I'll keep quiet
You won't even know I'm here
You won't suspect a thing
You won't see me in the mirror
But I crept into your heart
You can't make me disappear
'Til I make you

- Digital Dagger - The Devil Within (Piano) -

She woke up again and didn't feel any better, but she hadn't expected to. There was always some irritating bug from traveling, ready to be picked up. She didn't move, just waiting for Sebastian to wake up.

He did a few minutes later, and registered the change in her breathing. He opened his eyes and glanced at the clock. Just past seven in the morning. "Bloody disorienting, being underground like this," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes and sitting up a little. He glanced her way. "How are you feeling?"

"No better, but that's about what I expected," she murmured, shrugging a little. "Not a big deal. You can just make me soup or something. Canned is fine, though. Harder for you to poison."

"How does that make it harder to poison?" he asked incredulously. "We need to work on your idea of security if you think canned soup is harder to poison." He stretched and rolled out of bed, scratching his head a little and heading for the kitchen. "What kind of soup?"

"I'd be suspicious if you put something in my canned soup. Not so much if you were cooking," she refuted, getting sluggishly out of bed and following him. "And chicken is good."

"That's assuming you're watching the whole time," he shot back. "It might be marginally more difficult, but hardly worth noting."

"Leave me alone, I'm sick," she protested, looking at him resentfully as she passed the kitchen and went to collapse on the couch.

"Alright, fine," he snorted, finding a can of chicken noodle soup and opening it and pouring it into a bowl, then putting it in the microwave.

She fell into silence, closing her eyes again. She felt drained, weak, like she hadn't eaten in awhile. But she wasn't particularly hungry.

He came over a few minutes later with the bowl of soup and a spoon. "Poison free, I promise," he said with a small smile.

"Thank you," she said softly, eyes open, and took it from him, lifting up her knees so she could rest the bowl on top. She began eating, movements slow.

He watched her quietly, a hint of concern around his eyes. "Need anything else...?"

"I don't know," she sighed, about halfway through her soup. "I think I'm okay for now. Do you have to work today?"

He nodded. "I need to at least make an appearance," he sighed. "Meet this... woman. But I won't be gone long."

"Okay," she murmured. "Good. I don't want to have to threaten her for taking up too much of your time."

He smirked. "Jim told you to leave me alone anyway," he reminded her. "Get some sleep. Call me if you need me."

"Yeah, alright," she rolled her eyes a little, finishing up her soup and bending to put it on the floor by the couch, then became more horizontal on the sofa, already tired from her brief sitting up. Ugh, was this the flu?

He left quietly, dimming the lights behind him and closing the door softly. Then he headed off to find his new handler.

Freddie Wilkins was in the staff lounge, sitting at the community dining table and drinking a slightly stale cup of coffee over the newspaper. She looked tired, and was. She'd stayed up too late with her work the previous night. She wished it had been partying.

He walked over to her table, eyeing her up and down quietly. "Wilkins. Stand up."

Her brown eyes looked up without her head moving, emotionless. "No."

He nodded slightly at that, before reaching out and grabbing her collar, hauling her up of her chair to foot level and letting go, leaving her the choice of standing or dropping on her ass.

She landed on her feet and immediately leaned back to kick him in the chest, moving him away from her, and the next second she had her gun on him. "Moran, at the moment I control you. Lay your hands on me again and I will shoot you."

He stepped back to cushion the blow, unconcerned, and considered the gun with amusement. "Go ahead. Shoot me. I'll laugh from hell while Moriarty dismembers you." He made a carry on with it motion.

She lowered the gun from his head to his leg, shifted out, and fired, the bullet just barely grazing his thigh before making a hole in the floor. "Test me again."

He flinched, but that was all, before he took two steps forward, until her gun was almost pressing into his skin. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, for her ears alone. "Let me make something very clear. When James Moriarty believed I was dead, he put the safety of the network at risk in order to pursue my killers. He overturned heaven and earth to find them, and when they came knocking on his front door, he let them in, so that we could fuck them more thoroughly. So now that he has me back, you ask yourself- do you really want to put yourself in his sights next? You have two choices. You accept that I am in control of our working relationship- no matter what it says on the tin- and you agree to do what I say, or you shoot me. Make your choice. I don't have all day." Then he reached up, flicked her nose, and smirked, waiting.

