The loud music came far sooner than he wanted it to, and he reached over to slam a hand down on the alarm clock with a soft groan before sitting up slowly.
She sighed, shifting as he sat up, trying to hold on to the last lingering seconds of the bliss of sleep before giving up and rolling onto her back. She sighed again, ran a hand down her face, then up through her hair. "I can't believe we're going to go find Mycroft Holmes today."
"And beg him for help. Don't forget that part," he said expressionlessly, pulling on his clothes from earlier and sitting on the bed to lace up his shoes. "It's going to be thrilling."
She groaned, sitting up unhappily. "Fuck, don't fucking remind me," she muttered, shifting to slide out of bed with a decidedly sullen air. "What do you think I should go for; desperate and slutty, or desperate in sweaters?"
"Do you think you can get a boner out of him? If so then do it, the less blood to his brain the better," he muttered, managing a small smirk. "If not then whatever you want. I don't care."
"Shit, I honestly don't know," she snorted, heading for the closet to start rifling through her dresses. "Is he even into women? Most of my experience with him has been me strapped to a table while he dropped flesh-eating beetles onto me; not a lot of time for seducing."
"Good question. Maybe I should go for desperate and slutty, too, just in case," he deadpanned. "We can pretend we were swimming. I think I might have a speedo somewhere."
"God, no, don't," she laughed, pulling out a sweater dress short enough to give her dead mother a heart attack. The best of both worlds, right? "It's guaranteed that you look way hotter naked than in one of those atrocities. Leave the 80's behind."
"Hey, who's giving the orders around here?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and smacking her arse lightly as he headed for the kitchen to make coffee.
"Jim, usually," she quipped, slipping the dress over her head as she followed him, fueled by the thought of caffeine and a small desire to return the smack, though when she reached the kitchen she kept her hands to herself; she wasn't going to get in his way when he was making coffee.
He leaned back against the counter as the machine started to drip, turning to look at her. "I could ask him to reconsider assigning you," he offered after a minute. "It's a stupid play and it's my fault he's doing it."
She sighed and shrugged. "What does it matter, really? If I don't go then I'll spend the whole time worrying about you. At least if I go with you I can keep an eye on you, right?"
"I don't need to be babysat," he muttered, but nodded just a little. "And if I do work for Mycroft? What then?"
She rubbed her eyes, letting out a long breath. "Then... I don't know."
He nodded just a little, reaching out to take the coffee as it brewed, pouring her a mug and passing it over wordlessly. It was a few minutes before he said, "I could fake my death. Go into the wind for a while."
"What would you do after? Settle down? You wouldn't be able to go back into crime, not while Jim was still alive," she murmured, taking a sip of the coffee and grimacing just a little as she burned her tongue.
"If I was really working for Mycroft, seems I wasn't too interested in staying in crime," he pointed out, pouring himself a mug and staring at it.
She snorted. "You fucking love killing people. Nobody can fake what you did to my father on the floor in the living room. Nobody can fabricate that look in your eyes. I don't know what you'd do with yourself if you couldn't have that anymore."
"I know," he said blankly, still considering the dark liquid. "But it's either that or he had my balls in a vice, and if that were the case he would have reminded me of his original bargain rather than going to Jim."
"He's just trying to fuck your life up. That's all this is. And I'll kill the son of a bitch that's been sharing secrets with him," she muttered, drinking from her coffee with a mild frown on her face. "I wonder how much he knows about your sister Sara. I know Jim left her alive. If it comes to it we might be able to maneuver her closer to Mycroft. I'd like us to have the mole, for once."
He hummed in agreement, finally taking a sip of coffee. "Not a terrible idea. I'll run it by Jim before we leave, let him start mulling the idea over."
She nodded, falling silent. The fact he could be a spy scared her; she knew she'd switch sides if it meant she didn't have to lose him. Christ, was she a sap.
He finished his coffee a little more slowly than usual, trying to delay the inevitable, but eventually there was nothing for it. He set his empty mug in the sink and headed back to the bedroom to grab his gun and jacket.
She didn't bother to follow him, only going to the living room and to the front door to grab a pair of sensible-but-cute boots and pull them on, then grabbed a knife from a shelf near her head (all his shelves were unbelievably high up for her) and gingerly slid it into the space between her calf and the boot. If she went completely unarmed it would seem out of character, after all. And whoever frisked her, as she had no doubts that they would be frisked, would get a nice eyeful on the way down. Scars or not, she still had curves in all the right places. However... "Fuck," she muttered, pulling the boots off and heading for the bedroom again, going to the dresser and digging around for tights. "Decided that it's a little nippy out for this much bare leg. I hate being cold."
