Sebastian could see Lorna out of the corner of his eye, but his attention was as far from her as it had been in a long time. He shifted the knife downward, the tip digging into Carl's throat just a bit, dragging a line down over his clavicle and through his shirt. He watched in fascination as blood welled up, his lips parted just slightly as he did so, eyes dark and focused, hands perfectly steady.

Carl shouted, struggled under the knife, only making the wound worse, deep alarm shooting through his chest, his fight or flight response kicking in. But once the tiger had its prey within its claws, there wasn't a thing in the world that would keep it from doing what it did best.

He could smell the blood, the dull, metallic scent seeping into his awareness. He could hear his own pulse thudding slowly in his ears, and could see Carl's, fluttering beneath the man's skin desperately, rapid in comparison. Begging to escape. He bent slowly to dig his tongue into the gash, to scrape it out with the rough appendage, gathering the crimson liquid on his tongue and lips, the taste filling his mouth in an instant. He let out a long, slow breath, sitting back, eyes wild compared to his calm expression, his dark, bloodied lips. He shifted to sit across the man's torso, knees pinning down his arms to free up his hands. He could hear the man's body, every cry and whimper and pulse begging him to tear it apart, to look inside, to place his hands against the warm, thriving flesh as it slowly cooled and stilled... He was starving for it, the need building up along his spine. It had been too long since he'd gotten to truly do what he wished, had allowed himself to fall to the urges.

He took the blade and, with clinical precision, began to cut and peel the flesh away from the right side of Carl's ribs, eyes fixated on his work, deaf to the man's struggles and screams.

Lorna was frozen in place, watching Sebastian dismantle the man who'd left her home years before. She couldn't move. She'd never seen Moran this way, had never once seen that look in his eye. She ought to be afraid, scared for her fucking life, but she couldn't bring herself to feel anything, do anything, but stand there and watch it happen with morbid fascination.

He finally pulled back a good slab of the man's meat, leaving it hanging to the side to reveal his ribs, peering through damaged muscle, a pale pink under the oozing red. It took a well placed driving elbow to crack his rib cage, but once he did he dug his fingers in and pried it back, using his knife when necessary. The man had stopped screaming for now, evidently having fallen unconscious, but he was still breathing, the lung now in view expanding and shrinking at a fast, stuttering rhythm. He decided to wait for the body to awaken again, passing the time by starting to carve his initials into the inside of one of his rib bones.

Lorna almost jumped when her father awoke again, his desperate screams shattering the silence that had only been broken by the sound of a blade against bone. How he hadn't died from shock, yet, she had no clue, but judging by the thick pool of blood that was seeping into Sebastian's pajama bottoms, he wasn't going to last for much longer.

He leaned forward as the body began to scream again, reaching up with a bloody hand to find the man's face, cupping his cheek almost tenderly. "It's alright," he whispered quietly, amusement clear in his voice, smiling with red-stained teeth as he found the man's terrified, animalistic gaze. "I'm going to let you die soon... I just wanted to feel you begging me, that's all..." He kept his eyes on the other' man's face as his free hand pushed slowly into his chest, past his heaving lung, to find the shuddering, pounding muscle between them, the thing responsible for that elusive pulse rippling through his body. He closed his hand around it, squeezed. The man let out a shriek unlike anything he had heard in a long time, then fell still, eyes open and unseeing.

She remained absolutely still, trying to still the pounding of her own heart, which she couldn't attribute to anything in particular. What would happen now? She barely recognized him like this, feral, coated in blood. The real question was whether or not he would recognize her.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, feeling the warmth slowly drain out of the body, up through his hands and into him. Or at least, that was how it felt. He slowly became aware of the room again, of Harrison a few feet away, and made a mental note that he should probably be a bit concerned that she'd seen all of that. As it was, he didn't feel like bringing it up. He stood slowly then, his hand pulling free of the congealed blood and flesh with a low squelch. "Do me a favor and call cleanup?" he asked as he headed for the bathroom. He needed to clean up, and time to get himself sorted.

She didn't say anything, just headed for the intercom in the living room, studiously ignoring the corpse on the floor. Her voice didn't shake at all as she made the call. When she was done she sat on the sofa, mildly thankful she'd pulled on some pants before coming out, and waited for them to arrive. She had no idea what to make of all that. Some part of her was a little surprised he hadn't just come for her, too.

He closed the door tightly behind him, and locked it with hands that trembled slightly with adrenaline now that it was all over. He turned the shower on, stripping off his ruined trousers and dumping them in the bin before stepping into the water, watching the bloody mix turn the water pink as it washed down the drain. He studied his hands, opening and closed them a few times under the water as the bits of skin and flesh still clinging to them rinsed away. The air around them was blissfully silent, the pulse extinguished, and it was like scratching an itch that you'd almost forgotten about for its perpetuity.

