Oh Oh I remember now
Too far below to turn around
Too bright a light to let go now
Take me back my friend
Take me back, back on home

- KONGOS - Take Me Back -

When Lorna awoke again, her first thought was one of surprise. She hadn't expected to wake up again, not after she'd felt the terrifying sensation of being lifted off of her toes by her throat. Her second thought was of pain, and the third was a small part of her brain being very, very disgusted in the amount of blood she was covered in, albeit hers. She lay there for a long time after opening her eyes, trying to get the ceiling fixture into one cohesive image. When she did get up, she nearly fell right back to the floor as her bare feet slipped in the small pool of blood she'd left behind. When she saw what he'd done to her neck in the mirror, she visibly paled.

Hours later, after she'd patched herself up with a first aid kit and left Malcolm's corpse in the lift with Sebastian's knife in his chest, she returned to the bathroom and considered the blood on the floor. It was starting to dry now, and it looked like someone had been murdered. Surprisingly, she was angry about this. Angry he'd left her alive. He'd chosen the least helpful solution to her, the most cowardly for him. She hated him for that, if she was being honest.

Sebastian Moran loved dive bars.

Well, he hated them, really. If he was being honest. They stunk, there was something sticky no matter where you touched, the floors grabbing at your shoes like some fucking mythological trap for lonely souls. Or fly paper for bar flies. Take your pick. The alcohol would be better served as a fire starter or a blinding agent, every horizontal surface doubled as a spittoon. But the smokey, rancid air and the dim, flickering lighting was the perfect place to get smashed in peace, and if you could choke down the first few shots, the taste stopped mattering quite so much. The important thing was that everyone was either too drunk to remember anything, or knew better than to say they did. So a tall, muscled man with Aryan looks and facial scars could pass as unnoticed as the bundle of fetid clothing and waste on their twentieth round in the corner booth. So, for the moment, he loved dive bars.

He stared down the bottle of questionable booze on the table in front of him. The label had been blatantly peeled off of a bottle of much better booze and pasted on this one, but he didn't give a flying fuck. It was high proof, and it was working quickly. That was the extent to which he cared. He poured another shot, let it clear his sinuses for a moment, then tossed it back to join the first four. It was going to be a long night.

Eventually she stopped staring at the blood on the floor and went about the unappealing process of cleaning it up, scrubbing the floor until the complaint of her bony knees was too much to ignore any longer, and then she got in the shower with her clothes on, deciding it was better to just deal with the mess now than later. Sitting under the steaming water, she briefly considered crying. She was a little surprised when she realized she didn't really need to. She'd gambled, pushing him like that, and.. hell, it wasn't even clear whether or not she'd won. He hadn't killed her. Judging by the depth of the cuts on her neck, he'd obviously intended to, and then changed his mind. Whatever had made him change it was lost on her. She certainly wasn't going to ask him. Going by the amount of work they were filtering through to her, she wouldn't even have to talk to him for at least a week, and she thought that maybe she could secure a blank exterior before then.

She stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, and a little after, and when she got out she was shivering and miserable, and her fresh bandages were ruined. She changed them with numb fingers and tossed her soaked shirt and underwear into the tub with a wet smack, shutting the light off behind her and putting on some warmer, dryer clothes before deciding that the best thing to do would be to sleep this away. Sleep was the closest thing to heroin she could afford.

O'Hare made his expected appearance around the seventh or eighth shot. By that point his fingers were cold but the rest of him was warm and relaxed, and he ordered up a second shot glass and kept it full across the table with hands that had lost their tremble but gained no dexterity as the night had ground on.

They talked about a lot of things. O'Hare would occasionally be being tortured one way or another, but Moran was too shit-faced to care, and the other man never screamed, never cried out, never did anything but talk about the good old days. It was remarkably peaceful.

"Remember that time Marley shot up? Man, you went to town on his ass..."

"Don't talk about that, fucker. I'm trying to keep a straight head here."

"Why? It's fucking easy. You've seen that slicker in the corner doling out wraps all night like they're candy. I've seen you counting the bills. What's twenty quid? The fat wad in your pocket'll go a lot farther than that."

"I said shut the hell up, O'Hare, you ponce. You're going to get me killed."

"Not like you don't deserve it."

His eyes slid to the man in the corner for the dozenth time that night, and this time the man looked back, and smiled. Moran fingered the cash in his pocket, the nausea unhelped by the alcohol, the burning in his muscles begging him to just walk over. Just catch a little whiff, a taste...

He stood up.

The man in the corner smiled wider as Moran approached, knowing he'd caught another customer. Anyone who approached bought. No one changed their mind this close to another hit. "What can I do you for?"

The hand in his pocket was clenched tight, but his expression was one of calm.

Yes. Yesss... go, go go! A little farther... Just one hit. Just to get your head straightened out, then go back to Jim's and forget all about Harrison and this whole fucking thing.

"Just a wrap, please," he said calmly, quietly. "A needle if you have them."

The man had a little brown bag held out for him before he'd even finished speaking, a knowing smile on the seller's face. "Everything you need's in there. I assume you have money."