She grit her teeth, looking for a leg up, a way to win. She couldn't threaten Harrison unless she wanted Armetti to take a finger from her, and she didn't want that, no matter the ideas of her colleagues. She took a slow breath. "Remind yourself that I control your future. I'm supposed to watch for treason. You don't want my vision to be clouded by anger."

His smirk widened at that, and he nodded in approval. "Good approach," he said with another nod, not backing down. She hadn't shot him. That was a victory. "And reasonable. So let's put it this way instead. If I am reported to be a traitor, what happens? Moriarty has me executed. Then he either takes back the network and leaves your branch here to wallow in its obscurity, or he doesn't, in which case either wallowing or execution, depending on how interested Ines is in finding you." He tilted his head, relaxed. "And if you suspect me of being a traitor, then that is exactly what you should do. However. If I come up clean, then what happens? Either Jim fails to take the network back- obscurity and execution again- or we do take it back. At which point, the second in command of our great criminal network knows your name. Maybe even thinks you're worth something, if you took the time to prove that to him. And who knows where that puts you. So again. It's up to you."

"You can't buy me with promises of power, Moran," Wilkins said archly, her hand still tight on the gun. She was seriously considering lifting it up just to fire it right next to his ear, out of spite. "I will act how I will act, and you need to deal with it."

"I'm not trying to buy you," he said, shaking his head. "What I just said will be true, regardless of your actions. That's the way of life. I was just reminding you to consider it. As well as the fact that, like it or not, I outrank you. You're here to babysit, and that's fine. Watch closely. Look for me to act a traitor. I encourage it. But I'm in charge, and unless it violates Moriarty's orders, you will do what I say. Understood?"

She fumed in silence for a moment, stubborn and unwilling to admit defeat aloud, and then she holstered her gun again. It was the only admittance he would get out of her.

He nodded slightly at that, stepping away to a reasonable distance. "To work, then." With that, he headed for the hall.

A few days later, and Lorna discovered while Sebastian was at work that she could no longer keep any food down. When she heard the door, she was on her knees in front of the toilet, sweating and haggard, her head aching and her stomach roiling.

He came in a few seconds later, following the groans, and knelt quickly. "Hey. What's going on?" he asked quietly, eyes evaluating as he quickly took her pulse.

"I've been throwing up off and on for like, four hours," she said hoarsely, her eyes shut, elbow propped on the toilet seat. "Started the second I tried eating breakfast."

He frowned, reaching out to press a hand against her skin. "You're a little warm... I'm taking you to the infirmary, just to check in. It could be a bug, but I don't want to chance it being something worse." He scooped her into his arms and stood, gritting his teeth as his leg protested. Wilkins' shot had been that of an expert, and though he hadn't shown it around her, the graze had been enough to slow him down a little. He was getting old. He headed for the medical center.

She didn't argue; she was dehydrated, and weak, and she didn't enjoy feeling that way. Her dignity could survive a trip through the halls carried in his arms. "This might be one of the few times in my life I haven't protested going to the infirmary," she muttered to him as they stepped into the elevator.

"Yes. Which is half the reason we're going." He shifted her enough to punch the button for the elevator. "I don't recall giving you permission to get sick."

"Oh, I gotta fill out a form now? When was that memo?" She mumbled, giving him a bit of a look. "I didn't ask to get sick."

"I know," he sighed, stepping out of the elevator once the doors opened and heading swiftly for the infirmary entrance. "Just relax. You're fine."

He walked past the front desk, calling to the nurse on duty, who quickly rose to lead them to a back room. He set her gently on the cot, then stepped back, watching carefully as the nurse got to work taking preliminary readings like temperature and asking quiet questions.

The nurse frowned a little as he took her temperature. "You said you've been throwing up?" He asked, looking down at the thermometer reading.

"Yeah."