She let cleaning in when they knocked, and their silence at the sight before them was a testament to their professionalism. Moran was still in the shower when they left. They'd done a good job; the only thing that hinted at a mutilated body being there minutes prior was a wine-red stain in the carpet. She locked up behind them and then sat back on the sofa again, unsure of what to do with herself now.

He took his time in the shower, mentally pulling himself together. He was different when he let himself get like that. Less guarded, more instinctual, and he didn't want to return to the rest of the world until he was sure he had full control of himself again. Finally, however, he turned the water off, heading out into his room as he dried off to find pajamas.

She heard him exit the bathroom, but stayed where she was, still feeling rooted in place. She wasn't sure if she would even be able to sleep; not because what she'd witnessed had been terrible, but because some part of her had been all too happy to watch, to see what happened next. That was a part of her she didn't let out to play, ever.

He came out a few minutes later, bare feet padding quietly along the carpet, avoiding the stain, unsure if it was wet or covered in chemicals at the moment. He stood a few feet away, and cleared his throat slightly.

Her glance over was a bit delayed, and she realized that she'd been staring at the stain. She coughed a little, lifting a hand to brush through her hair, just to give it something to do. She didn't know what to say. What did she normally say, after a situation like this? "Well... now we know where I got my brains from."

He smirked, though it wasn't as natural as it usually was. "I suppose we do at that..." he said, nodding a bit. He sat down slowly when it didn't seem like she was moving away. "I'm... Uhm..." he coughed slightly. "It's unusual that I behave that way. My apologies."

"Yeah, I... kinda figured," she nodded a bit, folding her hands together on her lap and twiddling her thumbs. "It's okay, I'm not.. mad, or anything. I'm... I don't know how I feel."

He nodded a little, then decided that bluntness was the best way to go. "Did I frighten you?"

She had to take a moment to answer, because she really wasn't quite certain herself. Then she shook her head. "No. I wasn't sure whether or not you were going to go for me next, but... no. I wasn't scared. Not the first time I've seen something like that."

He smirked a little, not looking at her. "We need to work on your self-preservation," he muttered. "What aren't you sure how to feel about, then?"

She was silent for a minute, because she didn't really want to talk about that little part of her that enjoyed things like that, that had been so prevalent when she'd been working under Armetti. "I'm.. not pleased with the part of me that wanted to watch that. I don't really want to go into it."

He hesitated, but nodded just a little. "Alright... Well... I'm going to bed," he said after a moment, standing.

She nodded, but made no move to follow. "I've got energy to burn, I'll just stay out here, watch some TV, do situps till I'm sore. Can't sleep this wired."

He nodded just a little, sensing her need for space and not at all interested in invading it. He was tired as all hell all of a sudden. "Enjoy," he muttered, waving vaguely and heading for his room, closing the door most of the way behind him.

She started with the sit-ups, but soon it was apparent that was not going to be enough. She got up, paced a little, wiping away a cold sweat on the back of her neck three times before she gave up, heading into the bathroom and yanking off her clothes to get into a freezing shower, jaw clenched. Get a hold of yourself. What the fuck is wrong with you?

I don't know. I don't know.

She sat hard on the floor, pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to breathe deeply.

Ask for one of the hit jobs. Like the ones Armetti used to give you.

Fuck off.

He dozed for a while, but woke when he heard a thud from the bathroom. He frowned, hand tight on his (now clean) knife under his pillow. The shower was running, and it was probably just Harrison, but it had been a loud thud. He stood, walking over to the door and knocking lightly.

"You okay?"

No.

"I'm fine," she said, just loud enough to be heard over the shower. She wasn't sure if she succeeded in sounding confident about it.

I can't stop imagining my hands coated in someone else's blood.

He glanced at the door incredulously. "That sounds an awful lot like bull shit." He considered pushing the door open, but something held him back.

"I'm just fucking wired, okay?" she snapped, gritting her teeth until it hurt. She wanted to get out and break something, but that meant she would have to get past him, and she didn't want to do that.

I don't remember how to make this stop. I can't make this feeling STOP.

She stood, shut off the shower hard enough for the handle to protest with a squeak, and got out, yanking aside the shower curtain a lot harder than she needed to.

He did open the door, then, deciding enough was enough. He analyzed her expression quickly, saw the conflict there, the frustration. "Lorna..." he said quietly, trying to read more detail. Her hands were clenched tightly. "Talk to me."

