She didn't know how long exactly the ride took, but they ended up outside of a completely nondescript little cafe that looked like it had seen better times. Nowhere anyone would expect a Holmes to end up. Alright, there was a time where she could have seen Sherrinford in a place like this, but he was dead and gone, and she was wary about even thinking about their involvement in Mycroft's presence. She sighed, looking out the window at the dreary, flickering OPEN sign. "Let's go, I guess."
He nodded, piling out first and taking a look around before moving just enough to let her out, as well, keeping her shielded for the most part with his body and closing the door behind them. Then he headed towards the cafe, eyes and ears wide open.
She didn't miss him slipping into bodyguard mode, but considering the situation, she managed to quell even the urge to mentally roll her eyes. They reached the door without incident, and made it inside to a low ding from the door. Besides the ugly 90s decor, the first thing she noticed was that it was completely empty, save Mycroft, sitting alone at one of the tables, and a bored-looking employee with a dirty apron on. She gave Lorna a disinterested look and lifted a hand to look at her nails.
Moran walked over to stand across from Mycroft, pulling out a chair for Lorna before sitting himself, eyes shifting around the interior. "Do you always entertain with such extravagance, or are you buttering us up?"
"I thought it was best, considering the circumstances, to meet with you somewhere unlikely to be watched," Mycroft replied evenly, leant back in his chair, umbrella across his lap. "I thought that taking you to the Old Bailey for lunch only for you to be shot and killed would be rather redundant. But that's besides the point. Has your file satisfied your curiosity, or do you still have questions for me?"
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Mycroft's preening, but nodded a little at his question. "A few. My compensation outlined in the file... Was there any monetary or physical compensation, or was it solely what was outlined there?" He had no interest in getting into a discussion about the specifics of what was outlined in the file with Harrison there, and hoped Mycroft took the hint and didn't bring specifics up either.
His eyes moved to rest on Lorna briefly before returning to him, and he gave a slight nod. "Monetary. There's a fund for you in a bank account that you can draw from upon request. We thought it too big a risk to wire you any amount of money, through any amount of accounts. He is the most successful crime boss in the world, after all, if not the biggest. Best to play it safe."
"Excellent. I want the information about the account. As for my work, exactly how much information had I provided during my service to you?" he pressed. He was grateful for the other man's discretion. Grateful to Mycroft. Nauseating.
"It's hard to quantify data like that, Mr. Moran," he sighed, giving just the smallest shrug of his shoulders. "We added suitable amounts of money to the account when information was given. The specific account details I will have forwarded to you."
Lorna frowned, raising her eyebrows. "Why didn't you mark down specific dates, times, and services? You're the government, aren't you supposed to have bureaucracy shooting out of your asses?"
He gave her a mildly condescending smile. "No organization is completely infallible. What if we had a leak? It was best that incoming knowledge was scattered and compartmentalized."
He nodded. "I want a list of your best guess of the information I provided- one copy only, written on a typewriter- given to me within the next few days. I'll burn it afterwards, but I want to know what I provided. It could help me remember my service with you more. "
"That's reasonable," Mycroft agreed easily. "The sooner you can remember more of our work together the sooner we can put you to good use again. Any other requests?"
"One more," he said with a nod. "What exactly will that 'good use' be? It's not like I can go back to Moriarty. Even if I could convince him I wasn't working for you, he'd never trust me again. Not really."
"There are plenty of other fish in the sea, Mr. Moran. Plenty more mafias, plenty more terror organizations, plenty more targets for you to put out of commission. Your skills will not be put to waste. And when you want to retire, you'll be put into a Witness Protection Program. When I say good use I mean good use. You would be saving lives. Even though I know that doesn't particularly matter much to you," he chuckled, giving another small shrug. His attention shifted to Lorna. "The same goes for you, Ms. Harrison, by the way."
She gave a slight nod, biting the inside of her cheek.
"You know I hate the mushy stuff, Holmes," he said calmly. "You know exactly what my skillset and interests are. You can't tell me that the English government doesn't have a darker side. I'm staring at him. Keep that in mind when considering assignments, if you don't mind. If I have to get too many kittens out of trees I might get bored." He held Holmes' gaze for another moment, before nodding slightly. "Now, on a different note. We left in a bit of a hurry. We don't have any clothes or necessities."