He didn't hesitate, pulling out his wallet. "How much?"

A minute later he had his hit, wrapped up like a fucking school lunch, but he had it. The dive bar's alley was convenient (and cleaner than the bathroom) and he wasted no time finding a flat surface to work on.

The dealer hadn't been quite right, he had to bum a lighter off of an apathetic smoker, but everything else was there. The smell as it heated was enough to send his heart pounding, and as he wiped down the syringe and waited for it to cool, his hands were shaking again, this time with desire.

It took his stumbling, drunken fingers a few tries to get the tourniquet tied, but that was the most difficult step. Safely inside ten minutes, the needle sank into his arm.

Safely inside eleven minutes, he was in paradise.

Ironically, it was a nightmare trying to get to sleep. Even though the four, five hours she'd had with Moran - fuck him, by the way - hadn't been enough, her mind refused to shut down. First, it threw Dewitt at her, then heroin, then Moran, and then a combination of the three that her throwing back the covers and sitting up, clutching her head. It just wasn't fair. Not many things in life, were, she knew that, but coming to rely on someone so fucking far up their own ass just was grossly unfair. The situation hadn't been helped by her desperation for some sort of comfort, some reassurance that not all people were really godawful evil. Fuck Moran.

Moriarty was seldom ruffled. He took pride in that fact. There were few times in his life that he had ever not been in control. Now, however, was not one of those times. He stared at the pictures for several more moments, before jamming a finger against the intercom.

"Harrison."

Lorna flinched. She'd practically forgotten she had an intercom in her room. And the Boss did not sound happy. She hurried over to reply, holding down the button. "Yes, sir?"

"My office. Now," he snarled, before releasing the button and picking up his phone again, shooting off another text.

Moran, you had better be dead, because if you aren't, you will be. RESPOND.

He slammed the phone back onto his desk, seething and counting the seconds that it would take Harrison to get to his office.

Lorna was relieved she'd gotten into some normal clothes, only pausing to jam on a pair of shoes before she was headed for Moriarty's office. Three minutes later, she was slowing down her breathing outside the door before knocking.

"Come in," he snapped, standing again. Moran still hadn't responded. This was becoming ridiculous. He turned, snarling, on his victim, before coming up short at the bandage on her neck. The bruise handprint peeking past was all he needed to piece together the attacker. "Explain to me," he said, quietly, the energy of his fury rolling off him in waves, "Why there is a dead chauffeur in my elevator, why Moran has attacked you, and, for that matter, where the hell he is!"

The phone cracked in his grip.

She paled slightly. He didn't know where Moran was? That didn't bode well. She decided to start at the beginning. "He kept trying to access the floor me and Moran, and now O'Hare, too, live on. After the third time I killed him. Moran attacked me because we..." she trailed off for a moment, not sure how to put it. "We had a mild disagreement over how much the heroin addiction would affect him. I.. I don't have a clue where he is, sir. I'm sorry."

His nostrils flared, but he seemed to calm, placing the cracked phone down on his desk slowly. "In the future, before murdering one of my employees, I would be grateful if you would kindly check in and request permission. Moran has those liberties- had- because he is, or was, chief of staff. Until such a title is conferred on you, you do not." He reached out to spin the phone slowly on his desk. "I can count on my hand the number of times Moran has failed to respond to my inquiries. All of them involved his capture or incarceration of some sort. To your knowledge, has dear Sebby fallen prey to anyone?"

"Understood, sir. And no, sir, I don't know why he isn't responding." She suspected it had something to do with the drugs, though. Half of her took savage victory in that, knowing she was right. The other half wasn't up to talking. "Would you like me to put people out to look for him?"

He shook his head. "No. He has a few days to show his face and give a really fucking incredible explanation. Then you put people out to look for him, with instructions to bring him back dead," he said, eyes black. "I'll inform you when to proceed to that step. Dismissed." He waved her away, turning to look out the window.

"Yes, sir," she replied, immediately turning and slipping back out of the door. Moran had truly fucked up this time. After a moment of deep breathing in the hallway she headed back for her room.

He chose a quiet hour to sneak in. Midnight, ironically, was generally pretty silent. The night shift was on lunch break and everyone else was sleeping. Still, he was jumpy, and he almost turned around a half dozen times before he made it to the elevator and pushed the button. He took slow breaths as it rose to the appropriate floor, examining himself in the reflection presented by the mirrored walls. He looked like hell. He was unshaven, his face sallow and thin, and there were deep bruises under his eyes. His clothes were the same he'd left in four days ago, rumpled from sleeping on the street to avoid detection from whatever goons Moriarty might have sent out after him. His arm was tightly bandaged and sore. The cheerful ding of the elevator sounded oddly out of place in the quiet.

He stepped out, walking down the hallway to the door of the only person in the world he could trust to see him like this. He took a breath, raised a hand-

-dropped it, took another breath-

and knocked.