"What am I supposed to say, Sebastian?" she said shortly, whipping a towel off the rack to dry herself off with, shivering from more than the cold of the shower. "I'm fucked up. Fucked up. I- I can't stop fucking remembering what I used to do, when I worked for Armetti. I didn't use to grift for information. I fucking murdered people. But I'm sure you know that," she spat, raking a hand through her wet hair. She wasn't even angry at him - she was angry with herself, that she couldn't control this. "I didn't want to be this again, Sebastian, I didn't want to feel like a fucking addict, I didn't want to keep doing things that would make normal people lose their fucking breakfasts. And now I want it."

He studied her carefully as she spoke, saw the same hunger that he fought with so frequently. He felt guilt twist his gut a bit. He hadn't meant to expose her like that. He would have fought the urges a lot harder if he'd thought seeing them would be a problem, or at least he thought he would have. "How can I help you right now?"

"I don't know. I don't know," she shook her head, battling the itching need to move and failing, turning in a full circle before she clamped her hands down on the counter and made herself stop, taking a deep breath. "I don't want to fucking give in to this. I want this to stop."

He walked forward just a little, wanting her within easy reach in case he felt like he needed to grab her. "Would being distracted help? Or do you want to talk through it?"

She did her best not to tense up as he moved closer, biting the inside of her cheek instead, trying to convince herself that she wasn't going to have to fight him. "You don't want to 'Distract me' right now, Sebastian, believe me," she shook her head tersely, a muscle in her jaw jumping. "And I don't... I can't talk about it. I'll make it worse. The more I bring it back, the more I'll... be like this."

"That wasn't what I meant by distract," he said gruffly. "I am capable of thinking of other distraction alternatives, and of recognizing that that one is likely a poor idea at the moment." He took a breath, trying to think. "Sometimes working it off helps. Punching bag, that sort of thing. For me it helps burn off the energy. It might not work with you. The other end of the spectrum is to try meditation or something of the like."

She shook her head, gritting her teeth. She knew that none of that would work. It had to be a person. She thought that he would have understood that. "No. No. I can't.. if it's not alive it doesn't help."

He nodded just a little, taking a slow breath. She was like him then. Interesting, and not something he would have called. "We have a few live-ins in the basement. It just sounded like you didn't want to take that route."

"There's a reason I'm not already down there. That crossed my mind first," she huffed, gripping the countertop harder to resist the urge to reach for him anyway, to leave bloody marks down his back, bite marks on his neck. She pushed off the counter and pushed past him, heading for the liquor cabinet.

He normally would have tried to stop her, but honestly that was probably her best option at this point. He followed her into the main room, but hung back, just keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn't do anything stupid. Talking didn't seem to be helping much, either, and it certainly wasn't his preference, so he remained silent.

She broke out the strongest thing he had, not even sitting before she was drinking out of the bottle, fingers clenched tight on the glass. The faster she got too drunk to walk, the better.

He leaned against the wall, watching her carefully, feeling progressively worse but not pushing into her space. She was an adult, she could deal with this how she pleased, so long as she didn't do anything too harmful.

"The fuck are you staring at me for?" she snapped, between drinks. He was making the back of her neck prickle, just standing there like that.

"I'm making sure you don't do anything stupid," he said, rolling his eyes but diverting his attention to a patch of wall, watching her out of his peripheral vision instead.

She almost threw the bottle at him, but she kept herself under control. "What the fuck do you think I'm going to do, Sebastian?"

"I'm not sure, Lorna," he said evenly. "But we both know your impulse control could use a bit of work. I'm not interfering, am I? Just standing here. I can sit if that would make you feel better, but I'm not leaving."

"Just fucking sit. I hate it when you stand around like that, makes me feel like we're waiting for something," she muttered, throwing back another good few swallows. She had no interest in making him leave, anyway. Now that she thought about it, there were a few things that she could do that would ruin her life. Heroin, for example.

He shrugged, though he made a mental note of that fact, and walked over to sit on the far end of the couch. "Whatever you say."

It didn't take too long for the alcohol to really start affecting her, at the rate she was going through the bottle. When she was about a third of the way through she set it down heavily on the coffee table and sluggishly moved over to curl up in his lat like a cat. She closed her eyes, to stop the room from moving around quite so much. "Mm. This s'not as good as heroin."

He sighed a bit as she clambered into his lap, wincing slightly as a wayward hand got a little close to home with some force, but not complaining, just sighing a bit in exasperation and wrapping his arms around her firmly. "This is far better than heroin, consequence-wise."

"Heroin s'lot faster," she mumbled, turning into him a little. Now that she was good and drunk her mind was quiet, tame, she didn't feel a boiling need to dig into something and make it bleed. "But you're prob'ly right."

"I'm always right, Harrison," he muttered, rolling his eyes but shifting so that she was a bit more comfortable.

"Are not," she said contrarily, then sighed. "Carry m'to bed. Please."

