visibly relaxing. "Harrison personally worked on the creation of a dummy car. There's nothing on it. We merely played Lord Moran to your specifications."

"A dummy car? Then do you care to explain the near 2 kilos of explosives that have gone missing from our stores?" He snapped, pushing a paper across the desk labeling the exact number.

His face slackened slightly in surprise, and he strode forward quickly, grabbing up the paper, reading over it. "I..." He swallowed, straightened. "I'll investigate it personally, sir," he said.

"You better," he spat through his teeth, then flicked his hand toward the door. "I want to know by tonight. I mean that."

"Of course, sir," he said quietly, nodding. "I have records of our communications, I'll go over them." He turned and left, closing the door firmly behind him and not even daring to let the smile touch his face.

Jim fumed for a few minutes about the incompetence of everyone around him, then forced the anger down to use later and returned to some feverish work. He didn't suspect a thing.

He returned three hours later, having spent some convincing time pouring over audio files and more to look good for the camera. Now he had a tablet full of info as he knocked on Jim's door.

He knew from the knock who it was. "Come in, then. Report."

He entered, closing the door behind him and taking a breath, before turning. He met Jim's eyes. "It's my fault, sir. As usual you were correct in your assessment of Harrison. I was wrong."

A very small part of Jim was surprised to hear it. His jaw tightened. "What did she do, Moran?"

He took a slow breath. Don't rush into it. Reluctance. It wasn't hard, some part of him was reluctant. Normally he would have stifled it, but now... any realism was good realism. "She did arm the car, sir, despite my express orders..." He took a moment, then said "We had sex last night, sir, and we were talking. She tried to analyze me, said she knew my distaste for my father and suspected that I wanted this plan to go through so that you'd kill him."

He shook his head a little, then straightened again. "I denied that that was the case, sir, but I don't think she fully believed me. Even then, I didn't think she'd go so far as to defy my orders in order to try and... please some imagined version of me."

Jim had an extremely tight grip on the edge of the desk, tendons in his knuckles complaining at the stress. To have something so menial throw a wrench into his plans. Something so common. Mundane. Idiotic. "Send her here when you leave," he hissed, seething. "I will make my displeasure known."

"Sir," he said, straightening slightly. "I'll do that, but as her superior officer I feel that it is m-"

"Don't," he snarled. "Lest I think I spy the same weakness in you."

He stiffened, eyes cool, as they had been for the whole conversation. "This is a matter of rank sir, not any imagined intimacy."

"I'm not asking you to take her punishment, Moran," he said, suddenly shifting moods, a sickly grin spreading across his face. "I'm asking you to go get her."

He knew better than to try and clarify himself any further. Besides, it seemed he was above suspicion at this point, anyway. He nodded crisply and headed out the door, touching his com. "Harrison, meet me outside the boss's office immediately."

Lorna had been having coffee over newspaper in the lounge, and she flinched when she heard his voice. That didn't bode well. Still, she swiftly made her way to the office, making it in just under two minutes. "...Sir?"

He met her gaze with a cold one. "You told me we didn't have a problem, Harrison. Evidently I was wrong."

She looked up at him blankly. She had no idea what he was talking about. What had happened? "I don't... what?" She shook her head slightly. A scared sort of confusion was starting to crawl out of her chest.

"Just go," he snarled. "Keeping him waiting is only going to make it worse. We'll talk later."

She winced, ducking her head and moving around him without a word to knock on the door. Whatever was about to happen, it was going to be bad.

"Come in." He had composed himself. He wanted to toy with her, draw this out, make it worth it.

She carefully stepped in, closed the door behind her. It was hard to move away from the door. "Um.. you asked for me, sir?"

"I did," he said with a nod, turning to look at her and offering a smile. "Please, have a seat."

She sat down. Lucky she did, too - it felt like all the blood had gone out of her legs.

"You're familiar with our most recent operation involving Lord Moran, Harrison. I assume you've made the connection between him and our own dear Sebby?" He wandered over to his chair, leaning on the back of it.

"Yes," she said quietly, unsure where to look. There was a very dangerous game being played here. And she was already at a disadvantage.

"How do you think that relates to his behavior of late?" he asked, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the chair back.

"I.. hadn't given all that much thought to it, sir," she shook her head, frowning, "I try not to make it a habit of questioning my superiors. I... I mean, I guess it might have had a negative effect?"

"Mmm... I agree with you there. In fact, I hope it did, as it was my little way of slapping his hand. You, however... The underground car, did you arm it, Harrison?"

Very suddenly, it all came crashing down. She knew what Moran had done, knew he'd set her up. And she knew that if she convinced Jim that it had been a setup, he'd be killed. He'd narrowly avoided it in the first place. That knowledge did nothing to help stop the blood draining from her face. She curled her hands into fists in her lap, digging her nails into her palms hard enough to break the skin. "Yes," she whispered.