"You've also got a low-grade fever. If you start experiencing any other symptoms, alert someone immediately. It could just be your average flu, but it could also be a multitude of other things. We'll run some tests after we get some fluids into you."

He watched quietly as they hooked her up with a hydration IV, personally checking everything before they injected it, much to the annoyance of the nurse.

She was silent for a minute while she was fussed over, and then lurched, jerking over the side of the bed to grab the trash can, which she dry heaved into.

He stepped forward, brushing the nurse aside. One arm slid around her shoulders, supporting her. His other hand pushed her hair gently to the side, holding it out of the way. He waited until she drooped, exhausted, in his arms, and eased her gently back onto the bed, setting the trashcan back in place.

She felt and probably looked awful, paler than usual and just a little sweaty. The nurse looked vaguely sympathetic but mostly seemed to be going over a list in his head. Lorna had done her best not to Web M.D. her symptoms, and this guy wasn't making her feel any safer.

The nurse muttered something about 'waiting out the hydration' and took his leave. Moran grabbed a chair once he left and sat, eyeing her up and down slowly.

"Jim's not going to be pleased," she muttered a few minutes later, after she'd spent some time looking around the room. Typical infirmary, besides the sky blue walls.

"Jim can stuff it," he retorted, reaching out to absently take her hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Really gross," she replied, sighing. "Awful, mostly. Can you smother me a little so I just can go to sleep?"

"Sorry. Given my current precarious security clearance, I have a strict no-smothering policy." He gave a wan smile.

"What use are you then," she joked, though without much energy. "God, I'm tired. And I ache. Not sure if it's just from throwing up, though."

"Try to get some sleep," he suggested. "The hydration is going to help."

"Yeah, okay," she murmured, letting her eyes shut with a small sigh. She wanted to be in bed with him, but holding his hand would do.

She was restless for a while, but eventually she relaxed and drifted off, her hand going slack in his. He let it go and sat back, considering her quietly.

She's fine. Just the flu.

But his gut was telling him something wasn't right.

A few hours later, the nurse came back in to take blood, and looked to Sebastian for permission to wake her up. "She should be hydrated enough to run some tests. Would you like to wake her, or should I?"

Despite his desire to be the one to wake her, he wasn't going to show more weakness than he had to here. He just nodded his permission to the nurse. "Go ahead."

The nurse nodded and stepped past the sniper with the look of someone very reluctant to be putting his back to someone this dangerous, and gently touched Harrison's shoulder. She stirred, somewhat unhappily, and squinted her eyes open. "Blood work," he said, holding up the vial in his hand. She begrudgingly held out her arm.

The next few hours blurred together lazily. Test after test, and no results, good or bad, despite Moran's increased irritation. He heard "We're running a second check" and "These things take time" one too many times, barely resisting the urge to hurl a doctor through the glass window of the room. He restrained himself, barely, for his shaky reputation's sake, pacing when Lorna slept, and sitting beside her when she was awake.

The lack of any conclusive test was starting to worry her. She wasn't afraid of dying, but dying by some unknown disease? That was unpleasant. Another hour, another test coming back, this time declaring her free of meningitis, which was nice, at least. She looked at Sebastian and sighed. "What the fuck is going on with this, Seb?"

"Hell if I know," he snarled blackly, before glancing at her guiltily and softening his tone slightly. "No one's telling me anything, and I can't tell if it's because they don't know, or I don't have clearance." He reached out for his coffee, taking a sip. He'd been awake for twenty-two hours at this point. A little caffeine was welcome.

"They would tell me. Or they would tell Jim, and Jim would tell us. I don't think they know," she shook her head, eyes on the door, concerned. "That's not a good sign."

He shrugged. "It could be any one of a dozen things. Including a bad test. You're fine." He gave her a smile. "Just got some weird virus. Give it a day. You'll be fine."

"I hope so," she sighed, squeezing his hand a little. "Have you slept at all?"

He shook his head. "I will if I get tired. You worry about you." He sighed. "Speaking of Jim, I should fill him in."

"Yeah, you should. Though I can't imagine he hasn't found out by now," she replied, lifting her free hand to rub the dark circles under her eyes.