Lorna had been up only because she was going to the infirmary tomorrow and she couldn't stop worrying about it. Every time she tried to sleep the acrid fear just crawled up her throat again. The stress she'd been under the past few days weren't helping. She'd taken on practically all of Moran's duties without shirking any of her own, and it was beginning to wear on her. She was in bad shape to begin with. When she heard the knock, she assumed it was O'Hare. Sometimes they exchanged a word in the hall, so it could be he had a question for her about the building. Sighing, she got off the couch and walked around to open up the door, her expression immediately going cold at the sight of him. "What the fuck do you want from me, Moran? Help?"

He stared at her for a long moment, feeling smaller despite his drastic height advantage.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, trying not to duck his head and shuffling his feet instead. "Fuck... Harrison. I am. I'm sorry. My head doesn't make sense right now."

"Is it making enough sense for you to admit I was goddamn right?" she snorted, considering slamming the door in his face and realizing that she just couldn't make herself do it.

You're sick, you know that?

I have nothing left to lose. And he looks so sad.

She huffed and stepped back, jerking the door with her and waving him in with a grand, sarcastic motion. "If you give me any shit, so help me god, Moran..."

He nodded meekly, stepping through the door after a moment's hesitation and not going far past it, one hand reaching up to rub at the spot where his shoulder holster usually sat. He hadn't felt this nervous and off in a long time.

She closed the door behind him with a tired sigh, and then walked past him to collapse onto her sofa, battling down some self-anger that had arisen because she'd let him in. "Why are you even here, Sebastian?" she shook her head, resting it on the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling. "I thought you made it pretty clear you didn't want anything from me. Sit, by the way, don't just hover by the door, god."

He hesitated, then sat on the floor across from the couch, back to the wall. "I couldn't kill you," he said after a moment. "I tried. You know that, never mind... just... I couldn't, Lorna. I sat there for two fucking minutes and I couldn't do it."

She raised a hand to rub at her eyes, wishing she could have a drink, wishing she could have a hit. Something to just stop thinking for a little while. "Sometimes I think I love you, you know. I hate you a lot more often, though. You're just so difficult," she groaned, throwing an arm over her face to cover her eyes completely. You IDIOT, what the hell did you say that for? YOU'RE SOBER! "All I wanted was to help, Sebastian. I still don't know why you're here. Do you want me to? Just.. just tell me what you want, clearly, for once."

He didn't have the energy to react to the admittance, just filed it away for later panicking. He rested his head against his knees for a few moments, trying to figure out what the hell it was he did want. In the end, he was too tired to object any further.

"I want you to help me. Please."

"Okay," she said after a moment, relieved that he hadn't said anything, and hoping that he was too out of it to have really paid attention to it. She got slowly back off the couch and waved her hand idly towards the door. "Go to your flat. I don't have clothes for you here. I'll be over in a minute, I just need to fire off a text to Jim saying you're here. If you'd waited until tomorrow you would be dead."

"I figured," he muttered, standing. "That's his usual grace period. Gave me time to decide." He didn't bother clarifying, just wandered out the door over to his flat, keying in and then heading for the shower at a slow plod.

She did as she said she would and then followed him over, slipping through his open door and shutting it behind her. Frankly, she wasn't completely sure how to help Sebastian. She couldn't fix him, she knew that, only time would, but she could keep him from deteriorating. And god knew he could use a little kindness, if only he'd accept it. She followed him into the bathroom and waited in the doorway. "Give me anything you're wearing that has pockets. It's not that I don't trust you, it's that I don't trust addiction."

He did his best not to glare, but took a breath and handed over his trousers and jacket, and a moment later his shirt. "There's nothing in them," he said gruffly. "I wouldn't do that to you. I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not, but I'm running a little thin on faith right now," she sighed, taking the clothes and tucking them under her arm without checking the pockets. She'd do it before she threw them in the wash. "I'm going to raid your pantry for something to make you. Did you eat at all while you were gone?"

He reached up to rub at his eyes. "Booze count?" he asked, attempting a smirk but failing. "Some chips I think. Bar nuts." He glanced at her with as close to a sheepish look as had ever graced his face, before turning to finish undressing and get into the shower.

"If booze counted I would have been morbidly obese a long time ago," she muttered to herself, turning and leaving the bathroom. His pantry was sparse, but he had a few cans of chicken noodle soup, and that would be a good start.

He forced himself to leave the warm solitude of the shower a few minutes later, after he'd washed the off smell of stale beer and piss, and pulled on clean clothes. Then he padded into the kitchen, still fighting himself over asking Harrison for help. But if she wasn't here, he knew he'd be back out as soon as things got bad, and he'd take Jim's hit gladly. So here he was.

"Sit," Lorna said as he walked in, placing a steaming bowl of soup on the table and handing him a spoon before she sat across from the bowl, leaning back in her chair and looking extremely tired. "I kinda thought after the shower you'd look a little better, but you still look like a wreck."

"Thanks, you look nice today, too," he deadpanned, pulling the soup closer and sighing. "Thanks," he muttered, taking a bite and savoring a moment before tearing in ravenously.

She snorted, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched him eat. "I'm perfectly aware I look like walking death. You didn't help, by the way. You can't really see them with the bandages on, but you left some pretty astonishing bruises on my neck. Not the fun kind, either," she rolled her eyes. She wasn't digging at him, but pretending it hadn't happened was just stupid. "You're lucky I was awake worrying when you knocked."