He gave a short nod. "I know. I'm already addressing that. I only had to pass along your measurements and such to the right people." He flicked back his sleeve to check his watch. "Your care package should arrive within the next two hours, at the latest. And if anything is not to your liking, I've set aside a small stipend to be used on ordering whatever you need. Do try to limit it to needs. I think the national treasury is fragile enough without large quantities of money being spent on video game consoles and trampolines."
"Once you give me access to that account, I don't believe there will be too much of a problem, if I was working at anywhere near my usual contracting rates." He stood. "Besides, given the money that this country spends on funding Parliament's bureaucratic prattle, I think they could stand to buy a few trampolines for a change, don't you?"
He smirked. "Perhaps so, Mr. Moran, perhaps so. Now, unless you want to discuss the conditions of your payment as described in the file I gave you more thoroughly, or you have a question that simply cannot wait, I have one of those prattling, bureaucratic Parliament things to get to."
The threat was obvious, but he was used to threats and was unruffled. He gave his toothy grin, and stood. "I think that will be all. Enjoy your prattle."
"Thank you, I'm sure I will." He remained seated as Lorna got up next to Moran. "Behave yourselves."
"I'll try not to," Moran retorted with a smirk, heading for the door, Harrison close on his heels.
She let the door swing shut behind her, following him on autopilot, deep in thought. What had been promised to him as a reward for information? Or, if he was innocent (relatively) what had been put down in the file? Why wasn't he telling her?
He got her quickly into the car and sat next to her, leaning back in the seat with a sigh, though he wasn't relaxed. Wouldn't be anywhere close until they got back to the house, and even then...
She didn't say anything yet, didn't want to bring it up where the driver could hear them. Wasn't even sure if she wanted to risk it in the house. But it was going to kill her not to know.
The drive back was silent, and he had his eyes on the road, watching for any unusual turns, any tails. But they returned to the flat without incident. He got out of the car just as carefully as he had at the cafe, and got them both inside quickly, shutting the door behind them and locking it.
"So..." she started, once she'd toed off her shoes by the door. "Am I going to hear about what the two of you were dancing around in the cafe?"
"If you think for a moment I would ever dance with Mycroft Holmes, you don't know a thing about me," he snorted, smirking a little and kicking off his own shoes. "God, can you imagine that prat dancing? He probably discos or some shit."
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled a bit anyways. "Haha, very funny. But seriously, Sebastian. What are you not telling me, here?"
"Nothing," he said calmly, stretching out, his fingers almost brushing against the ceiling. "You know what I do."
"Yeah, I know what you do. But I don't know why you do it. I never have. Your motives have literally always been a mystery to me," she sighed, giving him a skeptical look. "But Christ, god knows if I try to push you into telling me it'll just end in tears, so.." she waved a hand in a vague motion and turned to walk into the other room, headed for the sofa. She'd find out some other way.
He watched her storm away, and sighed through his nose. He didn't feel like arguing, so he headed off to see if there were any decent books.
It was partway into thinking about ways to get a look at the folder that she had to stop herself for a moment; she'd just been thinking of him like a mark. Wearing him out and then sneaking away to gather information. What was wrong with her? Did she care that much? If she was going to be completely honest with herself - did she actually want to know what he had possibly betrayed her for? She sighed and got up off the couch to walk over to the liquor cabinet, pulling out the bottle of scotch they'd opened earlier. Absently, she thought that if she didn't get a change of clothes soon she was just going to walk around naked.
It was a half an hour later that he received a text from Holmes informing him that their 'care packages' were arriving, and five seconds later there was a knock on the door. He stood, checked the peephole, and let the two goons in. They were each carrying a large box, which they set in the hallway before turning to leave without a word.
She moseyed in from the living room, a glass of scotch in hand. "Oh, good. I was starting to get a little cold. I don't suppose they've marked whose is whose?"
"It will probably become obvious once we open the boxes. For instance-" He pulled off the lid of one box and dug around, before holding up a lacey bra. "Clearly mine," he deadpanned.
"I don't know, I think you need a smaller cup size," she smirked, stepping forward to pluck the bra from his grasp and drop it back into the box, then threw back the last bit of her scotch so she could set the glass on the floor and pick up the box. "I'm going to go pack this away. Who knows how long we'll be here."
"True," he sighed, picking up his own box and heading upstairs. "Could be a while."