"I know. But he'll be expecting a report. I'll go the next time you sleep." He reached out to grip her hand.

"You can go now, it's alright. I can spend half an hour alone," she smiled weakly. "There are other people here, if I start to feel too alone."

He shifted slightly, glancing at the door, then sighed. "I need twenty minutes. Don't let them give you anything until I get back," he said firmly.

She raised up her hands a little. "I won't, I won't. If it makes you feel better you can summon Vince and he'll watch over me."

"Oh, yes, that will make me feel much better," he snorted. "I'll be back." He stood, heading for the door, and then the elevator.

She sighed and shut her eyes, deciding to try and rest while he was gone, though she knew she wouldn't fall asleep.

Two minutes later he was outside Jim's office. He glanced over himself, straightening his slightly rumpled shirt, and then knocked.

"Come in," he said, looking up from the documents on his desk. He knew that knock. What was with Moran, that he would risk coming without being summoned?

He stepped in, closing the door behind him and looking at the man behind the desk. It grated on him more than he wanted to admit that there was such a cool look in his employer's gaze. For almost a decade he'd given Jim everything he had, and now he was reduced to the level of the rest of the scum of the earth. "Sorry to bother you, sir. I just wanted to give you an update on Harrison."

"An update on Harrison? Why, is she incapable of speaking for herself?" He snorted, raising his eyebrows.

He straightened slightly, eyeing the other man. Odd. He genuinely didn't seem to know. It appeared no one had bothered to inform him. He was torn between being pleased that the system was flagging without his input, and apprehensive what was likely to be a displeased reaction on Jim's part regarding this lapse. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought you would have been informed. Harrison is in the infirmary with the symptoms of a rather aggressive flu. So far all tests have come up negative."

Jim froze for a second, jaw tightening, and then he picked up the glass of water on his desk and hurled it against the closest wall, silent except for the shattering of glass. "And why the hell does the infirmary here think they're a regular fucking pediatric office? I wasn't informed. Inform them patient privacy is a children's tale I will read to their offspring if they do not do their fucking jobs. " His hands clenched into fists for a second and then he laid them flat on the table, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "And how sick is she?"

He watched the display, cautiously impassive. "By all appearances, she isn't good, sir, he said quietly, once Jim relaxed slightly. "Again, no tests are giving positive results, so they aren't sure, but..." He sighed and shrugged. "I don't know, sir. I have a bad feeling."

He lifted a hand to rub at his eyes. "Jesus Fucking Christ. This is bad timing. Tell Armetti to get a specialist in here. I need this solved as soon as possible."

He nodded his quiet agreement. "Of course, sir. Right away." Then he hesitated, uncertain. On the one hand, he didn't want to highlight how he benefitted from this situation. On the other hand... Jim might need him. "If you end up needing a hand, sir... Let me know. I'll comply with whatever additional security measures you see fit."

He was silent for a moment, forehead resting on his fingertips, considering. Moran wasn't Armetti; he couldn't be trusted solely on the basis that he would never betray Harrison. But he was close. "I will contact you, if I need your assistance. Be on alert for it."

He nodded, firing off a casual salute. "If that's all, sir?"

"That's all. You may go. Oh, and Moran," he added, picking up the documents, "I will be done with my review in a few more weeks. So you know the timeline."

He narrowly avoided a heavy sigh. "Thank you, sir." He left quietly, and headed back for the elevator.

Lorna, meanwhile, was steadily trying to ignore Vince, who had appeared a few minutes ago and was arguing with a doctor in the corner. She was relieved when the argument traveled outside.

Armetti was in the lobby when Moran entered the infirmary, arguing with a doctor, and he hid a smile, relishing the opportunity that this presented.

"Vince! I wanted to congratulate you," he said cheerily. "And you as well, Dr. Hertz."

The doctor was wary, but Armetti was impatient. "What could you possibly want to congratulate me on, Moran?" He snapped.

"You've both reached record levels of incompetence," he thrilled, clapping them each on the shoulder a bit roughly. "Moriarty was positively elated at your staff's decision not to inform him about the condition of his second in command. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if he rewarded you both personally."

