If you want me to break down and give you the keys
I can do that but I can't let you leave
Oh, please don't go
I want you so
- Barcelona - Please Don't Go -
He was halfway through eating, barely tasting his food, lost in thought about the conversation he was going to have with Jim, by the time he realized how stiff she was. "What are you doing?"
She looked up at him, startled. "What? I'm eating."
"You're as stiff as a corpse," he muttered, bemused.
"Force of habit, sorry," she sighed, forcibly making herself relax, rolling some of the tension out of her shoulders.
He sighed. "I'm not angry at you. I'm furious at Jim."
She sighed. "I know. But it... Didn't really used to matter who you were angry at, I don't think."
He shook his head a little. "That's fair, I suppose. But you leave in the morning. I don't want to spend tonight fighting with you."
She nodded, and reached across the table to offer her hand to him, returning to eating with the other. That was good enough for her. Thank god for how far they'd come.
He took it, returning to his own food, though his stomach gave up on him halfway through and he stopped eating to avoid losing it all to the toilet. He sat back, then, just watching her. Memorizing her expression, her movements. A month... and that was if all went well. If Euros didn't kill her. If the Holmes brothers stayed true to Jim's expectations.
She finished her food even though her heart wasn't in it, just so one of them could stay healthy, and then she stood, releasing his hand to take her plate to the sink, and coming back for his to wrap it up and put it in the fridge. "What do you want to do tonight? Considering it will be our last together for a little while."
He wanted to do a lot of things. He wanted to go kill someone in the street, laugh and fuck over their body. He wanted to stay here and get drunk and pin her to a wall, and break plaster and windows and furniture as he left marks that would last for days. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and hold her and then go kill Jim and take over the network and end this idiotic assignment...
But he was exhausted and increasingly nauseous, and he could feel the combined weariness of their honeymoon and his shooting sitting like a boulder between his shoulders.
"Let's just... watch a nature documentary or something, yeah?"
"Okay," she smiled gently, offering him her hand again. She knew he was unhappy, that he felt constricted and oppressed by his illness, and she knew that there was little she could do for him besides be at his side and try to take some of the burden off his chest. "Maybe there's one about birds. I swear, I'll get you interested someday."
"I very much doubt that," he muttered, rolling his eyes and heading for the living room to collapse on the couch.
She let her hand fall back to her side and followed him, telling herself that he just hadn't seen it, and sank down next to him on the couch, grabbing the remote from the floor where Magpie had knocked it and turning on the television.
He got comfortable- he was achy today- and reached out to pull her against his side, closing his eyes and paying very little attention to whatever she was putting on.
Eventually his still warmth put her into a doze, her head resting on his shoulder, legs curled up and half in his lap. She twitched slightly occasionally, during half dreams, but otherwise was mostly dead to the world.
He fell asleep almost before she did, lounged out on the couch, exhausted.
She woke up when her phone alarm went off, and she jolted awake, already trying to remember if she was ready for the trip. After a moment, she realized still needed to pack a few extra things, and she got up, heading into the bedroom, running a hand through her mussed hair.
It was a testament to his illness that he slept through both the alarm and her movement, still sound asleep, unmoving, when she returned.
Her heart clenched a little as she set down her bag, just taking a moment and looking down at him. He looked... almost defenseless, asleep like this. She'd never known him to stay asleep once she'd gotten up and started moving around, not unless he was drugged, or recovering from starvation. And there was nothing she could do about it. She stepped over and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning down a little to kiss him on the forehead and murmur, "I'm leaving to go meet Watson at the airport now. Wish me luck?"
He started awake, hands flying up and stopping just short of her neck. He relaxed slowly, and took a breath as he processed what she had said. He took hold of the back of her neck- much gentler than he almost had a moment ago- and brought her down for a kiss. "Good luck." His voice was hoarse.
She was generally used to his coming-out-of-sleep jerks, so she just smiled a little and turned to leave, picking up her luggage and heading for the door, a sadness beginning to sit in her stomach.