He nodded just a little, checking himself in the mirror for a moment. Then, without warning, he pulled out his gun and fired three rounds into a stack of pillows and blankets on the bed.
"Christ!" She jumped, hard enough to rip a hole in the tights she was pulling up, then let out an exasperated breath and stood up straight, running a hand through her hair. "Little warning might have been nice."
"Sorry," he said, tucking the warm gun away. "Would you mind punching me in the face? Or should I go ask a goon to do it?"
"We're going to go see Holmes. I'd do it, but I don't doubt that he'd notice," she sighed, shrugging a little and turning for the door. She was going to miss this place. She had no idea how long they'd be gone but it had become a sort of home for her. "I think I might be good without any punches. Maybe I should get some bruising on my arms or something."
"Up to you," he said, heading out the door in search of one of his sparring partners. "Just don't oversell."
"I'm the fucking queen of subtlety!" she yelled after him, then shook her head and tugged her boots back on, biting down a swell of apprehension in her throat.
An hour later they met in the garage. He had a partially blackened eye and bruised cheek, along with some reddened knuckles. He nodded a bit at the grip and block marks on her arm, and pulled the door to the Mercedes. Fast but subtle. "Let's go, then."
She nodded, climbing into the passenger side, trying to slow her heart rate down to an acceptable level. This was not going to be a safe job.
He started the car, glancing over at her. "Strap in. I will not be driving slowly."
She did as she was told, buckling up with a satisfying click before she gave a short, tense nod, and grabbed the safety handle on the ceiling. "Drive."
She barely finished saying the word when he depressed the gas pedal, burning rubber for a moment before easing off just enough to gain traction and fly out of the garage like a bullet.
"We better hope your luck with avoiding police cars holds," she grunted, breathing through clenched teeth, jaw tight. She'd never liked roller coasters.
"Better hope," he grunted absently, attention on the road as he drifted around a corner and wove through traffic, heading for where Holmes had kept them locked up last time.
She only grew tenser as they neared their destination; he hadn't told her exactly where they were going, but once she started to recognize landmarks, she knew. "Why are we going there?"
"Where the fuck else are we supposed to go? I sent Holmes a text. He'll send someone to meet us." He blew through a yellow light and then slowed abruptly, merging into traffic as a police car turned onto the street up ahead.
"Christ, you're like superhuman..." she muttered, then sighed, leaning back in her seat a little. "Yeah, alright, you're right. I just fucking hate the place, is all."
"I couldn't agree more," he sighed, merging into a faster-moving lane and revving the engine impatiently. "In fact, I fucking hate everything about this mission. But here we are."
"Yeah," she muttered, swallowing as they turned onto the road that that place was on, trying to stop her stomach from turning. "God, I hope we make it out of this one."
"We'll be fine," he said, far more firmly than he felt as he pulled into the warehouse lot.
"I sure hope you're right," she murmured, eyes on the black, luxurious car that was already in the parking lot, idling. "Alright. Here goes."
He nodded, turning the car off and taking a breath before opening the door and standing slowly, completely alert in case this went south.
She got out just behind him, keeping the car door in front of her, one hand on the roof of the vehicle. Her gaze was fixed to the black car. "Did he say whether or not we were supposed to approach? I'd hate to get shot."
"We're to get in the car, according to his orders," Moran said, starting to walk forward slowly. "Stay in my shadow, please."
"Alright," she murmured, shutting the car door and slipping around to fall into step behind him, hands clenched into nervous fists at her side. She was scared. Genuinely, honestly scared. That didn't happen too often.
He could hear the tension in her stride, and was tempted to tell her to relax, but decided it made their story stronger if she was nervous. The door opened as they approached, and he nodded to the drivers as he climbed in. "Gentlemen."
Lorna didn't say anything as she slid in after him, purposely sticking obviously close to him. She wasn't acting - she was desperate for some shred of familiarity, but they needed to believe that she was here because she was too emotionally involved to stay behind. That she'd made an enemy of Jim, too. The man in the driver's seat only gave her a cursory glance before turning to the front again; the man in the passenger seat gave her a bit of a longer look, though she couldn't tell what was in his eyes. They'd been trained well. Better than some of the other goons they'd been treated with before; though she supposed that those were for the shadier deals, the more illegal happenings. The men in this car were likely highly paid for their manners and their overall invisibility. That was how she would run things, anyway.