"To be fair, you did ask me to," he muttered around a spoonful of soup. It wasn't really an argument, and he didn't present it as much of one, more just mumbled it and ate on.

"It was a little more of a dare," she smirked, watching him eat in silence for a few moments. "Do you want anything else to eat?"

He shook his head a little. "No... Should take it slow. Don't have a very easy stomach right now." He sat back after making it through about half the bowl, giving everything a chance to settle.

She nodded, not arguing. She got a sensitive stomach after drugs, but not everyone else did. "You know I can't fix you, right?" she asked suddenly, her voice quiet. "Because no one can do that. It's just a waiting game. All I can do is help you not relapse. If I could fix you I'd have fixed myself."

"I'm not looking for magic wand shit, Harrison," he said, looking up at her with clarity in his eyes for the first time that night. "Just... need you to make sure I don't go out and get another hit, or... off myself or anything stupid like that. And I need someone who doesn't hallucinate to let me know if O'Hare actually shows up."

"Yeah, I can do that," she sighed, itching at the mostly-healed cut above her hip. "I'll sleep on your couch or something, in case you start seeing shit. Withdrawal does that, sometimes. And it's somehow always worse when you're trying to sleep."

"I'm taking the couch, you have the bed," he muttered. "I'm not... asking for your help and making you sleep on the couch. Don't be a ponce." He decided that was going the be it for the soup, and stood slowly, bringing it over to the counter to cover and shove in the fridge. "Do you want something to eat?"

"No," she shook her head. She hadn't been hungry all day, which she attributed to nerves. She'd been keeping herself hydrated, but eating was just too much to ask of herself. Sleeping in his bed was almost too much to ask of herself. There were a lot of mixed feelings there. "Anyway, I rather take the couch. I don't like sleeping in y- other people's beds without them in it. It's uncomfortable for me. And it might be a good idea for something to be between you and the door, if you start to feel real shitty."

He turned around and leveled a glare at her that had withered interrogation subjects in their seats. But then he sighed and softened again and murmured a 'whatever you say'. He leaned against the fridge, reaching up to rub at his eyes and letting his heels slide across the linoleum until he was sitting on the floor. "Jim is going to shoot me."

"No, I think he would have if you hadn't come home tonight. I think he's just going to make your life a living hell," she murmured, sliding her chair out from the table and running a hand through her hair, taking a long breath. She shouldn't be helping him. She shouldn't have even spoken to him again. It would have been better for her if she hadn't let him in. She was having these thoughts because she'd caught herself thinking about sleeping pressed up against him again. "I need some sleep. You know where I'll be."

"In the bed," he called out half-heartedly, sighing. "Dammit, Harrison. It's my bed. You've slept there before. Just sleep where it's fucking comfortable, will you?" He didn't want to think about Jim right now. What more could he do? O'Hare was a fucking tumor in his chest that plagued him at all hours, and didn't look to be going away anytime soon. So would could the great James Moriarty do to him that was worse than that?

He had no interest in finding out.

She made a frustrated noise. "Then we're sharing. I hate taking beds away from people. It's an over-active conscience thing," she muttered, waving a hand at him flippantly and disappearing out of the kitchen, a tired tilt to her shoulders.

He sighed, glad that she was at least listening to him in that. He'd given up trying to give her a tough exterior. He was useless in that department, clearly. He wondered if he should just hand Jim his resignation, let him take the shot. He felt low enough. He was useless at his trade, he had a list of weaknesses a mile long...

He stayed there on the floor for a long time, considering the possibility. It was about an hour later that the first aching for another hit came up, and he rose quickly to bolt the door and shove the couch in front of it, one more barrier to slow him down. Then, with nothing else to do, he headed for bed, climbing in on the side that Harrison had left him.

She fallen in a shallow sleep that she'd woken out of twice by the time he slid into bed beside her, her anxiety acting up too much to let her get any real rest. "I heard furniture moving," she mumbled, half into the pillow. "Y' good?"

"Good now, may not be later, blocked the door," he murmured back, curling up slightly to attempt to relieve some nausea. "Incidentally, if there's a fire, give me a bit of lead time."

She snorted and rolled over, drawing the covers up to her nose. She hadn't bothered to bring pajamas over, so in her usual compromise of just getting rid of her trousers, she was a little cold. His apartment was always colder, she could swear on it. "M'kay," was all she said in response, and then very quickly zonked out again, some of her anxiety - about whether or not he'd try to leave - assuaged.

He watched as she fell asleep, and tried to do the same, but despite being physically and mentally exhausted, he couldn't keep his eyes shut. He reached up to trace fingers over his arm- the bandages had come off with the shower- pressing against the bruised skin there, breathing slowly, relishing the feel. Then he withdrew his hand quickly. No. Stop thinking about that.

He rolled onto his back- careful not to take any blanket away from his evidently cold bed-mate - and knotted his hands in the sheets. Stay there.

Slow breaths. Try to sleep.

