It was a couple days after that she was sitting at the kitchen table, eating chicken curry across from him, that she finally spoke up. He'd been distracted and twitchy for days, and if it didn't have something to do with Jim, she didn't know what it could be. "Alright, c'mon. What's bothering you?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, stirring at his food but not eating.

She sighed, resting her fork on the side of her plate. "You've been acting weird all week. You flinched the other day. You never flinch. Something's up."

"Nothing's wrong. I've just been drinking too much coffee. I'm fine." He stood up, walking over to stick his bowl in the fridge.

She gave him a skeptical look, but sighed. "Alright... if you really mean it. If I can help, though..."

"I really mean it," he said a bit harshly, closing the door to the fridge and heading out of the room.

She fell silent, and returned to eating, trying to stuff down the helpless feeling in her chest. Whatever was eating at him, she didn't know, but if it started to affect his work she was going to have to step in, or risk him getting shot

He closed the door to his bedroom- he had to move the wastebasket, the door was very rarely used- and sat, head in hands, trying to think.

He turned the situation over a few more times, then decided the best option he had was an ally. And the best option for that... He walked out quickly and headed for the kitchen. "We need to talk."

She looked up from her mostly-finished curry, eyebrows rising a bit in surprise, then furrowing in concern. "...O..kay?"

He sat across from her, turning the chair backwards and straddling it, looking at her for a while. "Nothing we say here leaves this room."

"Alright," she agreed, with little-to-no hesitation. She trusted him. It was amazing that she did, but she trusted him.

He took a slow breath, staring at his hands for a moment, debating the wisdom of this. Finally he said, "Before I lost my memory... there's evidence that I may have had... conflicting loyalties."

She was silent for a long moment, not sure what to say. Not sure how to feel. She took a long breath. "Okay. Alright... What's... the evidence?"

"I've been receiving text messages from Mycroft Holmes requesting what appears to be a routine information update," he says, sighing through his nose.

She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a long sigh. "Fuck. Wow. Okay. Not really what I was expecting to hear. I don't know what I was expecting, but that wasn't it. Shit. Okay." She pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. "...I don't think you're a spy. Especially not for Mycroft Holmes. You're far too shitty a grifter to do that, and I like to think that I know you reasonably well. I think there's a strong possibility he's trying to exploit your amnesia. I hope it's a strong possibility. God knows we never found that other mole..."

"You never did, at least. I don't think Jim ever had anyone look into me, and even if he'd done it himself, it would have been easy to tamper with anything suspicious. I know more about our data systems than anyone."

"Fuck, Sebastian," she breathed, running her hands down her face. "I mean... what the fuck are we going to do about this? Shit, I can't think of a way to clear you, and we can't bring it to Jim..."

He shook his head a little, before dropping it into his hands. "I don't know. He texted me almost a week ago now."

"Okay. What if we... shit. I don't know." She rubbed her eyes. "What if you play along, and he lets you in. You could do some searching on the inside, try to find evidence of you being there all along. Real, tangible proof, not something they could've slapped together in an afternoon."

"Yes, brilliant. I try to convince Jim I'm not working for Mycroft by going and working for Mycroft. " He groaned. "Maybe though. If it turns out I was a double agent it would get me out of here when I find that out..."

"You can't be a double agent. You'd die for him. You know it, and so does he. Fuck, if we can figure out a way to get Jim's permission first..."

"Yes, that will go over well," he sighed sarcastically. Then he leaned back into his chair. "You're probably right. I'm just frustrated."

"And I don't blame you. Amnesia's a bitch," she snorted, getting up and heading out of the kitchen, only to return a moment later with a bottle of vodka. "Although I kinda want to forget about this conversation until I know I can do anything about it."

He nodded just a little. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I didn't know what else to do. It's an unpleasant feeling."

"No, don't be sorry. I'm glad you told me," she sighed, resting her hand on top of the bottle. "I was worried about you. I mean, now I still am, but I can at least try to think of something to do to help. I hate sitting and wondering."

He nodded, then glanced at the bottle. "Are you just going to fucking sit on that, or are we drinking?"

She snorted, then rolled her eyes, uncapping the bottle. "We're drinking."

"Good," he muttered, waiting for her to take a swig before reaching out for the bottle to take his own. Drunkenness and forgetting sounded fine to him.

