Jim is standing in the middle of an empty parking garage, bodies scattered all around him on the wet, dirty asphalt.
He watches the face of every person with a small, dissatisfied pout, the corners of his lips turned downwards and his head slightly cocked to the side.
He felt disappointed. Was this all? He had expected more than this. He had expected more from these people.
Sherlock. Cold, light eyes looking into nothingness. Hair wet. Blue scarf in disorder.
Looking just as bored in death as he did in life.
John. Expression somewhat worried, but determined. Eyes closed. Hand vaguely reaching for the gun in its holster.
He'll never reach it.
Yet, this wasn't what winning should feel like.
Jim began to tap his foot very subtly against the hard ground, the speed increasing at the same pace as his annoyance.
Eventually, Sebastian came down from his spot and sauntered into the garage, on his way to lighting a cigarette.
Always after a hit.
This was just yet another day at work for him.
His gaze fixed on the fragile flame that he had managed to awaken snapped up when he heard the impatient tapping. He looked at the other man under his lashes as the cigarette finally caught fire and Sebastian quirked an eyebrow at the other man as he tucked the lighter away.
Jim opened his mouth slightly to speak, but for the first time in many years, he couldn't find the words. His reply simply consisted of almost saying something and then changing his mind. Almost taking a step over there, but changing his mind. This only resulted in his body subtly rocking back and forth in his indecision.
At last, he turned to his sniper, threw up his hands and asked in an irritable voice with a touch of that Irish accent; "What now?"