"Fuck off, Moran," he growled, "Now is not the time for this. Ream me after she's on her feet again."

"No, Vince, actually, why don't you fuck off? Moriarty wants you to bring in a specialist immediately. I wouldn't delay. Something's put him in a bit of an off mood." He brushed past them without another word, heading for Lorna's room.

Lorna opened her eyes as he entered, looking slightly relieved to see him. "Thank god. I thought you were Vince."

He smirked. "No, he's skulking off with his tail between his legs," he smirked, sitting down in his chair beside her bed.

"Oh yeah? Why's that? You get to yell at him for something?" She snorted, quirking an eyebrow at him.

He gave the flicker of a smile. "No one informed Jim you were ill," he relayed calmly.

"Oh god," she muttered, rubbing her forehead. "This network is a mess."

He snorted in agreement. "But it gave me a good excuse to rip Armetti a new one, so there are upsides." His expression sobered. "They're bringing in a specialist."

"A specialist in what? Negative-testing cases? I mean, lord," she muttered, waving her hand a little.

He snorted. "Difficult cases, sure. Bloodwork. Or viruses. I don't fucking know. That's Armetti's job, and God help him if he doesn't do it well." He rubbed at his eyes. He needed more coffee.

She looked over at him, frowning slightly. "You ought to get some sleep, Sebastian. The lack of sleep is starting to show."

He sighed, considering her, then shifted in his chair, leaning his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes. "Wake me if anything seems off or the specialist gets here. Or if they want to run another test, or give you something."

"If anyone even sneezes, I'll wake you up, don't worry. Not that I think you'll sleep through that, but," she smirked, giving a tiny lift of her shoulders.

He flipped her the bird lazily, and shifted a few more times until he found relative comfort for his large frame in the comparatively tiny chair. Two minutes later, he was asleep.

The next time a nurse came in for testing, she shook her head, pointing at the dozing Moran, and the woman beat a hasty retreat. She managed to get him about three and a half hours sleep before she had to say his name. "Sebastian. The specialist is in the building."

He woke slowly, for once, dragging himself to consciousness, allowing himself that luxury because there was no hint of danger in her voice. He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the harsh hospital lighting.

"Okay," he said quietly, sitting up and stretching out a little, his back cracking. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

She shrugged a little. "I dry heaved a few times into the trash can, so the same. At least I'm not dehydrated anymore."

He looked her over carefully, but then nodded his satisfaction. "Good. This specialist passed security? Who ran background checks?" He stood.

"I don't know, Wilkins, I guess. Probably someone already in our registry. I'm sure no one will stop you if you double-check it," she said, looking towards the door.

He sighed, and then stood, nodding. "Be right back," he said, walking out into the hall and looking around for the specialist with eyes slightly bloodshot with weariness.

The specialist was talking to the doctor that had been running the majority of Lorna's tests. He was an unusual looking doctor - he was tall and physically fit, in his mid-fifties, and cut a broader, more imposing figure than most doctors. Of course, anybody with any common sense, no matter how big they were, looked up when Sebastian Moran entered a hallway. The doctor cut off as the specialist left him behind and moved to meet Moran. "Mr. Moran, correct? It's my understanding you're watching over my patient."

Moran gave a cold, toothy grin, extending a hand and only responding when he had the man's fingers in his steely grip. "I think you'll find," he said, applying firm pressure, "That you're treating my charge. And you are?"

For such a physically imposing person, he looked surprisingly cowed. "Apologies, Mr. Moran. My name is Phillip Shelby. I'm a specialist in identifying diseases."

He nodded, releasing the man's hand and relaxing slightly. "Someone get me the security evaluations on Dr. Shelby," he said, without breaking eye contact with the man. "Meanwhile, you can evaluate the tests that have already been completed, the data we have so far, and familiarize yourself with the situation. If you pass my evaluation, I'll allow you access to Harrison."

Someone to the side of Moran scurried off in a hurry. Shelby, on the other hand, looked just a little bit surprised at the level of caution that was being applied, but nodded. "Of course. I'll start immediately."

He let the man be led away, and took the security evaluation as it was handed to him, glancing through it for discrepancies or errors.