He followed her with his eyes as she left, debating how best to deal with the annoying ache developing in his chest. His body decided for him, and he was asleep again before he had a choice in the matter.
The walk to the car in the garage was uneventful, and so was the ride to the airport, where she sat in silence in the back, planning on her strategy for dealing with John Watson while the chauffeur got to do his job for once.
They arrived and she got out, heading for the public meeting place in one of the lobbies before security, where she discovered she was the first one there. Her suspicions weren't arisen, though; there were far too many people here for it to be an obvious trap. Now she had to wait.
It was twenty minutes later that a familiar blond approached her. John offered his hand, eyes careful but not uncivil. "Mrs. Moran, I'm told," he said quietly. "A pleasure to see you again."
She gave him a slightly embarrassed, slightly tight smile, and shook his offered hand sheepishly. "Apologies for the past. And it's actually just Harrison, thank you. Do you have the information Mycroft promised or am flying in blind?"
"Here," he confirmed, nodding to the briefcase in his hand. "We can discuss it once we're in the air. The plane's waiting."
She sighed slightly through her nose - Moran would hate this, might even refuse to follow John - but nodded back and leaned down to pick up her bag. "I didn't pack any weapons. I'm assuming that you have some waiting for me once we land?" She asked, raising her eyebrows slightly, though she motioned to the side, a cue that they could get moving.
"They'll be provided to us as part of our uniforms." He began walking toward the private air strips.
Uniforms. Okay. So they were going in pretending to be staff. And, of course, she was being sent with a non- grifter. Sherlock, she could see - he was a decent liar, and certainly quick on his feet - but Watson? He wasn't an idiot, but he wasn't exactly a clandestine operative. He was an army doctor, for crying out loud. They made it to the light security they needed to pass through, and she took a breath and looked over at him, eyes bordering on intense. "Why you, Watson? Why not Sherlock? Why not fucking Mycroft, even? Hell, why not one of Mycroft's men? Did you volunteer for this suicidal nonsense?"
He shrugged. "I needed a change of pace. Sherlock was otherwise occupied. I volunteered, yes."
She sighed, audibly, and gave him a sweeping glance. He was... almost relaxed. It was an odd reaction for someone on their way into a life-threatening situation. "Why?"
He smiled. "The same reason I ever worked with Sherlock." He left it with that and nodded to the security guard, setting his bag down on the conveyor belt.
She followed suit, accepting that that was all the answer she was going to get out of him until he warmed up a little. She still wasn't sure what game she wanted to play here, if any. It felt wrong to cuddle up to one of the men of her greatest enemy, especially now that Sebastian... She bit the inside of her cheek and walked through the rest of the airport on autopilot, simply following John and thinking. Did she let her contempt show through, take control of the situation that way? No, she couldn't - at least not yet. He would be too resistant - anybody who worked with Sherlock had to have a least the slightest bit of spine. But seducing him would be a challenge in and of itself. The man had recently lost his wife. Having experienced the same thing, at least without the official title, she couldn't imagine moving on so quickly, not with a stranger. Even Jim had hurt.
She didn't speak again until they were on the plane, and then she put her bag down and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at him expectantly. "Well? What's Mycroft's clever cover story for us? Or is that my job, besides being cannon fodder for the slug?"
She had no qualms about showing her contempt for the elder Holmes brother, however.
"We've been hired on as security," John said as he chose his own seat, across the plane from her. "Mycroft is in charge of the vetting for new staff, so it was no issue. We need to find the rat. Simple."
"Assuming there's only one," she muttered, sitting down heavily. "We need to get our story straight. Well, you need to get your story straight. Who are you, what's your name, are you married, do you have a goldfish, so on and so forth. I'm under the impression you've never been undercover before, am I right?"
He leaned back in his chair. "Not long term, no. I've pulled a few stunts with Sherlock, but nothing more than a few hours. I understand this will be different."