She managed to get up the stairs without tripping or dropping the box despite her tipsiness, and following him into the bedroom, chuckling. "You know, I feel like we're at summer camp. A really strange summer camp. I mean, I assume, I've never been to one."
"I have. It was miserable until I realized the potential of being stuck in a room of boys looking for a leader," he chuckled, setting his box down and starting to pull out an array of suit shirts and a few jackets and trousers, along with some more casual wear.
She smirked, following his lead, though the clothes she pulled out were all distinctly different; whoever had been assigned to her had apparently decided that her taste in fashion was too wide to nail down, and had covered all angles of approach. "I can see you doing that almost effortlessly. Did you get the counselors under your thumb, too, or were they too wily?"
"Didn't have to," he said with a grin. "Saw the director watching some of the boys swim and took a wild guess, and got him to mess around with me my second week there. After that, I had the run of the camp. He kept the counselors in check because he was worried I'd tell someone he was into little boys."
"Are you sure you weren't meant to have my job?" she snorted, raising her eyebrows at him as she pulled out a slinky evening dress in one hand a flannel button-down shirt in the other.
"He was an incredibly easy mark, and I was exactly what he was looking for," he retorted with a smirk. "I later discovered I much preferred shooting people in the head."
"Everyone has their preference, I suppose," she shook her head, beginning to organize the odd arrangement of clothes so she'd be able to find what she was looking for later. "Though I always thought male grifters who swung both ways and all of 'em in between had it the best out of everybody. Way less likely to have disappointing sex."
"How's that? A mark's a mark, it's not like they get to choose, either," he pointed out, starting to hang shirts in the closet.
"I meant along the terms of getting to finish," she snorted, making an appreciate noise as she neared the bottom and came across a few pairs of shoes. "Hard to fake it, as I understand it."
"That's fair," he said with a nod, laughing a bit as he pulled out some clip-on ties. "I hope the idiots realize that these are almost as bad as real ones. Sure they come off, but then you've given your enemy something to choke you with."
"Oh, I like real ties. They're like handy little silk leashes," she hummed, starting to transfer the different sections of clothes into the dresser or closet, which fit best. "I mean, generally not my sort of thing, but everyone's got an exception."
"Being 'handy little silk leashes' is precisely why I hate them, but then, you and I have very different professions," he smirked.
"Oh, I wasn't thinking professionally," she laughed, tossing the empty box off into the corner to deal with later. "I don't need a leash in my profession. I have me."
"So is that a hint to start wearing ties in bed, then?" he asked with a smirk, pulling out a few sets of shoes and a stocked toiletry kit, along with a bottle of shampoo.
"Maybe for my birthday," she chuckled, "Otherwise, I'm good. My main mission is trying to find a way to make you putty in my hands."
"We'll see," he said with a small laugh.
The next week or so was incredibly dull. Mycroft said that he was working on a list of the information Moran had provided, but for the most part there was radio silence, and they spent their time watching telly, playing cards, and fucking. The last at least was entertaining.
The orders came as a bit of a surprise. There was no lead-up, just a text from Mycroft with the details. He read it over quietly, and swore under his breath.
You do realize I'm hiding from Moriarty, correct? Get someone else to spy on the bloody deal. SM
Of course I realize. But that has nothing to do with this. The fact is that I need this done and there's simply no one else to do it at the time required. Either way, I'm outside your door to discuss it. MH
"What the fuck-" he muttered, rubbing at his eyes for a moment with a sigh before glancing at the sleeping Lorna and rolling out of bed, getting dressed quietly and heading downstairs, checking the peephole before opening the door to let Holmes in. "Why the hell are you here?" he asked quietly. "It's almost 2 a.m."
"You answered the text, you were awake," he said in an unconcerned manner, stepping inside. "And besides, I was already down the street, working. I don't particularly like texting. Always prefer to speak face to face, or call, if that can't be achieved."
"Really gives your death sentences that personal touch," he shot back dryly. "Are you insane? If Moriarty's people catch wind of me, I'll be dead."
"The risk of being caught out is low. 23.5%, to be exact. And if that's not motivation enough, perhaps you'll find it upstairs," he said coldly, eyes moving to look at the stairs appraisingly. "Nothing you wouldn't do for her, is there? You betrayed Moriarty for her, after all."
Lorna didn't move from her spot just below the second-floor landing, hidden in the dark, listening to their conversation. In fact, she rather froze up.