She wanted to ask him what he would do if he really was a traitor. Would he flee? Accept the fate Jim gave him? But it just seemed so unlikely. After all the things Mycroft had done to them, or had had done to them, how could he have remained loyal? For fuck's sake, he'd been hooked on heroin.

He took another long pull of vodka and passed it back, taking a slow breath through his nose. He'd barely slept in the last week, too on edge, and he was exhausted.

"How are you coping with this?" she asked after a few minutes of drinking, beginning to feel a little bit of fuzziness crawl into her head.

He shrugged a little. "It is what it is. If I was spying for Mycroft I must have had a reason. I'll figure out what it is and deal with it."

"Christ, I hope you weren't," she sighed, taking a long sip from the vodka. "Cause then my loyalties are going to get real conflicted, real fast."

He shook his head a little. "Don't be stupid. Jim will kill you. I won't. Simple as that." Which was hardly simple at all. He'd tried to remain under the illusion that if he needed to kill her- really needed to- he would. The admission was chilling.

"Sebastian..." she sighed, resting her cheek on her hand, because she was beginning to feel literally tipsy, and it was only fun falling out of your chair from being drunk if you were at a party. "I don't know what I'd do around here if you weren't also around. It seems... kinda pointless."

"We talked about this," he sighed. "You'll have plenty to do. You already do. You have a flair for torture, though I know you're hesitant about exploring it. Your long-term grifting ideas have Jim impressed, for Christ's sake. You can still enjoy work. If you don't love it, use your days off for once and find something you do."

She groaned, taking another swig from the bottle and then putting her head down on the table. "That's not the same, and you know it."

"Then grift! For fuck's sake, Lorna, you've convinced CEOs to hand you their companies, you can't convince them that your scar is exactly what they want in a woman? I highly doubt that." He shook his head, reaching out to grab the bottle.

She groaned again. She wasn't really surprised that he wasn't getting it, and even though she couldn't explain it to him she wished that he somehow understood. It wasn't about the job. Not anymore. Grifting was like slapping a band-aid on a third-degree burn. He, on the other hand, actually made a difference in her life.

He sighed. "Look, Jim is always telling us, right? Someone has to die first. Might be you, might be me. We both need to be ready for that. You'll be fine."

"Oh, shuttup," she muttered, reaching across the table without looking to poke his arm. "I do not have the self-control to pretend to be completely okay with this while drunk. Lemme sulk."

He snorted through his nose, but nodding a little and leaning back, taking another long pull of vodka. "Fine. I'll drop it."

"Thanks," she sighed, lifting her head and waiting for him to finish before taking the bottle to drink herself. "Christ, we need to get back to your place sometime soon."

He nodded. "High time we have a pleasant evening there," he agreed, fingers tracing absently over the words on his arm.

"No kidding. We haven't been since you lost your memory," she sighed, feeling distinctly melancholy about the whole thing. It would be good to just stop thinking about this shit, even for a little while. "Well, as you said, I have vacation time. When you find a good time for yourself, we can go."

He nodded a little. "Not now," he sighed. "I'm too on edge to enjoy anything."

"Yeah, I figured. Just tell me when, and I'll dump whatever little menial project they've given me while they figure out exactly where to put me," she shrugged, resting her cheek on her fist and considering what he'd said about grifting. Maybe, if she sifted through the marks right, she could find a few jobs for herself. Who knew how the department was getting on without her.

He nodded a little, standing and walking over to scoop her up into his arms. "That's enough vodka for now."

"You know, just saying that was probably enough to convince me," she muttered, though she didn't sound particularly unhappy about it. When she was drunk it was particularly pleasant to be carried places.

He hid a smile, walking into their bedroom and setting her down with a bounce on the mattress, flopping down next to her a moment later.

She curled into him without another word, burrowing into his side and then foggily drifting off to sleep, her worries too obscured by the drink to keep her awake any longer.

He woke in the middle of the night to Jim's voice over the intercom. "Moran. My office. Now."

He rolled out of bed a bit groggily, still slightly drunk, and started to get dressed quickly.

Lorna rolled over, groaning, one eye peeking open to glance at the clock. She groaned again. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep," he said quietly, buttoning his shirt and pulling on his shoulder holster and jacket.

"Mmph," was all that came out of her in return. She burrowed back into the pillows, and was back asleep in an instant.