"Alright," she said, though she was internally cringing. Working on a gig this big with an absolute amateur? This couldn't end well. "So. We're acquaintances. Met for the first time during our interviews and we've trained together to get ready for this assignment. We don't know each other particularly well but we get along and as we'll be in a new place, will stick to each other like flies on flypaper. Make up whatever backstory you want, but stick to it. What names has Mycroft given us?"
He nodded at her explanation. "You're Kate Bowen. I'll be Kyle Winslow." He opened his bag and handed her folders. "I have a background already, actually. Been memorizing and preparing for weeks now. Siblings, education, worst Christmas present. We did meet in training. The details of how we met and my background are in there. Mycroft figured you would want to fill out Bowen's history yourself."
"He would be correct," she replied, opening up the first folder and leaning back to start scanning. "You know that I am an only child and from a bad family, and that my favorite drink is a martini in any shape or form. The rest, you don't need to know unless it comes up."
He nodded, murmuring those details a few times before pulling another folder out and starting to go over it.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye for a minute, just trying to get to grips with the fact she was working with him, and then settled in for the rest of the flight.
He glanced up after a few minutes. "Let me know when you've finished with that, and I'll give you the security plans. We're to be conducting a review of their security."
"Oh Christ, if I've ever heard a grifting job Moran would like," she muttered, flipping through the last folder, then handing it across the aisle to him.
"I'm honestly surprised he wasn't the one assigned," he said, taking the envelope and trading her the red security briefing. "I'm aware of your grifting abilities, but he seems the more suited choice for security, and as I've experienced, he can tell a reasonable story."
"Well you so helpfully volunteered," she snorted, taking the briefing. She was quiet a moment. "Sebastian has Stage 2 lung cancer. I'm surprised Mycroft didn't tell you. Maybe it was so I had to say it myself. Ass."
John was hit first with surprise, and then with an odd mix of emotions.
On the one hand, he hated these people. They had destroyed him. It had taken him months to trust reality after they had taken him, and even longer to drag himself away from the weight of his PTSD and get control of his life again. He had limped for weeks. There was a distinct and highly warranted pleasure to the idea of Sebastian Moran dying a slow, unpleasant death.
On the other hand, however... He was- would always be - a doctor. Above all else. He had sworn to care for everyone, even his worst enemy, without discrimination or restraint. And that side of him suddenly understood the reasons behind a sudden wedding, and the tired, distracted eyes of his traveling companion.
"I'm sorry," he said eventually, quietly. "That must be difficult."
She looked away, out the airplane window, swallowing hard. Nobody around her gave words of sympathy for this. Hell, no one knew. It stung in an unexpected way, one she hadn't felt in a long time. She'd forgotten that empathy was frequent in people who weren't the Holmes' brothers or criminals. "Thank you. It is."
He sat back slowly, turning to look out his own window, watching land fall away to sea. He didn't say anything else. He wasn't sure he could make it sincere.
She got herself under control and returned to reading what she was supposed to, absorbing the dry security briefing to the best of her considerable abilities and then setting it aside to wait out the rest of the short flight.
When she judged that the plane was beginning to descend, she looked over at Watson again. "We should change."
He nodded. "Uniforms are in the back, hanging across from the W.C. They'll provide our weaponry."
She stood, already pulling off her shirt in a form of aggressive warfare, and headed back to find and start donning the uniform, not bothering to change in the W.C.
John glanced after her, ears going a bit pink, turning away and coughing just slightly.
She adjusted the uniform once she'd finished and gathered up her clothes, returning to put them in her bag. "Your turn, Watson."
He nodded again, standing and heading back, closing himself into the small restroom to change. By the time he returned, they were midway through their descent, and he sat, belting in.
She found herself growing a little tenser, looking out the window through the fog at the approaching island. How was this going to go?
She muttered something akin to a prayer under her breath to a god she'd never believed in, and steeled herself.
The landing was as smooth as could be expected, given the limited runway and the buffeting wind that rollicked over the island. No sooner had they disembarked- and their luggage and a supply crate were unloaded- than the small craft was airborne again, heading back toward the mainland. They were met by a small security detail who greeted them with curt nods, and guided them inward.
