Boredom, for some people - namely consulting criminal, Jim Moriarty - can get to the point where it is almost painful not to do anything. It reaches a boundary, some sort of line, a kind of breaking point, where it feels as though the brain is being torn apart, and the body is uncomfortable to inhabit. Often - for said criminal, at least - it was almost suicide inducing. Not that he didn't want to live - he just didn't care if he died, either, and it seemed a better option than living at a time when his body felt as though it was a separate entity, and his brain as though it was going to burst out of his forehead. On occasion, music can be of help, but usually, it is best to restrain oneself until someone - for Jim, his right hand man, Sebastian Moran - is able to provide even the weakest form of entertainment, for embarrassment over someone else's terrible entertainment techniques is better than boredom, any day.
It was on days like this that Jim Moriarty felt as though he was falling inside himself. He knew, of course, that he was insane, and he made absolutely no attempt to restrain it, but when it go to this point, this terrible, terrible point, where it hurt to exist, he just wanted it to stop. For something to occur which meant that he had to die. Even the smallest thing, like ensuring that someone else did, would be enough for him, even on his good (I use the word loosely) days. He'd have to have a reason, though, because as impulsive as he was, the worst he'd ever done - to himself, at least - to distract himself was shoot himself in the calf. He'd also refused to go to hospital, which had annoyed the hell out of Sebastian, but he hadn't really noticed any pain. Maybe it was because his brain was too pre occupied with other things. Maybe it was because Sebastian, after his years in the army, was a surprisingly good medic.
The only good thing about these days was that he knew, he absolutely and without a doubt knew that Sherlock Holmes got this feeling as well. Perhaps not to exactly the same point as he did, as although he was Moriarty's perfect match, his brain wasn't exactly the same as his, and he had John with him almost constantly - who, unlike Sebastian, was a caring man, and not a sniper. Not that Moriarty wanted someone caring, as that would be insanely boring - but he still got them. Moriarty had tried what he knew Sherlock had tried, and become addicted to, but he simply found that it enhanced his brain very, very slightly. Not even enough to make him able to think better. He found it, quite frankly, pointless and annoying to have to stick a needle into his arm in order to have a slightly clearer view of things. If he wanted a clearer view of things, he could simply...well, there was no real way. Often, his brain was so full of stuff that it scared even him. Plans, ideas, people, buildings, current 'projects', clients, himself, Sherlock, Sebastian, everything he'd ever deemed important in his bloody life, seemed to mill around in there at once. If there was one thing Sherlock could do easily that Moriarty was jealous of, it was delete memories. Moriarty could do it, but by no means did he find it as easy as his rival did. He'd only ever deleted things which could cause him to become normal before. Things like moral obligations, childhood memories, family relationships...things which he didn't want. It was too time consuming to delete everything he didn't need or want, which could cause some problems.
Fairly often, he'd have to tell Sebastian to get out of the house so that he could just sit, on the couch or sometimes on the floor, with his head in his hands, waiting for his racing brain to calm down a little bit. About 90% of the time that he did this, he'd be jolted from his trance several hours later - and, a couple of times, entire days - by Sebastian knocking on the door complaining about the cold. Sometimes he'd wake up in a different to position to where he'd been originally, having somehow fallen asleep or unconscious during his attempts at calming down his brain. It certainly worked, at least. For a while.
The best thing to do on the days when the boredom became painful, Moriarty had decided, was to simply sit, and wait for Sebastian to return. He had a piece of gum in his mouth pretty much constantly, and had developed a twitch in his left hand and shoulder, but it was better than sitting in a pool of his own blood with a small smile on his face until he passed out, and then waking in his bed. Sebastian hadn't allowed him out of the house for a week then, and he'd almost killed himself.
Boredom hurt, and he'd accepted it.
Didn't mean he didn't try to cure it by hurting other people, though.