Jim Moriarty paced. A luscious study around him, all the luxuries of wealth and influence and refined taste copy and pasted from a disappointingly unimaginative catalogue. The only thing that made it remotely interesting were the two corpses perched upright and resplendent in the leather chairs. Decadent waterfalls of blood poured down their fronts, soaking the thick carpets and causing Jim to pause mid stride and squelch it between his toes compulsively. Like a child in the mud.
They'd been people an hour ago. Walking, talking, breathing, boring, horrible, redundant, unnecessary...no, Jim, focus! His fingers dig painfully into his temples as he forces himself to stop pacing and reconnect. An hour, an hour since the butler had delivered drugged coffee to the master and his wife in the study. 57 minutes since the butler had removed his shoes and padded quietly into the children's bedrooms, tying and gagging each of them before placing bows in their hair. 49 minutes since the butler had returned to the study and slit both the master and his wife's throats open with their ornamental letter opener, the only use it had ever known judging by its factory knew blade. And he was one to judge these sorts of things, after all.
45 minutes since Jim had dropped the butler face completely and relaxed into Jim Moriarty, extraordinary criminal for hire. 44 minutes since said brilliant man had begun pacing restlessly, faced with the bane of his existence.
Boredom.
This had been gruntwork, something a few men would have done for him had he given them the appropriate incentive. Yet here he was, Lem Riggings, temporary replacement for the family help who'd fallen sick of late. Dirtying his hands and reduced to menial tasks. Oh, he'd enjoyed it. Their gashed throats vomiting blood as they shook in their death throes, lost in the oblivion of opiates. Enjoyable for a short time but boring none the less.
A distraction. A delightful little something to sink his teeth into. If only, if only.
Mind adrift, Jim perused the bookshelves. Hmmm, should he check up on Sherlock? What would Sherlock be doing at this moment? Where was he? As he thought, he hmph'd and hmm'd, pale fingers hovering over spines, not quite touching, seeming to find nothing to his liking. The poor dear was likely at that dreadful little flat discussing something dreadfully boring with his dreadful little doctor friend.
Making a selection, his fingers ghost along the spine before drawing the book in a swift motion from the shelf, lighting it aflame in the fire place and tossing it to the floor. The carpet beneath it began to smolder before consuming more and more of the room and its furnishings. The fire alarm in the hall sounded as smoke billowed from beneath the closed study door. The fireman arrived in time to save the house but the perpetrator had long fled, leaving only a trail of bloody footprints and two children tied up with bows.