Ten minutes later he was outside of Jim's door, taking a slow breath before knocking, a sinking feeling in his gut as to what this was about.

"Enter," Jim snapped, drumming his fingers on the desk, one of many indications of his current mood. He didn't even wait for Moran to shut the door behind him before he was speaking again, tension clear in his voice. "You wouldn't fucking believe who just called me. CALLED me. At this phone. Without going through any filters or extensions or secretaries. Care to take a guess who it was?"

"Not really, if you don't mind, sir," he said, keeping his voice level. "I'd rather be surprised."

"It was Mycroft Holmes," he said tersely, his jaw tight, eyes menacing. "Now, the only reason I didn't have you snatched in your sleep and stuffed in the basement to stew until morning is that his call was suspiciously lacking in details. Start explaining, if you know what's good for you."

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he considered the situation. When he started speaking, he met Jim's gaze. "About a week ago I received a text from Holmes- or, from an 'MH', but I made my guesses- requesting an overdue 'update'. I had no idea what he was talking about, but again, had my guesses. I held off, but finally responded asking for clarification, and was informed that I had supposedly been providing him information for an unspecified period of time. I have absolutely no memories pertaining to this, and find it unlikely, but given that my memory is so unreliable..." He fell silent.

Moran was telling the truth about that, at the very least. If he had been spying for Mycroft, he didn't remember it, as far as Jim could tell. And he doubted that even Sherlock Holmes matched him in reading skills. It was difficult to imagine that the man in front of him had been a traitor for who knew how many years, but it was more difficult to make it all add up. Why would Holmes give up a mole like this? Especially one so high up in the organization; in fact, the highest one could get, besides Jim himself. No, something here wasn't quite right. But throwing caution to the wind wasn't an option. He'd need to follow this through.

Jim let out a slow, quiet breath, tapping the pad of his finger silently on the top of his desk. "Here's what we're going to do, Moran, and I want you to listen carefully, because I have no intentions of repeating myself," he started, after a moment, dark brown eyes on Moran's clear blue ones. "You are going to 'flee' from me. You're going to run to Holmes, and you're going to ask for asylum. I have no doubt that he knows about your memory problems; do not try to hide them. Tell him that since I'm going after you and you can't even remember helping him, you assume you're his man. You'll be taking Harrison with you. She knows better than to run from me, or lie to me, and I need to keep tabs on you. Do fill her in on her mission. I would make you go tonight, but considering I see you were drinking I can assume she was drinking more." He paused for a moment, ran his hands through his slightly less-than-immaculate hair. "She can determine through your new coworkers whether or not they're familiar with you. If she can't, I'll have to take matters into my own hands."

He took a slow breath, surprised at the mercy but in no mood to complain. "Of course, sir. We'll get going first thing in the morning."

He nodded, eyes still on his right-hand man. Then, "I do so hope you weren't spying on me, Sebastian. That would be real shame. For you, particularly. You're dismissed."

He nodded a little, heading for the door without further comment and shutting it quietly behind him.

He wasn't dead. That was a miracle. He'd fully expected Moriarty to put him down like a dog.

Lorna shifted when he came back, squinting at the light from the living room. "Y'gonna tell me wha' that was 'bout?"

"Mycroft called Jim," he explained as nonchalantly as he could manage. "Told him I'd been spying for him but had stopped responding. Jim doesn't seem to believe him completely, seeing as I'm not dead."

"Christ," she muttered, running a hand sleepily over her face. "What's he going to do about it?"

"That's where it gets interesting," he sighed, stripping out of his clothes, intent on a few more hours sleep. "You and I are going to go running to Mycroft for help."

"Jesus," she groaned, pulling the covers up a little more, as if it would help the situation. "That's going to be a real interesting day. God. How many times have we ran into him, now? And it's gone horribly wrong? God."

He nods, crawling into bed. "I know," he sighs. "But it's grifting. You love grifting. Have fun."

She sighed too, then curled into him, deciding it was best not to worry about all of this until tomorrow.

"Stop sighing and get some more sleep," he muttered, rubbing the top of her head.

"You get some more sleep," she retorted, out of principle, but then quieted and relaxed a little more. Within the next few minutes she'd fallen back into a drink-heavy sleep.

He set an alarm for around eight, and allowed himself to drift off as well.