"Well, isn't this a lovely little island," she said dryly, mostly to herself, managing with some difficulty to tie her hair back in the wind as they walked to the waiting jeep and climbed in the back. She leaned forward as the car started, placing a hand on the back of one of the seats to brace herself, and asked the driver, "How often do planes come and go? Do you pick up visitors often?"
"Sorry, ma'am," the older of the four said, looking back. "We need to confirm your identity formally. Then you'll be permitted to perform your inquest."
She sighed a little, but nodded, sitting back again. "Understood. I assume they're waiting at the base to do that?"
He nodded. "First thing, standard procedure. Then we'll get you both oriented." John shrugged and settled back, watching the island roll by.
They parked in a hanger of sorts, walking through into what appeared to be a processing area. One of the women from their detail touched Lorna's arm, and nodded toward a plain black door. "This way." One of the men did the same for John, guiding him to the next door down.
That wasn't slightly nerve-wracking or anything. Or annoying. "Is this a strip-search, or are we all going to leave with our dignities preserved today?" She asked, sighing and stepping through the black door.
"Strip, I'm afraid," the woman said, not unsympathetically. "And cavities. Any time you reenter the island."
"God," she sighed again, closing her eyes in resignation for a moment before she started. Now that she'd become more accustomed to the scar on her chest, she had mostly returned to her former comfort level of being viewed nude. She did take pleasure in the fact that a much less comfortable Watson was in the room next door, much less accustomed to these things.
The woman had the decency to make things brief, and only eyed the scar a second or two longer than necessary. Once Lorna was dressed, she nodded to a table. "Fingerprint and ocular scan, and you're done."
She complied without hesitation, though she was desperately hoping that Mycroft hadn't forgotten to add them into the system. "Do we do the fingerprints and ocular scans each time, too?"
She nodded. "They'll be your access codes. Key cards are too risky. I'll explain the full system once your identity is confirmed."
"Good, that's what I like to hear. I like an easy security review, if you know what I mean," she snorted, adjusting her collar, which was digging slightly into her neck. She wondered if Mycroft had tailored it to be annoying. Ass. "How long does confirming my identity take?"
"Only a few a few moments. Put your hands here... okay, great. Now lean in and put your eyes against the rests..." She clicked through a few things. "Look left... right... up... down... good. Great. Done with that. Now we just need a cheek swab for DNA records, and we're done."
Jesus, she thought to herself, though dutifully opened her mouth and let the woman take her swab. "Is this your whole job? Vetting arrivals? That must be... tedious."
She shook her head. "Just today. We cycle through on a regular but randomized schedule. It limits the predictability of our security."
"Good," she said again. "Should I expect to end up here, eventually?"
"No ma'am," the woman said with a small smile. "This is below your pay grade."
"Fantastic," she huffed, relieved, pulling at her collar again. Jesus, she hoped there was a quartermaster on site who could help fix the stupid thing. "The results back, yet?"
She shook her head, but just as she was opening her mouth to respond, the computer pinged. "Ah. There it is, all clear. Excellent. Welcome aboard, ma'am. Here's your badge. It doesn't open anything, but it ID's you, and you're required to wear it at all times on base, on or off duty, unless you're in your quarters."
She took the badge, nodding, and pinned it to her shirt. "Alright, thank you. Are we done here, then?"
"Yes," the woman said with a nod, motioning to the door. "I'll take you through now."
She opened it and exited it, finding John and his minder waiting outside. "Have as much fun as I did, Winslow?" she teased, smirking.
"I dunno, did they have you bend over and cough?" he asked with a smirk. "Very friendly welcome."
"Of course, this wasn't amateur hour, kudos to-" she checked the woman's badge for her name, and internally chuckled -"Mary here. Alright, shall we collect our things and move on? I'd like to put away my stuff and then get started evaluating."
The man with John- Kurt, by his badge- nodded. "Commander Malik has set up a meeting with the two of you as soon as you're settled, to discuss your work and access."
"Smashing. Let's go," she said, clapping her hands together once and picking up the bag she'd left by the door.