He nodded slightly, smiling softly. "I see that you've grasped the gravity of the situation," he said quietly. "I hope it was worth it."

"Yeah. Me too," she said quietly, managing to keep her voice from breaking. What would happen to her now? She found that for the first time in several years she had the sudden urge to actually cry. She couldn't keep silent. "What will you do to me?"

"To you?" he asked, smiling. "Nothing. I'm not going to touch a hair on your head." He finally sat down. "You took initiative, Harrison. In the wrong direction, certainly, but you took it."

Oddly enough, that didn't make her feel any better. "Alright," she murmured, forcing herself to uncurl her fists, placing her palms flat on her jeans. She was bleeding.

"How's your mother, Harrison, do you know? Have you talked to her recently?" He leaned back.

She bowed her head, shoulders hunching up. Oh. "She's- she's good, sir. I talked to her a few days ago," she choked out. Why was it so hard to breathe?

"That's not that recently. I meant more within the last... five minutes or so. That sort of recently." His accent was thicker than usual, excited. "Have you talked to her in the last five minutes or so? I imagine not..."

She raised a hand to cover her mouth, her whole body curling in like she'd been struck from behind, shoulders shaking, her eyes burning with the effort of keeping her tears from falling. Not here. Not here.

"You know, I love modern technology, let's video chat her, shall we?" he asked, hitting a button and turning to the screen on the wall as it flicked on. He entered a few commands, and a live feed came up. Lorna's mother was there, tied to a chair, mouth duct taped over. Behind her, head and shoulders out of view of the camera, someone was holding a gun to her head. "Say hello to mummy, Lorna!"

He's going to make me watch. The tears spilled over and rolled down her cheeks, her hand muffling a broken sob. "Please, sir, please, don't do this," she begged, eyes glued to the screen. "Please."

"Say hello, Lorna. Tell your mother you love her. Life is short, you shouldn't waste these opportunities." He stood, still smiling.

No, no, she couldn't, he was right on that count. "Mom- Mom, I lov-"

She flinched as the gun went off, biting hard into the flesh of her hand to keep herself from screaming.

"Oops, too la- oh, silly me, too, I forgot to turn the microphone on on our end, oh well..." He shut the screen off, and walked over to sit back in his chair, expression perfectly content. "You have good drive, Harrison. I just feel like you could apply it more effectively for the good of this organization. I'm sure your brother and cousins agree, don't you? They want you to be happy, to excel. I hope I can count on you to do that."

She couldn't get out a word past the lump in her throat, merely nodding her head and trying to wipe the tears off her face as fast as they came.

He was suddenly standing, leaning forward, face inches from hers. "In case that wasn't clear the first time," he iterated, expression livid, "You don't just walk the line, you sprint it, and if I see one toe out of place, I won't be nearly so boring as a bullet to the head with the rest of your family."

"Yes, sir," she managed, her voice breaking. She couldn't look at him. Didn't want to. God, she just wanted to go home and drink herself unconscious.

He nodded slightly. "Go," he said softly. "Oh, and one more thing," he said as he stood. "You have an hour to compose yourself before you're on duty, and as of now until I say so, you're dry and clean, or you're dead."

She managed one nod before she pretty much fled the room, trembling so hard and eyes so blurred with tears it was a fucking miracle she didn't break her nose on the door frame.

Moran watched Lorna blur past, only catching enough of her to know she was an absolute mess, and quietly reached out to close the office door from his place in the hallway. A tiny part of him felt regret. The rest of him was high on the victory.

She trashed her apartment. She broke everything she could get her hands onto - liquor bottles, the coffee table, the window - and when she was done forty-five minutes had passed, her hands were a wreck, and she was still as stone. There was no point in crying anymore.

He could hear her wrecking things from his room across the hall, and just sat on the couch, drinking, watching the door, listening to the show. He got to the middle point of the bottle where the regret was harder to ignore. Luckily that middle point was drunk past quickly.

Lorna stepped out of the catastrophe behind her and left the door open. There was nothing she wanted in there. She took three steps across the hall to his door and knocked once, before saying loudly and steadily. "If you pull that shit on me again, if you get someone else in my family killed.. or worse.. I will take a finger from you, and that's a promise." Once she was done she turned and walked for the elevator. She'd do it, too.

"Terrifying," he said absently, raising his glass to the door in a half toast before knocking it back. He stood then, walking to his room, and turned the intercom up to full volume. Then, hand around the knife under his pillow, he fell asleep.