She jolted upwards ten minutes later, sucking in one harsh breath and holding it. Not real, not real, it's not real. So she'd gotten enough sleep to start the nightmares. She sighed, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her forehead on them as she let go of the air in her lungs. God, her brain was a real asshole sometimes.

He started out of his imaginary calm at her movement, and relaxed his tense muscles slowly, glancing over at her. He felt like shit, but she didn't look much better. "What's wrong?"

"Just the usual playbacks my brain throws at me after things get scary," she said quietly, not lifting her head. It didn't surprise her that he wasn't asleep. Hell, she probably hadn't been asleep that long.

He sat up, grateful for the distraction, and touched her shoulder, letting her see his hand before he made contact so as not to startle her. "I fucking hate that. Not much worse than your brain turning traitor."

She appreciated that'd he'd consciously gone out of his way not to scare her; she knew he could move like a wraith when he truly wanted to. And, as much as she hated, hated to admit it, he was physically comforting to her. "Yeah. Not looking forward to this particular batch, either," she whispered, bracing her chin on her knees and staring out into the darkness that was not quite as deep as the cell's. "I'd almost prefer the beetles."

"Almost," he said, shifting his arm loosely around her shoulders, keeping his touch light, careful not to make her feel trapped. "It's odd to think about... I've let a few people walk after I've played with them, let them live knowing it would be worse that way, but... it seems so much more real this way 'round."

Lorna made a halfhearted sound of amusement. "It's hard to make something pretend when it's happening right in front of you. Or to you," she murmured, sitting there a bit stiffly for a moment on principle and then leaning into him slightly, hating herself for it. "I don't know that I could do this to someone."

He relaxes slightly when she leans into him, still jumpy, but it's easier with her here. "We have though... Watson, especially. The state we left him in... This is how the game's played, Harrison... It's fucking terrible, but it's the game. And we're losing."

"Yeah, you're right," she sighed. She had done this to people, more or less scarring notwithstanding. "You know, I've never been afraid of losing. Dying, I guess. I don't want to, obviously, but if it happens it happens. No one can do shit to me once I'm dead. I just wish I could be that cavalier about everything else."

He snorted in agreement, shifting a little so that he could lean back against the head of the bed. "I thought I was more invincible than this," he admitted quietly. It was easy in the dark. "I thought I was hard enough for everything to just bounce off. I used to be, too. All of this..." He closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath, then shrugged.

"You do okay at faking it now, if it makes you feel any better. And I've been telling people what happened to my neck was from in that place. No one in the infirmary will say anything differently. I wouldn't let the next one live, though," she muttered, a tint of amusement to her voice. Then she grew a little more serious. "It was always going to happen to you. You're not Moriarty. You're still human. But there's nothing that says you can't harden up again, if you want to."

"I can't," he said quietly, shaking his head. "I've got.. weak spots. O'Hare, obviously. And you. Now heroin. Those aren't places that are ever going to scar over, and I can't perform my job properly with them there. I'm half tempted to resign."

"You know you can't resign," she replied wearily, stuffing down the voice in her head prompting her to try and get something clearer out of him. "No one resigns from our jobs. And, eventually, the heroin will begin to scar. Years, though. I was good enough to say no when Dewitt first got me hooked again. Your memory of how good it is fades. That will get better, I promise."

"I absolutely can resign," he said, smirking a little. "Jim would kill me, but that's sort of the point. As for the heroin... it'll get less weak, yes, but it'll still be a pressure point."

She elbowed him, frowning up at his dim form. "Hey, shut the fuck up. Don't get yourself killed. If you're allowed to completely ignore logic and not kill me twice, I'm allowed to say that this is stupid and there's no point. You're a sniper, and you're chief of staff. If you play it right you never have to get near those weaknesses. That's what being a sniper is all about, right? Keeping away from people, doing it from afar. Just.. don't put yourself in those situations, as much as you can avoid it. Don't fuckin' get killed."

He smirked just a little, but then it faded. "I liked being a sick bastard," he mutters gruffly. "I find it irksome that I've developed something anywhere close to a conscience. It's like a novelist having writer's block. But deadlier."

"You're still kinda a sick bastard, I wouldn't worry too much about it," she teased lightly, then shrugged. "I've always had an annoyingly loud conscience. It's easier to do the work when you learn how to ignore. Sometimes you can't, though, and that's when you learn to justify. Self-preservation is good justification."

He nodded just a little, turning the advice over. He wanted to ask what she was doing tucked into his side and reassuring him when she was so fucking pissed at him, but he definitely didn't want to ruin the situation, so he kept his mouth shut.

She rested her head on his shoulder, accepting the silence for a few minutes. Then she sighed. "Just so you know, we're even. I'm not holding that shit with my mother against you. I did kill my own brother, I can't really continue being that upset. Anyway.. look, I have a lot that I owe you for. So I guess we're not really even, you kinda have one over on me. But what's new, right?"

That was out of nowhere. He turned it over for a few seconds before shrugging. "I don't know... I figured you were still pissed as hell at me for pseudo-murdering you so I was leaning more towards you having the one over, but we could probably just call it even if you like."