Ten minutes later, he was satisfied, and sent for Shelby. "I'm satisfied, doctor. This way."

The doctor nodded, Harrison's file in his hand, and followed. "Glad to hear it, Mr. Moran. I've read over some of what is here, and you'll be pleased to know that at the very least we can begin to rule things out."

"Excellent. What sort of things?" he asked, pausing outside of Harrison's door.

"Poison, first of all. Too many antibodies in the blood, for instance, and she's testing negative for arsenic, cyanide, the usual suspects. If someone had tried to kill her through botulinum toxin she would probably be dead already, or partially paralyzed, so that's not it either. There are a couple minor diseases we can knock off the list just by the symptoms, but, ideally, I want an MRI. At the very least, I want X-Rays done, and immediately. I want to make sure there are no foreign bodies or unusual swelling," the doctor listed off, incredibly business-like. He had worked with this organization many times over the years. Business-like was safe.

He nodded, motioning to a nurse who was standing nearby and dispatching him to get the technicians for both machines prepped. Then he opened the door, and lead the doctor inside.

Shelby walked over to Harrison, giving her a professional smile. "Ms. Harrison. My name is doctor Phillip Shelby. I'm a disease specialist, I'll be evaluating you to see if we can't find out what's bothering you."

"Fantastic," Lorna said hoarsely, not much in the mood for bedside manner. "Do whatever the fuck you need to do to get me to stop fucking vomiting."

He nodded, glancing at Moran. "How soon can I get those scans?"

"X-ray should be ready now. MRI within the hour." He walked out and spoke to a nurse, never letting Shelby fully out of his sight. A moment later two nurses entered with a gurney, transferring Lorna carefully under Moran's hawkish gaze.

"Well, this is all slightly embarrassing," Lorna muttered as she was passed from one cot to the other, and Shelby gave a sympathetic smile.

The X-ray process itself was annoyingly tedious, but she suffered through the various different poses and lead blankets for fifteen minutes, and then she was wheeled out again. It was another five before Dr. Shelby returned to the hospital room, x-rays in hand. He looked slightly... put off.

"Alright," he said while setting up the x-ray viewing light on the wall. He was smiling again, with the look of someone who didn't really feel like smiling but knew it was polite. The first x-ray he put up was a shot of her chest. There were the normal bones and dark shapes of her lungs and heart, and she couldn't discern anything else.

The doctor, however, pulled a pen out of his pocket and pointed to a small, paler spot, right up near her heart. "I don't know what this is," he said frankly, looking back at them, pen on the x-ray. "It shouldn't be there. My first thought would be a tumor, a cancerous growth, maybe, but considering the symptoms, the size of the foreign object, and sudden appearance of the symptoms, I don't think that's what it is. Have you undergone any surgeries recently that could explain for this?"

Moran went cold as he studied the image. His fist opened and closed a few times, and he took a slow breath, thinking. How many times had she been under Mycroft's knife? He'd known then that there was a chance that something had gone in, but he'd never checked.

Idiot.

You aren't sure yet.

He took a slow breath before he spoke.

"It's... possible. Do you have any other explanations?"

"There's a slim chance that this could be a congenital defect of some kind, but without previous medical records I can't say. The fact is, it's unlikely," he said, putting the pen back into his pocket. "And if it isn't what's causing her symptoms, we'll need to keep looking. I'm starting to widen the scope. Considering very rare diseases, genetic testing, even radiation screening. What countries have you visited recently, if any?"

Lorna rubbed her eyes, trying to process how she felt about all this, and sighed. "India. Otherwise, I've been in London." Locked up with rabid animals.

Moran was quiet for a moment, then turned to Harrison, waving Shelby off. The man faltered, confused, before the sniper turned and snarled "Go!"

He left.

Moran turned back to Harrison once the door closed. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking Mycroft bioengineered a disease, put it in a time capsule, and now I'm going to die very unpleasantly," she said calmly, looking up at him, her face weary. "What are you thinking?"

He was silent for a moment, before he sighed, sinking into the chair slowly. "I think you're right," he said quietly. He interlaced his fingers, looking at his hands. They were white-knuckled with tension.

