An involuntary twitch of his lips was the only visible response to the sniper’s acidic words. Not that he could see it. Mycroft stood with his back to the man, eyes focused on the concrete floor that sent tendrils of ice up his spine, jabbing their way through his leather soles.
 Finally, Sebastian’s words sank in, a lead weight burying into quicksand. Steely laughter erupted from his lips, wrapped in trails of vapour.
  “Oh, but is it really?”
A low purr, a sign of satisfaction. Moran was a mere pawn in a play of kings, yet entertained solely for its existence. Sharp-edged features, cut by his burdensome past, were headed towards the individual. He was no observer; perhaps lack of intelligence, perhaps lack of effort. - or a combination thereof.
  Moreover, his response accrued his former excitement. A challenge was presented, and Holmes seemed eager to take it. Laughter resulted in a similar reaction, slightly reduced to a smirk.
"How does the saying go, again? Don't shoot the messenger, ah?"