She snorted. "Yeah, okay, I'm still pretty pissed about that one. Way to take the easy way out. God. Okay, okay, sorry, I'm fine," she let out a long breath, rubbing her eyes. "I don't want to worry about that shit. I just kinda want to pretend it never happened. I already released a lot of anger constructively, anyway. Left Malcolm in the lift with your knife in him. Felt a little better after that."

He let out a surprised laugh. "You're kidding- did you really? Jim must have been fucking pissed. Not saying the little cunt didn't deserve it, though. Fucking hell..." He shook his head, reaching up to rub at his eyes. After a moment, he said "I'm fine with pretending it never happened, if you are. All of it. It's fucking annoying when you're pissed at me."

"Oh, god, can't have anything being annoying to you, can we?" she rolled her eyes, though she was smiling slightly. "But yes, Jim had something to say on that. Speaking of which, I'm not doing your job tomorrow. I punched Johnson in the throat today because he made a comment on my appearance. I'm going to go gray."

"Johnson deserved to be punched in the throat, I'm sure," he said, nodding firmly. "And if you go grey, you can always dye it red again," he added with an actual smile, flicking her shoulder.

"Someone's partial to redheads," she chuckled, giving a mild twitch of her shoulders. "I don't know, maybe. Only if I go grey, though, I happen to like my hair as it is."

"With good reason," he snorted, smiling before tapping her shoulder. "You should get some sleep. You still have bruises under your eyes and I've been gone half a week."

"As if I haven't been trying," she groaned, sitting up from leaning on him and flopping onto her side. "Every single night of my life I've been able to sleep on command, except the ones when I actually need it. Fuck everything."

He sighed, shifting back down into the bed, considering her, and his options. Finally, he ventured "You looked like you were cold. That can't be helping."

"Yeah, because you keep your flat fucking frigid," she grumbled, facing away from him. "And it's not like your bed magically transfers your freakishly high body heat to me. What a world that would be."

"I get too hot otherwise," he grumbles, glancing over at her, and then back at the ceiling. "I could go try to hunt down another blanket if you want."

She muttered something that sounded an awful lot like 'Fuck it' and rolled over to press up against him, making a huffy sound. "We both know where that was going," she grouched. "I hate you," she added, though there wasn't any bite to it. She didn't. She hated herself for falling for it.

He hid a grin and wrapped his arms around her, pulling the blanket up around her a little more snuggly. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he muttered, tone smug as he tucked her head under his chin. "Now shut up and sleep."

"You shut up and sleep," she retorted unconvincingly, punctuating the sentence with a long yawn.

Then, because for some awful reason he was like NyQuil to her, she drifted off, still feeling vaguely bitter.

He watched her sleep, using her as a distraction for the desperate cravings that were running over and over in the back of his mind. He wanted to join her, get some rest (he'd had very little in the past weeks) but that wasn't going to happen any time soon, so he just dug his teeth into his lip, resolving to wait it out.

Two hours later, he had to wake her up before he went crazy.

"Harrison," he hissed, shaking her shoulder just a little, eyes closed tight.

"Wha?" she mumbled, cracking her eyes open to look at him, groaning. When she saw his expression, she woke up a little. "Seb, you okay?"

He shook his head just slightly, teeth clenched and one hand tight in the sheet, the other asleep underneath her. "O'Hare here?" he asked quietly, voice strained but as calm as he could make it.

"No," she replied softly, sitting up slightly and resting her hand on his shoulder, brushing her thumb across his skin. "No, he's not here. Can I do anything?"

He nodded just slightly. "Thought he wasn't," he muttered. "Barricaded the door, after all, but..." He took a slow breath through his nose. "Distraction would be nice. Any sort."

She looked down for a moment, just worried about him. Distraction? Wasn't that kind of her job description? Christ. No better way to get back on the wagon. She leaned down and kissed him.

As far as distractions went, that was an excellent one. Firstly, it was totally unexpected. Secondly, she was an excellent kisser, and thirdly... He'd missed kissing her quite a bit. He took a moment to be appropriately startled, before he was kissing her back enthusiastically.

She had a moment of relief. For just a second she'd been worried he wouldn't want this. Then he was reciprocating and she could breathe again, shifting herself from twisting awkwardly to straddling his waist. She'd almost forgotten how much she thoroughly enjoyed kissing him.

He sat up, hands finding her hips and then sliding around her waist and over the small of her back as his tongue traced her lips, teeth catching for just a moment. So what if he shouldn't. It was better than going out to find a hit, by a long shot.

She wrapped an arm around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair and tugging lightly. She was secretly pleased that it'd grown out a little again - it gave her something to manhandle him with. She kissed him a little harder, a little more excited. God, it felt nice to be touched and not feel scared shitless.

He let out a quiet moan against her lips as she tugged his hair, his tongue pushing past her lips gently to find hers, hands sliding up her back beneath her shirt, relearning the once-familiar geography.