He rolled his eyes once more, but complied, standing up with a grunt and keeping her tucked into his arms. She was still wrapped in just a towel but was mostly dry at this point, so he headed into the bedroom and set her on the bed like that, tossing the towel aside and tucking the blankets up over her before climbing in on his own side.

She only stayed awake long enough after that to curl up against his warmth, and then she was out cold. Thank god for alcohol.

He watched her drift off, tucking the blanket around them both a bit more securely, turning over the evening's developments. He needed to be more careful around her.

When she woke up in the morning, she was horribly hungover. Horribly hungover. She rolled onto her stomach with a muffled groan. God, had last night even been real?

He woke up at her groan, glancing over at her through tired eyes as he tried to piece together what she was moaning about. It took him a moment, but he didn't even comment once he remembered, crawling out of bed and returning a few moments later with a tall glass of water and ibuprofen.

She sat up to take his offerings, downing the pill and then the entire glass of water. "Thanks," she mumbled, setting the glass down on the nightstand and leaning back against the headboard with a thump. "God, last night was a nightmare."

"Just don't throw it up," he muttered, climbing back into the warm bed with a sigh and curling up slightly under the covers. He glanced over at her as she spoke again, and his eyes tightened almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, didn't look like a fun party."

"Mm. No. Not a fun time. There's a reason I don't talk about my Armetti days. I'm always worried I'll just... snap, you know?" she sighed, shifting down to join him under the covers, because she wasn't wearing an ounce of clothing and the bed was toasty. "You're definitely going to need a new rug."

He nodded a little in agreement. "I'll get someone on it today." He wrapped an arm around her, shifting her a bit until she wasn't cutting off the circulation to the arm beneath her. "I didn't mean to set you off," he said after a moment.

"I know," she murmured, "It's not like you knew it was a possibility. I try my best to forget its there, and my file can only say so much about my past jobs. It's not as if I get like that every time you torture a guy in front of me. It's okay. Not your fault."

He shrugged a little. "I'm usually more... controlled. I'll try to avoid letting you see that in the future."

"I appreciate it. If you can't avoid it, you might find me joining in, anyway. Sometimes it takes a while for that to settle," she sighed, lifting a hand to rub her forehead. Her headache felt lethal.

He nodded just a little. This was the first time he'd discussed that part of his behavior with anyone other than Jim (if this could be called discussion), and he'd certainly never expected Harrison to share the addiction. It was interesting to say the least, and he wasn't sure what to make of it.

She shifted to grab her phone off the nightstand, sending a quick text to Kelly before just lazily dropping the phone off the side of the bed and burying her face in her pillow. "I'm taking the morning off. I told Kelly if he has any emergencies while I'm gone to shit them out his ass."

"Poetic," he smirked, eyes closed. He didn't particularly feel like getting up either, but that was the benefit of being chief of staff. You set your own hours. Unless Jim called him in for some reason.

She dozed off again, eager to put more distance between last night and the present. Only time fixed that particular problem.

He watched as she dozed, reaching out to pull her into his arms with a quiet sigh. He was worried about her, but hell if he'd tell her that.

She stirred again almost an hour later, this time feeling a little less miserable, now that the ibuprofen was kicking in. She yawned, stretching out a little. "Mmph. How long was I out?"

He glanced at the clock. "An hour. Not quite," he sighed, releasing her and rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and reaching up to rub at his face sleepily.

"Ugh. Not enough. But I guess I'll live," she mumbled, sitting up and sliding out of bed to shuffle over to the dresser, getting herself out some clothes. "You got any shit going on today?"

"Nothing specific, no," he sighed, stretching and sitting up. "I need to figure out this mole situation, and find someone to take over Carl's contract."

She nodded, just in time realizing that she was trying to put on a shirt inside out before correcting the problem. "Well, at least you shouldn't have anybody stepping out of line today. Or for the next week. Maybe months."

"Why's that?" he asked, starting to pull on his own clothing, glancing over at her with a raised eyebrow.

She smirked a little, fixing her sleeves. "There's only so quiet cleaning can be, bringing a body down from the top floors. People knew that Carl was demanding to see you. It's a logical jump to make that you were the one to do it. People are going to be a little more careful, when they hear what was left of him."

He buttoned his shirt, and sighed. "Fair point. Which means Jim will know about it sooner rather than later. That'll be interesting. His reactions to... that... have varied over the years from anger to something I honestly might have pinned as arousal if I didn't know better," he snorted, rolling his eyes. "It all depends on his mood. Maybe he won't bring it up at all. Who knows."

"I hadn't even thought about Jim's reaction. Good luck on that one," she shook her head, heading for the door with another yawn. "I'm going to put a pot of coffee on. You want me to stick something in the toaster for you?"

