"Sebby~" Jim whined, not looking at the sniper in question but, rather, down at his suit. It was a black, personally tailored thing that fit his small frame in a way that made him look intimidating - and it was also ruined, which explained the disdain-filled expression on his face.
Sebastian was currently cleaning his recently fired gun, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and shirt splattered in a manner similar to the stains on Moriarty's shirt. "What is it, boss?" Because Jim was definitely /Boss/ right now, not Jim or Moriarty or even "sir." His anger was almost childish, granted, but that was just an indicator of how completely pissed the consulting criminal was.
Jim strutted off with not even a glance over his shoulder at Sebastian, the heels of his dress shoes clicking against the floor. "That idiot bled all over my shirt," he all but hissed, shoulders hunching and visibly seething.
Sebastian packed up the last of his equipment, tossing the small back over one shoulder, and gave the dead body one last kick before following Moriarty. "I can see that," he noted dryly.
Jim could see Sebastian in his peripheral vision now; he watched the blonde stride next to him, perfectly in sync with his own footsteps without conscious effort from either of them. "He ruined your outfit, too." His voice had a dangerous undertone to it now: Jim had bought the outfit specifically for Sebastian to wear (not in the field, granted, but Moran had nonetheless), and he wasn't going to let this go. He pulled out his cellphone, thumb darting over the buttons as he sent a text, a text that would eliminate the entirety of that bloke's acquaintances - family, friends, anyone who had ever even /talked/ to the now-deceased male would be shot.
It gave Moriarty a modicum of relief, and, as he slipped the phone back in his pocket, he hummed and grinned. Glancing at Sebastian, he sang, "You know, Tiger, you're going to have to get this filthy thing off of me~"