She worked in a dead sort of way; she got done the tasks people brought to her, but if they asked for anything more they were leveled with an empty stare, and, after a look at the dried blood she hadn't bothered to wash off her hands, they hurriedly left. She was in the same haze six hours later, sitting in her ruined flat with her knees pulled up to her chest, looking out the now-absent window. She didn't know how she was supposed to pick herself up after this. Her best hopes were getting through the next few days on will alone, and after that, the exhaustion would get to her. She rested her forehead on her knees. Perhaps taking a finger from Moran wouldn't come to pass, after all.

He woke up well aware of what he was going to be asked to do, somewhere deep in his gut, and he barely needed to read his morning briefing before he started getting ready. He cleaned up, dressed, opened his door and crossed the hallway. He paused to consider the smiley carved into the wood, before he scanned his print as an override on the lock and walked in. He didn't pause, didn't greet her, just stood in front of where she was crouched on the floor. Then he opened a serrated knife and dropped it on the floor in front of her, before holding out his left hand.

"That what you want, Harrison?"

She lifted her head to consider the knife on the floor, then his hand. "Unless you've managed to get another of my blood relatives killed in the past six hours, I think I'd be stepping on my own threat," she rasped, her dry throat painful now. It felt fitting. "Why the fuck are you offering? You're not the type to do it out of some belated sense of honor." She let out a gritty-sounding laugh. "Or the sentimental kind, like me. I should have thrown you under the fucking bus. I don't know what I was thinking."

"No, I'm not. This is your one chance, Harrison. Go ahead, take it. You want it? That knife is yours. Stab me, cut off my fingers, my hand, whatever you want. But if you're not going to take it then get the fuck up. We have work to do."

The urge to stab him - the urge to stab either one of them, actually - was overwhelming. She pressed her palms into her eyes, sucking in a strangled breath. Then she laughed, half at him, half at herself, because she'd started up the waterworks again. "If you let me pick up that knife neither one of us would leave this room alive," she coughed, her laugh cutting off. "I can't fucking believe you, Sebastian. God, you're such a prick. You were willing to bet my life and that of everyone I know on a dumb fucking pawn move. You're just so fucking dumb." She didn't move, just waited for him to react.

He watched her, analyzing every move, expression never changing. "Are you done?" he asked calmly. He bent to pick up the knife, tucking it away as he stood. "Now, stand up."

"Fuck you." She raised a grimy hand and flipped the bird at him. What could he do? Christ, she just wanted to see something on his face. Anger would do.

He nodded slightly, considering her like she was a child having a temper tantrum. "I wasn't aware I'd hired a petulant teenager. Go ahead, get it out."

She was on her feet fast enough that she surprised even herself, grabbing onto the collar of his immaculate collar and yanking him down. "I trusted you not to walk me off a cliff, Sebastian. I trusted that whatever you were doing, it was sanctioned. You USED me. You made my mother's death MY FAULT, because I fucking took the fall. You owe me your fucking LIFE, you piece of shit," she hissed, looking up at him with blazing fury. "Jim would have believed me. You know he would. The stitches that I put on your face aren't even a week old. You think he's forgotten? You don't get to treat me like this. I fucking own you now." She gave him a rough shove away, for once not feeling the height distance between them at all. "I'm the grifter, here. I play the game. You better learn my fucking rules or kill me now."

He reacted just as quickly as soon as she released him, his hand in her hair, knife at her throat, drawing blood, both frozen in place, waiting. "Now," he said calmly. "Let's talk. As much as you may like to believe you have the upper hand here, I hate to inform you that you do not. You might think that you have Moriarty's ear, that you can twist it with whatever lies you want to tell, but you're incorrect. As for owing you my life, I don't owe you anything. You didn't save me, Lorna." He pressed his lips to her ear and breathed, "You did exactly what I expected you to." He straightened slowly, the knife digging into her throat a bit more. "I warned you when this all began that you shouldn't expect special treatment. Well, guess what. I just gave you some. Everything that's happened has put you in Moriarty's spotlight. He's taken an interest in you, and with bored men like Moriarty that's the best thing I could have ever done for you. I tossed you in the pool, shrimp. Whether you sink or swim, that's up to you." He let the knife fall away from her neck and gave her a shove away. "Take my advice. Try swimming first."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I wouldn't need to lie, Moran. You did all of the hard work yourself," she sighed, touching a finger to the cut on her neck. "If you refuse to acknowledge how easily I could have spun it back onto you... Well, I suppose being ungrateful isn't the worst thing you've done in the last twenty-four hours." She walked to the broken window and started kicking out the loose bottom with her bare foot. She wouldn't look at him for the next part. She almost hoped he'd push her. "The only advantage you have over me, pathetic as it is, is that I still can't bring myself to want to kill you. Too bad it couldn't be Malcolm." She kicked out a chunk of the glass with a crunch, and watched it fall on the building below. "Guess we're going to have to agree to disagree on who has the upper hand. Hopefully for you we don't have to find out." She looked down the side of the building, wishing, suddenly, that she'd asked Holmes what it was like to be suspended in mid-air like that. Oh well. Too late now.

