Author's Note: Don't ask me why I wrote this. I've just been venting about sharks and animal cruelty all day, and… I wanted to write a short relating to it, and was thinking for ages. I had a couple of ideas, but this was the one that won out. Think of it what you will.

His eyes wandered slowly around the walls, and his heart sank. He couldn't even remember why they were in here, but his stomach had done a flip as soon as they had entered, and he had pulled his hat from his head to better glance around to see just what was littering the walls and numerous cabinets around the room. He sighed heavily, and looked over at Rodney Skinner, who was asking the man at the counter for information in his own way. His method was something that did not sink in with the younger man right now, and he turned back to what had really caught his attention to his right.

Special Agent Tom Sawyer frowned, and his brows lowered with melancholy. He understood hunting. He really did. After all, his old mentor had been an infamous hunter, but… what he stared at now just twisted his gut. This wasn't for survival… this wasn't for research.

This was for pleasure and profit.

The shark splayed out across the wall had had its jaw removed, and the fins cut away, and then dried and hung around the rest of its twisted body in some queer semblance of exhibit. He knew nothing – practically – about sharks, but he'd seen them once or twice from shores, and he'd seen them whilst on boats, and he respected them for what they were. They were hunters in their own right, and they were – in their own way – beautiful animals. Sure, they could be dangerous, but he'd never really heard of anyone being eaten alive by one. Tom cocked his head, and grimaced slightly, before looking around the wall again.

Heads of lions, tigers, zebras and various herd animals decorated the area, and he suddenly felt rather cynical. It was a marvel how wasteful humans were. None of these animals had died for a purpose other than to adorn these walls, and he was suddenly very glad his prized Winchester was back in his cabin. His Colts were at his sides under his jacket, but he would never really use them. He just wished, in some bizarre fashion, that he could, and not get punished for it.

His fists clenched slightly at his sides, and he had to force himself to loosen his right in order not to completely destroy his hat's peak. Skinner was nearly finished.

"I'm going to get some air," he called mostly in a mumble and the thief nodded in acknowledgement. He didn't really understand how Skinner could nonchalantly lean on a glass counter that displayed dried remains of slaughtered animals, but he supposed the invisible man had seen worse things in his time in London's streets.

By the time he let the door close behind him, Tom had completely forgotten what they were even doing here. Some part of him even forgot where he was, but the sound of the ocean rushing against the shore nearby woke him from his disgusted stupor a little, and he closed his eyes, just letting the noise brush over his ears and seep into him.

He walked a little way, and simply let his feet carry him, until he came to the dock, and stood upon it, a slight breeze tugging at his blonde hair and whipping it around his head. He gazed out around him, and heard the boat to his side. Tom turned his head in that direction, seeing the man standing upon it, heaving something onto the wooden promenade with another person. Tom watched them, and let his expression show just how he disliked what they were doing.

Fish and sharks were spread out all over the boat, and Tom shook his head, seeing the men glance in his direction. They watched him for a long time, as if confused, before he turned on his heel and walked away, the sea breeze no longer bringing refreshment, only the foul smell of blood and whatever gory bait they had used. Walking swiftly back to the building, he walked in, and said, "Skinner, are you done yet?"

The thief looked back at him through dark pince-nez, and cocked his head. "Um… yeah, just about done." He turned back to the man, and looked about ready to reach into his pocket to pull out some sort of payment for whatever he had learned. Tom usually wasn't an unfair individual, but the business the man was running, and something about his temperament at that moment made him move forward, and speak secretively into Skinner's ear, saying, "He's got a payoff comin' in. Forget it, and let's just go."

"You all right, mate?"

"Yeah, just great."

The man had moved from around the counter, having seen the boat's arrival out the window. "Ah. Care to stick around and inspect the new specimens? You never know what you might find in these arrivals." He rubbed his hands together, standing under a large dried shark jaw displayed over the window. Tom narrowed his eyes, and looked once to Skinner, before heading out.

"Um… no thanks," Skinner said to the man in parting. "Got everythin' we need." With that, he followed Tom briskly.

The American had made it out to the walkway, and he was about to pass in the way of the fisherman who were hauling one of the shark carcasses towards the building. Their paths were due to cross, but instead of stepping aside; Tom let his shoulder slam square into that of one of the men, who muttered irritably in a language Tom didn't understand. He dropped his half of the body, and it fell to the floor. Tom glanced back over his shoulder once, offering them a half-glare, and then carried on, as Skinner jogged up beside him.

"What's got you in such a grump?" he asked of his young friend, glancing back to the fisherman Tom had practically ploughed. "Never seen you act like that before."

"Yeah, well," Tom began with a heavy sigh, putting his hat back on his head and angling it slightly, "I just got sick of the smell."

"The smell?"

"Yeah." Without letting Skinner inquire further, Tom pressed on. "Don't you ever stop and just… look around? Don't you ever see how wasteful and greedy we are?" Skinner cocked his head. "Skinner… don't you just get tired of seeing people do things like that?"

"They're tryin' to make a livin', Sawyer. I can relate."

"No you can't, Skinner," Tom corrected, and it wasn't his intention to be harsh, though he sounded less than sympathetic. "You picked pockets. You smashed windows and took what you wanted. You didn't kill an animal to get a roll of money put in your hand, just because you murdered something, did you?"

Skinner paused, and hesitated. "Well, no… but–"

As if sensing Skinner's train of thought, Tom interjected with, "And I know Quatermain was a hunter." He turned and faced the thief. "And a damn good one at that. But… look, I can't explain it, but back there… I just… I just had to get out of there, okay?"

"The smell," Skinner offered simply, and Tom nodded.

"The smell," he agreed quietly, turning to head back to meet the others.

Skinner matched his pace easily, clearing his throat softly, and shifting his duster on his shoulders, before he asked, "Just what smell is that, Sawyer? Blood? Cartilage? Dusty fur?"

Tom met Skinner's shaded gaze for a heavy moment, and then turned it back to their path as the sun started to fade into the horizon, and as he gazed out at the failing rays, he sighed.

"The smell of death…"