He wouldn't hit the window frame; it obviously would be irrational behaviour.
With flawless accuracy, he had to acknowledge in his quick mind that the foregone actions of his hadn't been the pinnacle of reason either, resulting in Watson leaving their flat and making it unlikely he returned that night.
I'm an idiot. Such a brilliant idiot, he quickly deducted, bracing his elbows on the windowsill, cupping his face in his hands.
The anger he felt wouldn't just go away with this realization, and who would care if he was irrational - it was what everyone was hungering for, wasn't it? A glimpse of humanity, those little flaws and quirks that made people like each other.
"I don't have friends, … "he mumbled to his hands, his breath catching against the dry and hot skin.
"I just have one," he finished the sentence, probingly slipping his tongue along the texture of his palm. Salty, and more, the taste of anger - was this a logical observation? Anger was something that could be measured by the output of hormones, you could smell it on someone - anger, arousal, terror, all just a matter of chemistry.
Like a hound trained to analyze every hint of its prey's emotion, he closed his eyes to better focus on the taste alone. He only opened them with a start when he caught himself circling a certain spot on his palm with the tip of his tongue that gave him shivers, when he imagined it was someone else's, someone else's tongue, or someone else's palm, equally tasting of randiness and anger.
He hadn't moved in total out of his awkward pose that was becoming uncomfortable in the meantime, still leaning on the windowsill, looking blankly now onto the street that the history of the world could be derived from, but which with John's departure had no meaning. Or without Irene, or even Moriarty; anyone worth spending his time with. Anyone who would be duly impressed by the deductions of a Sir Boast-A-Lot, really. No fame without an audience.
He grimaced, his breath cooling the wet spot his tongue had left on his palm. Physical effect of course, perspiration, along with the Bernoulli effect of the breath being exhaled partly through the small gap between his upper and lower row of teeth.
Why was everyone happy? John would probably go somewhere and drink, being picked up by an oh, so kind-hearted girl and end up a happy fucker for the night, quickly forgetting about Sherlock's misery.
I sound like a spoilt child, he thought, but it didn't evoke any special emotion apart from a certain degree of shame, enhanced by the taste on his lips - salty, bitter and sweet; if he hadn't known anyhow, he would also have been able to tell he had washed his hands before by the hint of soapy taste from the very expensive bar of soap he got as a business present from Mycroft.
What would his brother think of him, if he could see him now, sucking at his own fingers, slipping two of them along the length of his tongue, scientifically trying out the point on which the gag reflex set in, and how it got less by repetition of the stimulus.
Moriarty, he was underestimating him, in every respect, and now that really hurt. To be a virgin was one thing, and Mycroft's brotherly remarks didn't affect him much, but Holmes was sure - as his mind was superior, and other people's was not - that the things imagined in his own head, from time to time, were better than actually interacting with people, and looking at John's almost continuous dissatisfaction and unhappiness he jumped to the conclusion he must be right.
His back by now really started to hurt; he tightened his hand around his hair, disheveling it. Nothing well-mannered was left about him right now, the casual observer would have noticed, when Sherlock arched his back, swaying a little to get more comfortable, a fist in his hair, sucking at his own fingers, panting, and sweating a little, as he observed. He opened up his eyes again with some reluctance, but the street still was of no interest; he focused on his own reflection instead, glance fixed on his own dilated pupils, curiously still visible in the flawlessly cleaned window-pane.
The fingers slipped from his lips; he was smiling like an idiot - and this was a completely analytic observation. His hand dropped, carelessly, loosening up the collar of his shirt, and reaching down for his belt. No need to be romantic with oneself, was there?
The window had been cleaned, by Ms. Hudson, there was no mistake, three days past, easy to derive by the combination of a hair of hers, the faint smell of the detergent used and the tiny scrap of newspaper that got stuck in a crack between the window pane and its sealing. It had the date on it - how convenient, and also insulting his intelligence. It was like being told the solution of a riddle beforehand, and as such, was a major turn-off.
"Oh, fuck," he allowed himself a prosaic curse, getting up, dishevelled, grimacing, a hand in the small of his arched back, and gasped.
"I see you missed me too," Moriarty remarked, a little melancholic smile dancing around his lips.
"Decent people knock," Holmes replied, coldly, even if his cheeks were burning.
"Decent people don't wank looking at their own reflection either."
"I didn't … " He was sure to never have never spoken out the word aloud in his life before. "... wank!"
"Hush, no need to shout, you're lonely, I can tell," Moriarty went on, in a chit-chat sort of voice, rummaging around for something more substantial than tea, settling on some vodka inside the fridge, giving a acknowledging hiss at the other contents.
"Been quarreling with your boyfriend?"
"He is not my boyfriend."
"Whatever … "Moriarty gave a weak shake of the hand, before he unscrewed the vodka bottle. His lips spread in a grin.
"I'm awfully bad at banter; it bores me. Tell me how I'm doing, …" he encouraged him, taking a long sip.