She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. She couldn't figure out how she felt about this. She wasn't worried about dying, that had never scared her. But this wasn't a bullet to the head. She didn't know how much worse this could get.

Her stomach twisted suddenly. "Seb..." she said, her throat closing up. Her grey eyes were on him again. "Jim was under the knife, too."

The thought had already occurred to him. He was fairly certain he'd actually fracture one of his own knuckles, his grip was so tight. "I know," he said softly, tiredly, the tone at odds with the tension in his body. He looked up at her after a moment. He had failed. He had one purpose in life, and he had failed. He stood suddenly. "I need to get him down here for evaluation. Then we'll know."

"Okay," she said, slightly unhappy. She knew it was necessary, but him leaving her side right now was hard to bear. How much time did she have with him? "Hurry back, please."

He gave her a look that suggested he doubted her sanity for thinking that he would do otherwise, and headed out of the clinic. He was in the elevator two minutes later, heading up, contemplating how best to address the situation. Finally, however, he was out of time. He knocked on Jim's door firmly, and waited.

Jim was not expecting another interruption, so he was slightly irritated. "What?"

He walked in, letting just enough tension show through for the reader to immediately pick up the urgency of the situation. "Sir, I need you down in medical immediately to run some tests. I'll explain en route."

The tension was rolling off the sniper in waves, in a way that made him sit up straighter in mild alarm. He hadn't seen Moran looking this way, outside of a deadly situation, for years. He stood. "Begin immediately," he said, voice sharp as he rounded the desk.

"X-rays revealed what appears to be a foreign mass near Harrison's heart," he started as they headed for the elevator. "The specialist we brought in believes it to be surgically implanted. My- and Harrison's- immediate thought was Mycroft."

Jim dragged a hand over his face, and then raked it through his hair. "Fuck," he said simply, as they reached the lift. "I was under the knife less than she was, but even once could have been enough. Fuck."

"Hence my desire to get x-rays of your chest as quickly as possible," he said, stepping in and jamming the button for the infirmary floor. "You haven't exhibited symptoms yet. We may have a leg up if you do have something."

"Perhaps. Depends how hard it is to cure," Jim said grimly, his hands in his trousers pockets. "Has Harrison been deteriorating?"

He hesitated, evaluating his response. "She hasn't been improving, but deteriorating is too strong a word. She's..." he sighed. "I don't know, sir. If I'm being honest, this is beyond my ability to accurately evaluate, and the specialist is still working. I haven't mentioned Holmes yet. I wanted to get your approval first."

"Don't mention him by name. Tell him the circumstances, otherwise. The better informed he is the better he can make sure Holmes doesn't kill us both without even lifting a finger," he said sourly as the doors opened, and he stepped out. The people around them moved away, like there was an air buffer in between them.

Moran nodded, already motioning one of the nurses forward and snapping crisp orders to prepare the x-ray techs once more, and to inform Shelby that Moran and Moriarty were waiting in the small consultation office 'at his leisure'. This was said with a slightly dangerous tone, and the man scurried off. Moran led the way to the office, holding the door for Jim. "It will be a few minutes before they're ready with the x-ray machine."

Jim nodded, moving to sink into one of the chairs in front of the desk, eyes skimming over the contents of the office, face bored. He was anything but. A capsule planted inside his body, waiting to go off any moment. He was literally a time bomb. What were the chances that whatever had been implanted was contagious? Slim, but possible. "Moran, I want quarantine protocols enacted on anyone who has come into contact with Harrison."

He glanced at the boss, and raised an eyebrow. "Since when? That could be everyone on base, if you mean the few days before she got sick. Within the last couple of days it narrows slightly, but still includes me, Armetti, all of the medical staff, our specialist..."

"I mean the medical staff. If it's contagious and began spreading before that, then it's too late for us to do anything. But if not, I rather only one floor of the base get deathly ill instead of the entire facility being wiped out without anyone ever knowing," Jim quipped, irritated. "I want contact limited, where possible, between departments."

He nodded in agreement, pulling up his phone and drafting a station-wide email. "Understood, sir."