"You could do it, you know," he said, walking over to stand behind her. "Kill yourself. And we'd replace you with someone who didn't cause nearly so much trouble." He leaned in, touched the center of her back. "One push is all it would take," he whispered. "So ask yourself: Why am I not pushing? You have potential, Harrison. You also had things holding you down. Your mother was one of them, another was me. You've just had the infection cut right out of you. I'll bet it hurts like a bitch. Get stronger, prove you're not a pathetic waste of everyone's time. I look forward to seeing what you can do."

She didn't move, unperturbed by his hovering. "You didn't cut any of it out, Moran. You just poured bleach on it and hoped it would go away on its own. Go away. I already can't drink. I don't need to pair you with withdrawal."

He nodded slightly, smiling a little. "Yeah, I guess I did. Better than you ever did for yourself though." He closed the door behind him, and headed back to his own room. She was his only order for the day. It seemed he was still in time-out.

She had been, unfortunately, extremely right. The withdrawal crept up on her for a few hours and then tackled her all at once. Flats filled to the brim with broken glass are not ideal places to go dry. She spent the next three hours sweating in her bathtub.

He couldn't sleep, didn't want to drink, so he just sat reading, planning, waiting for Jim to call him. He was on edge, still. Harrison had gotten punished, obviously, but he wouldn't know how he'd fared until the next time he spoke to Jim.

He felt no guilt about what had happened to Harrison. He'd had similar things happen to him over the years, and though he'd hated them, it had given him the ability to make hard calls in the future. It was part of learning, part of the training she needed. She'd get over it. For now, he'd just give her space.

It took her a long time to realize that she needed to get to the infirmary. She'd seen people under alcohol withdrawal, and she knew that in the drenched state she'd been living in for several years was only going to hit her worse the longer she waited. Getting out of the tub was harder than she anticipated: sweat-slicked palms and the severe lurching sensation in her head complicated things significantly. Her heart felt like it was trying to pound its way out of her chest, and she had that chilled feeling she normally associated with fevers. DTs. Eventually, she made it out of her flat, leaning almost entirely against the wall, and punched at the lift buttons a few times before she connected. She wasn't going to die of this.

The first person to spot her was, of course, Malcolm. Had to be Malcolm. He approached her quickly, bad blood forgotten easily in the way it could be by men who thought themselves chivalrous. "Lorna, what happened?" he asked, quickly reaching out to lend her a little support.

"Moran is a rank piece of shit, but you didn't hear it from me," she groaned, grabbing onto his shoulder to stop herself from keeling over as the hall gave a particularly fast spin. "Long story short, I'm cut off or hcchh-" She retched. Luckily for Malcolm's shoes she hadn't ingested anything since coffee that morning, and just made her mouth taste like shit. "If you could.. take me to the infirmary.. I don't think I'm actually certain where it is."

"Of course, dear, right this way," he said, wrapping an arm around her waist and heading down the hall. "So this is withdrawal, then? I want to be able to let them know what's going on when we get there."

"Yeah, yeah, this is it," she muttered, staring down at her feet and concentrating on not tripping. It took most of her attention. "I don't think young people die of the DTs all that often but if I do I want you to destroy the door to my flat."

"Why the door?" he asked, holding her close to his body as she swayed, trying to keep her upright. A good portion of his concentration was on Lorna, but the rest was gloating over the fact that she'd finally seen Moran for what he was, and come back to him.

"That bastard... stupid smiley face.." she shook her head, vaguely realizing that she was starting to shake. God, she was cold. "I want the evidence gone."

"Of course," he said softly as they approached the med bay. "I'll be sure of it." He waited for the automatic doors to open and helped her in. "She needs a doctor," he said to the man at reception. "Alcohol withdrawal."

She patted Malcolm absently with the hand she had slung over his shoulder, muttered something that sounded like it was probably gratitude, and shifted her leaning from him to the nurse that had come over to help. "S' you."

"Yeah, okay," he said, not really sure of what she'd said. "I'll check in on you later, okay? Good luck."

She didn't hear anything else, and when the woman pushed her gently onto a cot, she lost awareness for a little while.

I'll ruin, yeah, I'll ruin you
I've been doing things I shouldn't do

- MARINA - I'm A Ruin -

Playlist: MARINA - I'm a Ruin

(I highly recommend looking up the Marina videos, as that's the face claim for Lorna! The link for the entire playlist is on my profile :) )