Moran shifted a protective arm around her shoulders, tucking her close and saying nothing as the car pulled onto the street. The windows of the car were government-issue bulletproof glass, and he could see CCTV cameras turning to follow them as they drove. Definitely Mycroft, then.
She kept an eye out the window as the ride wore on, keeping note of turning points and street names. Not that it would really do all that much good, but it made her feel better, more in control. Where was he sending them? A safehouse, or a prison?
He also kept cursory track of where they were going, but his mind was more focused on other issues, such as what was going to happen when they got there. Grifting had never been his department. That was Lorna's. He was the man in the shadows with solid fists. But more and more often he'd been pushed into the light, and he was seriously beginning to dislike the change.
She was surprised to say the least when they rolled to a gentle stop in front of an old but well taken care of brick townhouse which looked so utterly ordinary she wasn't sure whether or not it was their destination until the man in the passenger seat turned around to look at them. "Go right in. Don't bother knocking. He knows you're here."
He nodded a little, and opened the door, stepping out and waiting for Lorna before shutting the door. "Ready for this?" he asked as they approached.
"No, not really," she murmured, eyeing the door apprehensively. She took a deep breath as they reached the stoop, then knocked anyway.
He rolled his eyes, not waiting for a response as he opened the door and entered, forcing himself to calm. He was supposed to believe that this house meant safety.
She entered timidly, like a cat slinking into an unfamiliar room, and it was a second before she could bring herself to follow him down the tastefully decorated corridor, boots clicking on the hardwood floor. The house was silent except for the sound of a tv playing down the hall - the news, she thought.
He headed for the television, and found their host standing near the window overlooking the street. He turned to look at them as they walked in, and smiled. "Good to see you again, Moran. And Ms. Harrison! What a pleasant bonus."
She gave a small, careful nod, keeping her eyes on Holmes' face so she didn't glance towards his hand. The one she'd stabbed. "I'm glad someone's pleased to see us," she muttered, worrying the hem of her dress. She let her gaze start wandering the room.
"Please, have a seat. You look like you've had a rough morning. Can I get either of you an ice pack?" he purred, motioning to the couch.
"We're fine, thank you," Moran said quietly. "There's been a few... complications."
"You could say that again," she muttered, running a hand through her hair, eyes starting to wander around the room. She was nervous as all hell, and there was no reason to bother hiding it. Mycroft's eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
"What sort of complications?"
"As I'm sure you know, I don't fully remember my service to you. I was still trying to sort out the details when Moriarty got tipped off as to my loyalties. Next thing I know, I'm top of his hit list." He shrugged. "We got out, but it was a mess. I'm compromised there."
"Yeah, and I'm sure I'm not exactly welcome to go back," she added under her breath, and Mycroft gave a slow sort of nod, eyes flicking over the two of them in an appraising manner.
"No, it's unlikely you are," he agreed, leaning his ever-present umbrella against the wall to slide his hands into his trouser pockets. "Which is why I'm willing to put our... past differences behind us."
Moran nodded. "Excellent. The perhaps you could explain to me what sort of arrangement we had, precisely?"
The corner of Holmes' mouth quirked up a fraction. "You've been giving me information on operations. Usually lower level things; information that could have been leaked by a person below you. I'm not sure how you were compromised. I'll have to comb through my own ranks."
Lorna took a long breath and moved to sink down into one of the chairs at the table, radiating exhaustion. "How long?"
"We were approaching two years of cooperation when you lost your memory," Mycroft said, a touch smugly. "We staged your kidnapping and torture to assuage any suspicion. It had worked perfectly."
The anger that appeared on Lorna's face was not entirely faked. "So help me god, Moran, if you fake broke out of HQ, went on a three-day heroin binge, and crawled pathetically back to my door after nearly killing me I'm going to burst a gasket."
Moran took a slow breath, trying to read Holmes for signs of deception. "I don't know," he sighed. "Everything is so confused... I don't know where I stand anymore."
Holmes gave them both a smirk this time. Lorna sagged in her seat. "I guess I don't want to know the details, do I?" she said quietly, biting her cheek, eyes on the table. Her stomach rolled at the idea that he could have been a traitor the pretty much entire time they'd really known each other. His smirk grew a little.
"No, I don't think you do."
Sebastian took a breath. "Is there somewhere that we can get some rest before you and I get down to the details about all this?" he asked Holmes.
"Here. We own most of the street - we'll spot anybody suspicious headed for you. Think of the place as yours until we can find some better arrangements," he said smoothly. Lorna took a deep breath.
"This is not the time off I was proposing."