Shelby entered a moment later, looking flustered and uncertain, though he was trying to disguise it. It was clear from his expression that he knew who Moriarty was. "It's an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Moriarty..."

"Fantastic," he said snidely. "Can we get onto the bit where you check whether or not I've got a time bomb tucked up next to my ticker, or am I going to have to call the cleaners down here for a new mess?"

Shelby glanced at Moran in wild confusion, and the sniper had mercy, if only for expediency's sake. "I believe the implant may have been made by an enemy we encountered last year. If that is the case, then Mr. Moriarty may also have one."

The man nodded quickly. "Of course, come this way- have the techs been informed? Of course they have, my apologies, this way..."

Jim stood and followed, rolling his eyes dramatically at Moran as he did so. "Finally."

A half an hour later, they were looking at an eerily familiar mass on Jim's x-ray, and Moran was gritting his teeth.

"We can't risk an MRI," Shelby was saying. "We have no guarantee that whatever it is is made of MRI safe materials. If it isn't, one of you could end up with a serious injury."

"So if we want to take a look at it, you have to cut one of us open," Jim said acidly, arms crossed over his chest as he stood there. He was in no mood to sit. "Do we have the technology available in here to snake a camera through one of our chest's?" Harrison's, he didn't say. Moran looked agitated enough.

The specialist nodded a little. "Yes. But I'm not a licensed surgeon. I'm assuming you have one on staff?"

Moran nodded, muscles like coiled springs. "We can prep Harrison for surgery within the hour," he said quietly. He wasn't going to waste time pretending there was a chance Jim was going under the knife.

"Get it done. I will find some room down here to entertain myself in," Jim sighed, still frowning at the x-ray. "I assume you'll be loathe to leave her side beforehand. That's fine. I have Armetti."

He flashed his canines in an annoyed growl, but didn't argue, just stood and left for Harrison's room.

She had been trying to nap for a little while, and failing, so when the door opened she opened her eyes, too. Sebastian. He looked upset. "Hey," she said, quietly.

He stepped in and closed the door behind him quietly. "Hey." He walked over and sat down, taking a breath. "It's in Jim, too. Lorna.. we have to get a better look. We're going to prep you for surgery. We need to get a camera in and see what's going on."

She took a deep breath, lifting the hand that wasn't connected to an IV to rub her eyes. "Fuck. Okay. They're not going to try and take it out, right? Who knows what shit that would do..."

"No," he assured her softly. "They're just going to look. Nothing else."

"Okay, good," she muttered, exhaling slowly. "When are they cutting me open?"

"As soon as they can," he said quietly. "Prep begins now. It's actually helpful you haven't been able to keep anything down. We won't need to pump your stomach."

"Delightful," she sighed, closing her eyes. "Certainly hope this doesn't kill me."

"It won't," he snarled. "It's just a small incision. You'll be fine."

"Yelling at me isn't exactly inspiring confidence, Seb," she said softly, her eyes closed still.

He grit his teeth, then sat back slowly, taking a slow breath. "You'll be fine," he said more softly.

"Better," she chuckled, opening her eyes finally and looking over at him. She reached a hand out for him.

He considered it, before reaching out and taking it in his. "Don't make me feel what you felt," he said warningly, voice still soft. "Don't you dare."

She snorted a surprised chuckle, trying to blink back the tears that were threatening to fill her eyes. "I wouldn't dream of it, don't worry."

He stared her down quietly, then nodded just a little. "You give up too easily, Lorna," he warned quietly. "You don't get to give up here. It isn't an option."

"I know," she whispered, squeezing his hand, "I know, really. I wouldn't do that to you. Don't worry," she insisted, and trying to sniffle without making any noise. She kind of succeeded.

He nodded, gripping her hand and standing. "I need to get someone to start prep," he said softly.

"Alright," she murmured, squeezing his hand once more before letting it go, her hand falling back to the bed.

He walked out of the room, found the nurse he wanted, and sent her in to start getting Harrison prepared. He considered going back in, but wasn't eager to confirm Jim's snide remarks, and went to find him instead.