He shrugs. "Not really hungry. I've got a lunch meeting with Jim today for some reason or another. I think he wants to discuss the potential hits away from any prying eyes."

"Alright," she nodded, giving him a vague wave and stepping out to go for the kitchen. "Text me if you have a job or something. I have to give a talk to my people about the correct way to fill out forms, so it's not like I'll be doing anything important."

"Oh, sounds fun," he says, smirking a bit as he pulled on his shoulder holster and then his jacket. "Alright... I'm going to go get a few things done before lunch. I'll see you tonight."

"See you then," she replied as cheerfully as possible while suffering from a hangover. Christ, it was amazing how easy this had become. It was wonderful.

He spent the morning narrowing down his list of possible moles, attempting to avoid having to deal with the one name on there he didn't want to think about.

When it came near the time Jim had set for the meeting, he sent a text to Moran to meet him in the garage before heading down himself, mulling over the back-up plans he had, mentally noting which ones would need to be checked for continued strength.

He met Jim near the chauffeur's station, keys in hand. "I figured you'd be looking for low profile today, so I grabbed the BMW, but I can change if you prefer."

"No, you were correct," Jim nodded. He'd even dressed down a little. Well. He hadn't worn a suit jacket. That, for him, was dressed down. "I want to avoid attention as much as is possible."

"I've noticed," he said, nodding slightly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Moriarty without a jacket. "Shall we?" He didn't ask where they were going, wouldn't until they were in the car.

He nodded again, and turned to get into the passenger side of the BMW, waving off the chauffeur absently. He didn't feel like dealing with that sort of nonsense. Once Moran got in, he recited the address. "It's a Mediterranean place. We've been there once before, a year or so back. You liked that there was only one window."

He nodded. "I remember it. It's secure there. Nice choice." He pulled out of the garage, starting to take a rather round-about route, intent on throwing any tails.

"I heard about Harrison's dear old dad," Jim said, about five minutes into the drive. "Nasty way to go, that. I hope you have a good reason for it. He was a decent contractor."

"He had serious issues with authority," he said, eyes on the road as he slowed at a red light. "Seemed to think he could give me orders. I made a few attempts to correct that opinion. He was rather adamant."

"And what did your little live-in think of that display?" he smirked, always keen to needle Sebastian about his weaker points.

He started off again at the green light with a bit more acceleration than was quite necessary. "She wanted to participate," he said as he turned down a narrow street, keeping an eye on the mirrors.

Jim had not been expecting that answer. He raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. He knew most of the details about her past, but her personality hardly interested him as long as she was doing her job. "Really. Now that's interesting. I'll have to keep tabs on that."

He decided they weren't being followed and headed for the restaurant. "I'll admit I was a bit surprised at her... eagerness. I don't believe it's a strength for her, but certainly an interest."

He snorted. It was hardly a strength of Sebastian's, but he had no interest in scolding the sniper about his bad habits at the moment, so he left it at that, and fell silent until they pulled into the parking lot of the eatery. "How many people are left on the list of suspects?"

"Four, sir," he said, parking and getting out, walking around to open Jim's door.

"And who are those four?" he asked, nodding a little as he got out and straightening his cuffs as he headed for the restaurant door. "And what do you need to do to rule them out?"

He waited until they'd been shown a back table to answer. "Errison in accounting. Jerret and Sunders in cleanup, and O'Hare." He didn't allow his voice to change on the last name, looking over the menu. "I'll need a few more days of investigation. I'm having them watched."

Jim made a noise of affirmation, not even bothering to open the menu. He knew what he wanted, as always. "Good. I want this thing pulled out by the roots. Go around those four in the security changes. I want them isolated but unsuspecting. I want them to think they've won before I have their family murdered in front of them."

He nodded slightly. "Keep in mind that in likelihood at least two, if not three of them are innocent. At least of this particular crime," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow as he set his menu down. "Not that I'm objecting to your methods, I'd just prefer not to have to deal with the aftermath of three misfired family murders if I don't have to."

"I wasn't planning on having all of their families killed before we find out who it is," Jim snorted, folding his hands together on the table as he waited for the slow waitress to make her way towards them. "When we find out who it is, and they've spat out a confession, then I'll have their family killed. But before that happens, I want them to taste victory. The would-be victors fall so muchharder."

"Of course, sir," he said, nodding a little and looking up to give his order as the waitress came over, sitting back and waiting for Jim to finish his own negotiations.

Jim gave his own order in such a tone that implied that if his food was late the waitress was going to be missing a lot more than her tip when he was done, and she left a lot faster than she came. Then he sat back, sighing. "Another network wants to take me out. Aren't they in for a surprise."

