Sebastian Moran’s death is bad for Jim. Bad for business, because he’s just lost his favourite hitman and the second-best killer he knew (the first being himself, obviously). Bad because Jim couldn’t stop it, and Jim thought he could do anything. Stop someone’s heart. Start a war. Apparently he can’t stop someone from bleeding out on a floor. 

It was bad because Jim got back in the car and smoked the terribly-rolled cigarette Sebastian had left in there and got ashes all over his suit; it was bad because when he went to sleep that night in Sebastian’s run-down flat he woke up with nightmares. He has to be well-rested. Can’t quietly rule the world with nicotine stained-teeth and bags under his eyes.

It’s not sentiment. Not because letting himself into Sebastian’s flat with Sebastian’s keys and sleeping in Sebastian’s bed, with no punches or insults or accusations or kisses thrown around is weird. Not because he watched him laugh whilst dying and complain that he’d done a shit job, sorry Jim.

Not because he buried him himself or because he cares.

It’s just bad for business, that’s all.