Paris.
Free, alive, and in Paris.
Severin watches his breath gust softly from where he smokes on the balcony of their flat, grinning at the quaintFrenchness of everything. The bloody architecture, the food, the dames. Faking suicide was the best idea the bossman had had yet.
He flicks the butt of his cigarette down into the street, right into the basket of an elderly man making his way home, ducking quickly back into their flat with a muffled laugh. Fuck. This was really perfect.
Now that everyone thought Jim was dead, his empire running on auto-pilot, they're able to meander around the world as they please, just so long as he avoids getting in the papers and keeps his hair red. Yeah, red. Fucking carrot orange, to be exact. Sebastian had made a joke about leprechauns under his breath once. Jim had tackled him, and even though Sev managed to pull the little man off, Seb had a vivid black eye for the next week.
Severin glances over to where Sebastian lays on the dainty French sofa, boots on the upholstery. He jerks his head, wondering where Jim is. Seb shrugs, returning to watching the French telly.
"Fat lot of good you are," Severin mutters, passing through the French doors (just in case you don't understand how French everything is) to the kitchen, finding Jim seated at the (French) table. Sev lets out a pained sigh.
"And just what the fuck are you moping over?" He seats himself across from Jim, elbows on the (Fren-) table, eyebrows raised, expression exasperated. The little ginger man turns his baleful gaze to Severin, giving a profane gesture over the tiny (Fre-) espresso. He prompts Jim to speak with a profane gesture of his own.
"It seems too easy. Too easy," Jim mutters, shaking his head, glancing down at the (Fr-) cup before him.
"Hang on…you…are telling me…you thought this was too easy?" Severin throws up his hands, making a frustrated growl at the unfazed Irishman. "Just where the fuck have you been while Seb and I were carrying out the less 'fine' aspects of your plan, hmm? Christ, the work put into getting you off the roof before anyone went up there was tough enough, never mind booking the flight here. A thousand per ticket. And now we're in beautiful Paris, and you're whinging."
"You tell him, Sev," Sebastian calls from the (F) sofa unhelpfully.
"Shut up, Seb," Severin says without looking away from Jim. "You wanted to ruin Sherlock Holmes. To fool the world. You've done it. Successfully. I just think you don't know what to expect when you're successful. You're not sure if you've reached it, so you keep grabbing for more."
"Bloody sophist," Seb mutters from the (F) sofa, once again, unhelpfully.
Jim's face pulls into a slow smile, a sarcastic smile. His gingery brows arch as he laughs quietly.
"You're so funny when you try to bring the 'tough love' act, Sev," he drawls, sipping his (F) espresso. "Utterly adorable. Now fuck off like a good boy, and fetch me my coat. We're going out. I feel like watching someone die."
Sev rolls his eyes, ignoring the low chuckle from the (F) sofa as he stands, moving to get Jim's coat from his room.
Jim doesn't complain about the events on the rooftop again.