"And Holmes as well. Hardly surprising that he's involved. I hope he comes along himself. I look forward to seeing how his hand is doing, and his eyes as well. Chemical burns, nasty things." He looked up as the waitress returned with their drinks, and he nodded his thanks, taking his beer.

Jim took a sip of his water (water was the easiest thing to tell by taste if it had been severely tampered with) and smirked, the image that his mind conjured up of the hateful man delightful. "I suppose I should have seen this side of Harrison coming. I have to say, I've rather enjoyed her work so far. You two would make quite the serial killer couple. You'd make art."

He smirked as he sipped his beer, refusing to be ruffled in the face of the comment. "We may yet, if you give me a bit of reign if you need it. Though I know you tend to wrinkle your nose at the lack of control when I get going."

"Mm. I like seeing the aftermath of it. The actual process is a little messy for my taste," he drawled, falling silent as the waitress approached with their food, and only starting up again once she was half across the restaurant and a fork was in his hand. "Either way, that's not why I dragged us out here to talk. I want to discuss contingency plans."

"Mmm..." He nodded, starting to cut into his sole. "What do you have in mind?"

"A lot of things. Most are just last-ditch things, not ironed out yet. But when my old cells were being taken out last year - I know now it was thanks to dear old Sherlock - I started buying properties. Shuffled them all through, at the least, 37 different holding companies, tried to get rid of things that could bring it back to me. Most of these I haven't touched, because they're in bad spots, or somewhere that I could use in the future. But I had one turned into a safe house. Spent a good amount of money making it look unused. If we have to leave headquarters, we can lay low there. I'll be pissed as hell if it comes to that, though."

He nods in agreement. "And by 'we', sir, you mean...?" he prompted after he swallowed.

"You and I," Jim said, giving him a look that was asking whether or not he'd missed Sebastian's brains leaking out of his ears the minute prior, a forkful of tabouli halfway to his mouth. "Besides the obvious fact that you're my bodyguard, you'd be a high-priority target, too."

"I didn't doubt that I would be accompanying you, sir," he said, returning Jim's scrutiny with a steady gaze. "I was merely wondering if you would be wanting some of your other higher-ups to accompany us as well. I don't know the size of this safehouse to which you're referring, nor your intent for it."

He knew instantly where Moran was trying to go with that. He gave Moran a very dry look. "It's small. Unpleasantly so. Two very small bedrooms. I will not be sharing my space. But I suppooooseshe's valuable enough to squirrel away with us. Christ."

He didn't let his expression change, reaching to take another sip of his beer. "That wasn't necessarily what I was referring to, but I'll take it. Thank you, sir."

Jim rolled his eyes, shook his head, and finished up his meal. Moran had let this get out of hand, but there wasn't much he could do about it now. Somehow her work had improved after the things she'd been put through, and if he killed her just to get the mess over with, he'd be losing a valuable asset. It bothered him. But when it came to his work, he wasn't unreasonable. "If you're not finished, get it to go. We're leaving."

"I'm finished," he said, pushing his plate aside and pulling out his wallet, leaving a wad of cash on the table. He could tell that Moriarty was annoyed, and he knew that in the unlikely instance this contingency became a reality, he'd need to be careful.

He stood without further ado, and within the next minute was back inside the BMW, scrolling through emails on his phone. It was a sign that he was no longer interested in conversation.

He knew better than to try and engage in it, driving back to headquarters, once again taking a more roundabout route. He finally pulled into the garage, stepping out and around to open Jim's door.

He got out and moseyed towards the elevator with a little wave of his fingers towards the sniper, still looking down at his phone. "Go find me my mole, Sebby," he drawled, looking over his shoulder seriously, then slipping the phone into his pocket and making for the lift once more. It was clear he would be taking it alone.

He didn't bother trying to follow, leaning against the car and leveling a silent glare once the elevator had closed. "Sebby," he muttered under his breath, sighing and rolling his eyes before turning his attention to the task at hand: weeding out the mole.

It was a few days later that Lorna got the text from Sebastian at about lunchtime, asking her to come back up to the flat. She walked in a few minutes later, sliding her phone into her back pocket. "This a booty call or do you have a job for me?"

"Bit of both?" he says, looking up from where he's considering his computer, reaching up to rub at his eyes. He hadn't slept much the last few days. "I need you to seduce O'Hare. Or... talk to him, at least. Try and get some information."

"Don't refer to having me seduce other men a booty call, Sebastian, you're going to ruin the term," she snorted, then cocked a thumb towards the wall. "He home?"

He nodded a little. "Yes. You know what I need?" He glanced at his security monitors before switching over to a compilation of his information on the mole.