Lorna was suddenly very glad that she'd gotten rid of her trousers before she'd got into bed. She didn't want a single inch between them, and clothes need to be the first to go. She slipped her hands under the hem of his shirt, pulling away from his lips to kiss down his jawline. "You better have a goddamn condom in this room," she muttered, sucking at his pulse point.

He laughed, his throat vibrating against her lips as he slid his hands back down to play with the waist of her panties. "What sort of man do you take me for?" he muttered with a smirk. "Don't even have to move." He left one hand where it was, the other reaching out to fumble around in the bedside table drawer.

"Always good to be cautious," she chuckled, leaning with him a little so he wasn't pinned with her weight, scant as it was, and busying herself trying to distract him as much as she possibly could, teeth dragging across his skin and hips rolling down into his. There were few people that made it so damn satisfying to do.

"Fuck, Harrison," he muttered, grinning as he finally found what he was looking for and slapped it on the top of the bedside table, before suddenly rolling back and over, and flopping her carefully onto the mattress beside him, leaning over to kiss her again, careful of the bandages on her neck, hands wandering to her hair instead.

She laughed as he rolled her over and was cut off as he kissed her, though she thought it was a pretty fair trade. He was going to have to hold back on the whole gripping her by the neck tonight, though, if he wanted this to end in any kind of good way. Returning to the moment, she started pushing his shirt up, trying to get to more of him.

He smiled against her mouth, sitting back a moment later to pull his shirt the rest of the way off, nodding to her to do the same.

She was already on the same page, lifting herself up just enough to pull the offending article off and toss it to the floor, a smirk appearing on her face. "You managed not to rip my shit this time. I'm so proud," she chuckled, reaching to grab his wrist and pull him back to her.

"Well, I figured I'd better not get on your bad side," he tossed back, grinning, his hands finding her waist and getting a solid grip on her sides as he kissed her again, fingers tracing her skin.

She made an amused noise, sucking on his lower lip for a moment while she dragged blunt nails down his chest, letting out a quiet moan of approval. God, even when he was a wreck his body was to die for. A lot of people had told her she looked like sin, but she thought it was better represented by him.

He took a slow breath as she traced his skin, one hand staying at her side, the other, reaching up to push the cup of her bra aside, fingers curling over her breast.

She arched into his touch, lifting a hand back to his hair, scraping her nails on his scalp. It was a struggle not to be rough with him, which was in their usual bag of tricks. Neither of them was really up for it. "Any dare you want to use up?" she grinned, leaning up to tug at his ear with her teeth.

"You keep bringing those up, it's almost like you want me to use them," he says with a smirk, eyes sparking with amusement in the dim room. He reached down with his free hand to push down his pajama trousers.

"The faster they're gone, the sooner I don't have to worry about them anymore," she hummed, reaching behind herself to undo her bra and fling it in the general direction of her shirt before her hands were back on him, skimming just above the waistband of his pants.

"I don't want to waste them though," he sighed, abdomen jumping just slightly under her touch, eyes slipping shut for just a moment before he opened them again, bending to press his lips to her breast, tongue just barely tracing the velvet skin.

She shivered, the skin under his touch hot, on fire, and sending a zap down her spine. "What the hell you planning on using those for, at this point?" she chuckled, just a little bit huskier than normal.

"That is an excellent question," he smirked. "But no point in using them for things that are already happening," he chuckled, smiling and brushing his lips up across her clavicle and back down to her other breast, giving it similar treatment.

She just made a sound of agreement, a little too busy appreciating the things he was doing with his mouth to really care about giving a snappy reply, one hand curling into his hair and the other in the sheets.

He smiled, a hand sliding down her side to her hip, fingers slipping under the waistband of her knickers to brush over her hip. "What was that?"

"I'm agreeing with you, for god's sake," she growled, the hand in his hair pulling his head back enough that she could lean up and kiss down the column of his throat. "You're always so difficult."

He laughed, though his breath caught slightly as her lips brushed a sensitive spot. "That's the fun part," he muttered, reaching to push her underwear down her hips.

She rolled her eyes, lifting herself up for a moment to help him along, with the added benefit of being able to press up against him just enough to tease him. "I would hope that's not the fun part, to be honest. I'm insulted," she added, palming him through his underwear and tracing her tongue across his clavicle.

"O-okay, how about one of the fun parts?" he asks, still smiling and tossing her panties off to the side, his hips pressing forward against her hand with a sighed moan, hand sliding back up her hip and shifting under her to get a grip on her ass.

"That's better," she smirked, acting rather successfully like he hadn't just sent a bolt of heat up her spine, and taking her hand from him just so she could push down his pants.

He shifted up, drawing up a leg to kick his pants off, before sighing and rolling off to the side to grab the condom, ripping the package open with his teeth and tossing it aside, rolling the condom on quickly before returning his attention to Lorna, rolling back over and kissing her hungrily.

She returned to snogging him with pleasure, so, so glad it was him, that she wasn't back in that hellhole. She didn't know that she could have trusted anyone else to do this with so soon. And then, because she really didn't like where that thought was going, hitched a leg over his hip and coaxed him down far enough that she could grind up against him, her breath catching slightly.