"No, but here we are," Sebastian said, standing and offering her a hand up, looking over at Holmes. "Thank you for giving us protection. If you have any documentation of my work I'd like to see it... this is a big suggestion to swallow, especially when my memory is uncertain..." The politeness felt wrong, but for all he knew it was deserved.
"Of course," Mycroft agreed, with a gracious nod. "I'll have somebody bring the file to you. And I'll have one drawn up for Ms. Harrison." He retrieved his umbrella where it leaned against the wall, giving the two of them a rather bland smile. "Now I have a meeting to catch. I'll have a couple of mobiles brought with the file; call me when you're feeling up for a chat."
Moran nodded, not sure how to respond to that. It resembled an order, but he wouldn't take it as one, not yet. He helped Harrison up and watched as Mycroft left, before turning to look at the rest of the room, starting to hunt for the cameras that he was sure were there.
Lorna stayed by the table, half leaning back on it, trying to keep herself from just melting down onto the floor in shock, which just now seemed to be catching up to her. "I can't believe we're here. Why am I not in prison? I've done so much illegal shit. I've gotta be facing, what, like three lifetimes by now? Christ."
"He needs us," he said calmly, tracing his eyes over the room and beginning to check lamps and trinkets. "He doesn't care about justice, he cares about power. We're power. He respects that."
"I suppose that's where he differs from Sherlock. I wonder what he'd think of this," she murmured, turning around and walking into the open-layout kitchen, beginning to shuffle through the cabinets a little absently, in an effort to help him. "I wonder how this place's water pressure is..."
"Probably pretty good. I have little doubt that most things in this place are pretty good, if not better," he sighed, finding a bug under a lampshade. "No matter who I work for, I don't appreciate being spied on, Mycroft," he said dryly. "And tell your techs to get some creativity." He snapped the wire.
"Another under the sink. Naughty, naughty," she snorted, ripping it out and dropping it down the drain. "Not that I'm not used to being watched in some way or another, but I do value my privacy. Ugh, god. It just hit me that I might not see your other flat again. That's heartbreaking."
He sighed and nodded. "If it turns out we can't go back there, I'll start over somewhere else. You can give input. It'll be fun."
"Oh, I don't know if that's such a good idea," she chuckled, brushing her hand through her hair. "My taste in clothing is cultured. I'm pretty good at wine and food. But I don't know the first thing about interior design. I might ask for a sex swing or something. And that conflicts with a new good-girl image, doesn't it."
"There was a new good-girl image? When the hell did that happen?" he snorted, looking over the bookshelf carefully.
"Now, I suppose," she snorted, finishing her kitchen search and straightening up, her hands going to her hips as she appraised the room. "I don't know. This is all new to me."
"I am sure that Mycroft's people still have sex. Mycroft himself is not something I want to think about. If we turn out to be Mycroft's people, I am almost positive a vow of chastity will not be in the contract."
"God, I hope not. I might cry," she shook her head, walking over to flop down on the couch. She would help search upstairs when he started heading for the stairs. "I'll start drinking way too much to overcompensate."
He sighed, opening one of the books and crushing a small camera before walking over to sit next to her. "Everything's going to be fine, alright? We'll be okay."
"A couple of years ago you would have told me to stop whining or you'd kill me. I guess we can adjust to just about anything," she snorted, shaking her head. She smirked. "I know we'll be alright. At least, the reasonable part of me does. Thanks, though."
He shrugged. He'd been different, he knew, since he'd lost his memory. Not with everyone else, but with her. She'd been too instrumental to his sanity. Being cold to her felt unnatural. "Do you think I was a traitor? How does Holmes read?"
"I don't know," she sighed, shrugging just a little. It was difficult for her to read people like that. She wasn't a gifted reader, like Sherlock Holmes or Jim Moriarty, but she had a good intuition, and a strong, motivating sense of survival. But that kind of reading worked best on your normal, run-of-the-mill person. "He's the kind of person who could put down three layers of bluff, but even if you get through those you don't know if it's the truth or not. My gut says that you're not a traitor, that the file he'll bring us is days or even hours old. But there's no way for me to prove it. We're going to have to do some more digging. I'm going to need to talk to some more of his employees, and see if any of them are lying about knowing you. But I just don't know."
He sighed through his nose, leaning back against the couch, and nodded just a little. He reached out, shifting an arm around her shoulders. "Fuck it. Nothing we can do about it now."
"Yeah," she sighed, leaning against him. "We'll be alright. I wonder if they stocked this place up with liquor..."
"Let's find out," he said, standing and starting to look around.
"Yes, please," she sighed, getting up and following him with a long sigh.