"Not specifically," she shook her head. "Something about him working in something 'bigger and better', blah blah blah?"

He nodded a little, setting his laptop aside and leaning forward. "Everyone else has been eliminated," he said quietly, elbows on knees. "It's... highly possible that he's our mole. Get him bragging."

She nodded, brushed a hand through her hair. "Alright. I'm going over. If I scream, you better come rescue me," she said, only half-joking, and turned to slip back through the door. A moment later she was standing in front of O'Hare's door. She took a deep breath, and knocked.

The door opened a minute or so later, and O'Hare raised an eyebrow, staring at her for a moment. "Ms. Harrison," he finally said a bit roughly, nodding. "Can I help you?"

She ducked her head a little, looking almost painfully sheepish. "Yeah, yeah, I uh... I wanted to apologize. About before. I know it was a while ago, but looking back on it... I was wrong. I'm sorry. I just wanted to see if I could make it up to you?"

He studied her for a long moment, seeming surprised at first, then a bit confused. "That's... surprising to hear, coming from you, I'm gonna admit," he said, shaking his head a little but then stepping back, letting her in.

"Yeah, I guess I can be kinda stubborn at first," she smiled a little, stepping in with a nervous bob of her head, like she was still worried about making a misstep. "Sorry, I just.. take a long time to come around to the truth of things. And I, you know, I wanted to hear your side of things."

He closed the door, considering her. "What do you mean by 'the truth of things?" he asked, still considering her a bit suspiciously.

She paused for a moment, glancing back at the wall separating his and Sebastian's apartments. "You..." she hesitated, then shook her head a little, clearing her throat. "You were right about Sebastian. I was blind to it, I got attached... but he's not going to last much longer. He's barely holding on as it is. He's soft. I should have listened to you."

O'Hare seemed to inflate just slightly at that, stooped back straightening slightly, though he tried to keep his expression neutral. "What's happened?"

Moran had thought Malcolm's idea disgusting. O'Hare might cross himself. She grimaced. "I... I found a ring in his dresser."

He was shocked for just a moment, before his expression became almost gleeful. "You're kidding... Christ, I knew it. The fucker's gone completely useless..."

She nodded again, ducking her head and rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah. Yeah. God, I was so fucking wrong. Look... you're in a pretty good position to take over for him, you know? I guess I'm just asking you not to hold a grudge against me for some stupid shit that I said."

He nodded just a little, smiling. "Of course not. I'm glad someone else is finally seeing it." He let out a bit of a laugh, shaking his head. "A ring... Fuck... You're right. He doesn't have long at all. This is beautiful... Perfect..."

She let out a relieved laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I imagine he's not going to be around much longer. You got an alcohol in here? I could use a drink."

He nodded, stepping back. "Come in. What do you want? I've got beer, whiskey, or mead."

"Whiskey, if you don't mind," she grinned, stepping a little further into the flat. It was possibly even more austere than Sebastian's was. Well, Sebastian's on-site flat. "Beer is for when there's more than two people."

He walked over to the liquor cabinet, pulling out the bottle and a couple of glasses and nodded just a bit in agreement. "So... Are you going to go to Moriarty with this information, or just wait for Sebastian to screw himself?"

"I thought I'd leave that up to you," she shrugged, making herself at home and sinking down onto his sofa. "I thought you had more of a right to decide. I've forgiven all the things that Sebastian has done to me. I kinda doubt that you have."

He snorted. "You doubt correctly," he muttered, pouring two healthy servings of whiskey and passing one her way as he sat, as well. "Fucking bastard..." He took a long sip.

She downed a healthy portion of hers. Say what she would about O'Hare, but he had good taste in whiskey. Not in much else, though. "If I'd been you, I don't know if I could have taken this job. I might have done anything to fuck that bastard over." C'mon, slip up.

He tossed back the rest of his drink. "Why do you think I took it? What better way to fuck him over than by being right next him?" he snorted.

"Yeah, but that's a good way to get dead, if you don't play it right. Sebastian may be soft, but he's not completely stupid," she snorted, taking her glass much more slowly after the first swallow. There was no need to get drunk.

He poured himself another glass, sitting back, and smirked. "Not if you have the ace in your sleeve," he muttered, smirking over his glass.

"What, like, dirt or something? What could you have that Jim doesn't already know?" she laughed. Tell me, you bastard. Let me hear the words come from your twisted mouth.

He shrugged just a little, regarding his glass. "Nothing important. It's more a... strategic advantage. The point is, I'll be fine."

She smirked, setting her glass down on the coffee table and then gently taking his and doing the same, shifting over and straddling his lap in one smooth motion. "What, you can't tell me?" she purred, cupping his jaw, her thumb tracing along a scar. "Do you need me to apologize a little more?"