He groaned against her mouth as she suddenly pressed against him, hot and tantalizing. He rolled his hips against hers slowly, eager to be in her, but he was cognizant of what she'd been through, and so let her lead, enjoying everything as it came.

She curled her nails into the sheets as he responded, a quiet gasp escaping her. Now she was starting to feel that familiar impatience, that needy feeling that was fun enough by itself, but once she got what she wanted.. She bit his lip, pulling away for a split second. "Fuck me, okay?"

That was all the encouragement he needed. He reached down to lift her hips slightly, shifting around a bit until he could push slowly into her, letting out and approving groan. "Fuck, I missed this," he muttered as he started to move almost immediately, forehead pressed against hers.

"W-what, dive bar chicks not good enough for you?" she gasped, arching up against him, a hand going to his hair, a shudder going up her spine. He always felt so overwhelming. She'd missed this too.

He didn't answer, just kissed her firmly to shut her up, his teeth playing with her bottom lip, his hips rocking against hers slowly, rhythmically at first. It felt odd to take his time, to move carefully, slowly, instead of the rough possessive sex he was used too. But he didn't feel like staking a claim right now. He wanted to enjoy this.

For once, she didn't feel like trying to continue sassing him, too caught up in the delicious friction he was giving her, and a little busy trying to keep herself from getting a little out of hand and biting him hard enough to draw blood. She was fiercely grateful that he was going easy on her, too, letting her ease into it, the slow burn different from what they usually did, though it was still good enough to make her toes curl.

One hand was holding himself up, but the other traced down her side to her hip, grabbing her arse again and pulling her leg up around his hip, letting himself increase pace and force just slightly as he did that, the shift allowing him to move deeper within her.

"Fuck, Sebastian," she moaned, rolling her hips up to chase his, dragging her fingertips down his back and having just enough presence of mind not to leave marks, not to ruin the mood.

He smiled, but his teeth were clenched tight, his body pressed against hers, chest brushing hers gently as they moved. He wasn't sure why they'd stopped doing this. He could be at his absolute lowest- was, actually- and he would, and did, feel infinitely better when he was with her like this.

She pressed her forehead into his shoulder, her breath slightly labored. She getting closer, little by little, just a slow-building fire heating her up, her cheeks flushed a light pink, a hand gripping his bicep. If he stopped she was convinced she would burst into tears.

He shifted the hand on her hip up to her side, wrapping around her back and holding her close to him, a hand spreading across her shoulder blade. He was moving more quickly now, unable to help it, but it wasn't a fervor, still controlled and rhythmic, his breaths coming a bit short. "Lorna..." he groaned as she grabbed his arm, his back arching just slightly into her.

She kissed him hard as soon as he said her name, suddenly desperate to, the urge to get closer to him irresistible, shifting her hand from the sheets to the nape of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. She was so close, just teetering on the edge, and shifted the pace to just a little faster, a thoroughly debauched sound rising up her throat.

The sound traveled through him, and swore under his breath, tugging against her grip on his hair. "Fuck, Lorna..." he panted, moving with her and gritting his teeth, warmth starting to flood his body as he got close, fingers gripping her back tightly.

She lived for the sounds he was making. She clung to him tighter in return as he tensed, wrapping an arm around his neck and scraping her nails through his hair, her breath hitching. So close, so close, so- and then she tipped over the edge, the slow build finally culminating with less of a bang and more of a quiet moan, fingers dragging against his skin.

He felt her tighten and pulse around him, but it was her voice in his ear that brought him over, biting his lip as he held her close, body tense. He relaxed a moment later, shifting to the side with a sigh as he flopped beside her, arm still around her.

"Mm. I missed that," she mumbled, half into the crook of her arm, her voice sleepy. She felt like a cat who'd found a good, warm patch of sun. "God, you're so much better than Malcolm. Not to speak ill of the dead."

"That's not much of a compliment," he said with a smirked, poking her side lazily. He felt for the first time that night like he could actually sleep, and pulled off the condom to toss into the wastebasket so he didn't accidentally sleep with it on.

She wriggled away from him with a sound of complaint, though she was smiling slightly. "Take what you can get, huh?"

"Fiiiineee..." he sighed, smiling and pulling her closer again, shifting a little until he was comfortable with her tucked against his chest.

She yawned, happily nestling into him. As much as it was bad for her, she liked being close to him. Clothes or not. "Okay, sleep now," she commanded in a mumble, slinging an arm over his side.

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered sarcastically, but he didn't manage to say much else in retort, eyes slipping shut as he drifted off, thoroughly exhausted.

For once, she actually fell asleep after him, feeling at peace for the first time in days.

You only ever touch me in the dark
Only if we're drinking can you see my spark
And only in the evening could you give yourself to me
'Cause the night is your woman, and she'll set you free

You're too proud to say that you made a mistake
You're a coward till the end
I don't wanna admit that we're not gonna fit
No, I'm not the type that you like
Why don't we just pretend?

- MARINA - Lies (Acoustic) -

Playlist: KONGOS - Take Me Back

Marina and the Diamonds - Radioactive (Acoustic)

Marina and the Diamonds - Lies (Acoustic)