It was painfully easy, breaking into the flat Sherlock and the doctor shared. His absolute favorite super sleuth was extremely negligent of actually locking the door after he left, which allowed Jim Moriarty to waltz right inside. He knew Sherlock wouldn't mind.
In fact, he would love it.
He knew Sherlock got the same thrill, same rush of adrenaline, when his brain started working faster than everyone else's. They were always a hundred steps ahead of the game, ready to leap into action at a moments notice, even before that. But that meant that the adrenaline wore off quicker, excitement died down faster. Nothing of importance lasted, and things that merely wasted their time lasted much too long. It was a curse, really.
It was good to know that he wasn't alone on this. Sherlock was so much like him. It was a comfort, almost. He wasn't the only genius on this earth that got bored of the monotony normal people coped with easily. He got restless, needed to get out and do something with himself, with his mind. Play tricks. Mess around. Get out of the house and do something.
Moriarty picked up a discarded newspaper, frowning at whatever useless article they'd decided to publish. Normal people were so content with boredom. It disgusted him. How could Sherlock stand to associate with them?
Of course. He was an angel. He liked normal people. That was the only thing that seemed to set them apart- Sherlock was unintentionally good. Moriarty was unintentionally bad.
It wasn't his fault that a good mind trick of someone on his intellectual level occasionally resulted in death. Maybe sometimes, but how could you blame him? There was nothing else for him.
And even if he did get caught, it didn't matter. He had nothing to lose.
Sherlock won't do a thing about me, he reassured himself, slapping down the newspaper and continuing around the room, searching for something, anything of interest. He'd be quite disappointed, actually, if Sherlock killed him. They wouldn't be so alike after all.
Of course, he did plan to kill Sherlock. But all in good time.
He continued on to the kitchen, still soaking in the contents of Sherlock and the doctor's flat. Who knew, maybe something of particular interest would pop up that he could use against them. He picked up a discarded pair of scissors, tapping the blades against his chin. Scattered across the kitchen table were papers, microscopes, and a plethora of unidentified substances. Nothing particularly interesting.
Eventually he tired of searching the place and plopped down into a chair. Of course Sherlock wouldn't kill him, or turn him in. He was much too interesting to just be discarded in such away. No, Sherlock would toy with him, but oh, would he be surprised to know that he was the one being toyed with! The man was almost too clever for his own good, and not nearly crazy enough to see into the simplest plots. He'd die for that, Moriarty knew. And it would be fun.
But not yet. Moriarty wanted to play with this victim. It wasn't every day he was able to mess with his antithesis, his subtly better half. Oh, would they make a pair.
It only took another half an hour of wandering out to finish the job, and by then he felt... oddly relieved. He was far from through with Sherlock, naturally, but it felt good to take a moment to express his gratitude for Sherlock's genius. To thank the superhero to his super villain.
Moriarty took his time heading downstairs and out the door. He hailed a taxi, glancing both ways down the sidewalk with the hints of a smile on his face. His eyes caught a familiar blue scarf, and the smile widened. He slid into the taxi, disappearing before he could be spotted.
When Sherlock returned to the apartment, there were giant, bold newspaper letters taped to the wall next to the repeatedly shot at smiley face.
IOU -JM