He was shocked for a moment, eyes a bit wide at that, before they narrowed and he reached up to grab her wrists, twisting them both sideways and off of the couch. Harrison landed hard on her back and he pinned her arms, straddling her to keep her in place. He didn't beat around the bush. "How much does Moriarty know?"

She took the opportunity he was giving her with an uncovered mouth, twisting beneath him towards the door, ignoring a spasm of pain in her back. "MORAN!"

He clamped a hand over her mouth, swearing angrily as he drove a knee into her ribs. "Shut the fuck up!" he hissed, leaving her mouth uncovered again as she gasped for air to quickly grab a knife from his boot, bringing it up to her throat. "What does Moriarty know?!"

Sebastian looked up from where he was sitting, and swore, standing and reaching to ensure that his gun was in place, already jogging for the door.

"He doesn't know anything!" she shouted, trying to yank her arm out from beneath his leg, leaning as far away from the blade as she could. Lies, of course. "We knew there was a mole, there's always been leaks, it just came down to you. Let me GO!"

He grabbed her head, wrenching it forward again and digging the point of the knife into the scar on her neck. "You're going to stop yelling, or I'm going to reopen this scar and make sure it does its job this time," he snarled. He looked up, however, as the door to his apartment opened and Moran walked in, gun raised and trained. "How the hell did you get in?" he asked, keeping the knife firmly in place.

"It pays to be chief of staff," he sneered. "You have good security clearance. Let her go."

"I don't think so," O'Hare snarled, and she stiffened beneath him as he pressed the blade in a little harder, feeling a drop of blood bead up and roll down her neck to the floor. "Put down the gun, or I'll kill her. If you shoot me, I'll make sure I slit her throat before I take my last breath."

He growled in annoyance, gritting his teeth and running his thumb across the safety a few times. "Not a chance. I'll put you down like a dog, O'Hare, unless you put that knife down right now."

O'Hare shifted up off her, but dragged her up and around so he could use her as a shield, knife still pressed up under her jaw, a soundless threat. "You fucking idiots," he snapped, "You-" they all looked up at the ceiling at the sound of muffled gunfire. "What the fuck is that?"

His response was a bullet. He didn't think about it, didn't think about the consequences, what it would mean. Jim was in danger, Lorna was in danger, and his target had given him a low-risk shot. O'Hare slumped to the ground, the hole in his head dribbling blood, and Sebastian didn't bother to wait past that, charging out of the apartment for the stairwell, pressing his eye to the scanner before he was sprinting up the steps three at a time to find Jim.

It was already over by the time Sebastian reached his office. Three men lay dead in the hall. One of the security guards had been shot in the shoulder, but that was the extent of it. The assassins had come woefully unprepared to deal with nearly a dozen highly trained guards. "Sebastian," Jim drawled as he came barreling into the room, sidearm still in his hand. He was standing in the middle of the room with a glass of scotch in his hand, observing the bullet holes in the walls. "Pack your bags. It seems our opponent knows our home address."

He felt relief wash over him at the sight of his uninjured employer, slowing his pace and taking a slow breath, though he had no intention of letting the adrenaline go quite yet. "O'Hare was our mole. He's dead. When I heard the shots I made a fast and dirty call."

Jim nodded a little, turning that one over in his head. Not the mole for the other criminals, then. Any mole from them would have jumped ship before the attempted hit. Holmes, then. That man was infuriatingly good at burrowing moles in his operation. "Alright. Now get ready to leave, I meant that. I can't work here until that threat is dealt with. Collect your goldfish and let's go, unless you have a better recommendation."

"None, sir," he said, nodding and keeping his gun in hand. He walked to the door, ensuring that there were still guards in place and speaking with them briefly before returning to the stairwell. "I'll be ready to leave in ten minutes sir. I would prefer if you could do the same. Is there anything you'd like me to get for you?"

"No," Jim shook his head, turning for the door to his private quarters. "I've had a bag packed for months. The place is stocked with non-perishables. I will be waiting for you in the garage."

"Understood."

He jogged back down the stairs, heading for O'Hare's apartment, looking for Lorna. "Harrison?" he called as he headed down the hallway.

She wandered out, holding a towel to her neck. O'Hare had nicked it on his way to the floor. "Hey. Jim okay?"

"Fine. We're leaving, Jim has a safehouse. You're coming. Ten minutes to get packed. There's food there." He headed back for his apartment at a brisk pace.

She shook her head a little, just following him into his apartment wordlessly and heading into the bedroom to begin packing. She always had necessities in the top drawer, so it didn't take her long to finish up and wait in the living room for him. She was almost relieved that O'Hare had been the mole. It meant her bad feeling about him had been right.