A man by the name of Jim Moriarty was lounging about his flat. A small amount of classical music trickled from his iPod on the table and engulfed the room in the delicious sound that tickled Jim's ears.

Today was a lazy day; a day for relaxing and a day for letting the crime just unfold by itself. Sherlock Holmes was probably rushing about London, trying to pin any and all murders on Moriarty, his "worst" enemy. Jim giggled whenever he thought about Sherlock considering him his greatest enemy. John Watson would probably back him up on that, those damn fools.

Jim's head lulled over to the right and his eyes scanned the large diagram on the wall. His face split in two and he began to laugh. The diagram, a huge web, contained photos and names of each and every criminal who had wanted his help. If there was a red 'x' over a face, it signified that Sherlock had caught them or were dead. Half his web had 'x's on their faces and the other half were either blank or had a red tick over theirs. In the unlikely chance that one of the criminals managed to fool Sherlock Holmes, their crime had been completed and they were awarded a tick on their photo. More were blank than ticked, for obvious reasons such as Scotland Yard or Mycroft Holmes/the British Government. His favourite bit about the diagram was his face stuck right in the middle with little spider legs drawn. Moriarty was a spider who sat in the middle of the web, tugging on the web as desired.

In the last three months, Jim Moriarty was busy; very busy. He was creating plans, pulling strings and trying to help out all those who hired him. Sometimes, however, one murder was not enough for Jim. He'd tell the clients that they either killed three or more people or he wouldn't be involved and would anonymously turn them into the police for incriminating evidence on their laptops.

Today, Jim Moriarty was tired and he wanted to rest a day before getting back out there. He had kidnapped someone to be his slave for the day and he was going to do nothing but party it up alone in his flat with some sad person tottering around the kitchen. Moriarty had already warned them that a few of his people were following their family and if they escaped, their family would be killed.

What they didn't know is that he was planning on murdering them as soon as the day was over. Jim felt a shiver run down his spine as he thought about murdering the innocent person in his kitchen, preparing nachos and tea.

His phone charmed, the music being interrupted, to Moriarty's displeasure. He accepted the call and frowned.

"What? What do you want?" he asked and rolled his eyes as they began to talk.

"Mr Moriarty, sir, there's been a bit of a problem," the weak little man told him over the phone.

"What's happened, you incompetent swine?"

"Well, it's about Sherlock Holmes. He's with Molly Hooper and they're analysing some of the scenes of recent murders you arranged," the man stuttered to Jim.

With a sigh, Jim said "and what does this have to do with me? I didn't get any traces of me there; I'm not an idiot, unlike you."

The man gulped on the phone. "Yes, however, the murderer didn't finish the job properly. He's at Scotland Yard and Sherlock will be interrogating him in a few minutes. Aren't you worried that he'll tell them all about you and your current whereabouts?"

Jim thought about that for a minute and pulled a disgusted face. "Nope. You sort it out, you get that man killed. I'm very busy to waste time with such a fool." He looked up to see the hostage standing in the doorway. With a furious face, Jim clicked his fingers and motioned to the kitchen. With a jump, they retreated back and away from Moriarty.

"But, sir-"

"No 'buts'. Get it done or you'll regret it for about 30 minutes before you get in a little… accident that I arrange." He hung up and threw the phone across the room. "I can't even have one day."

~oOo~

"Bored!" Sherlock told John before he pointed the gun at the wall and squeezed the trigger. Sherlock was donned in his pyjamas and his silk dressing gown billowing around with his movements.

"Sherlock! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?! You just solved an eight and now you're bored?" John yelled between gun shots.

"Moriarty has dropped his game. On a normal day, I had clients coming in left, right and centre. Today, however, not a single one! Of course I'm bored!" he bellowed before shooting the wall again. "And besides, today's case was a six at best. I just didn't have the heart to tell Lestrade his problems were uninteresting and did not capture a bit of my attention."

Suddenly, the detective stopped, his finger slipping from the trigger. A lazy 'oh' slid through his lips and he dropped the gun. John looked in alarm at his friend and crept towards him.

"Sherlock?"

"I-I have to go…" Sherlock mumbled before gliding out the room and to his bedroom, a resounding slam rushing to John.

A few moments later, there was the sound of hurried feet as Sherlock ran from his bedroom and out the door of 221.

~oOo~

Moriarty fell from his couch and with a crash to the floor. His eyes opened and he looked around alarmed before realising he had fallen asleep and off the couch.

"Slave!" he called out and the little patter of feet came from the kitchen.

"Yes, sir?" Moriarty's slave asked.

"You bore me. I don't want you anymore. Walk outside with your hands behind your head," Jim instructed.

After a thousand 'thank you', the salve-for-a-day ran out of Jim's flat. The person held their hands behind their head and walked out onto the street. There was silence, no-one on the streets and no-one trying to kill them for leaving. They walked down the street and back to their own house. As they reached their front door, they felt nothing but relief. They put one hand down to reach the door handle.

Bang.

"It's done," someone told Moriarty on the phone. "Just outside their door. Their partner and children were in their kitchen. They didn't even have time to say goodbye."

Jim rolled his eyes. He was bored and this news did not excite him at all. He didn't feel the usual thrill at knowing he caused a death. The spider, as he called himself, stood up and skulked to his bedroom, the room where no-one else had ever gone before.

The door opened and Jim slipped in before closing it and snapping all seven locks again.

"Jim. How good of you to join me," a deep voice said behind him.

Jim sighed and rolled his eyes before drooping his head to the left, his body following along with him. Sherlock Holmes lay on the bed bed, his coat hanging on one of the posts.

"Sherlock," the spider said and crossed his arms, a bored look on his face. "What? What do you want?"

"To know what you've been doing today and why there have been no murders." The detective sat up and stared at the criminal.

"I'm not in the mood to play games, Mr Holmes. I'm having a relaxing day, a day for me. I do it every now and then, you should try it sometime."

"I want answers, Moriarty," Sherlock said with ice in his tone.

"Well I suggest you try the internet. I believe it is a good source of answers. Check my twitter. I'm prone to tweeting the current crimes that's going down. Such as the study in pink: 'lol, ppl ded. Cabbie, drive me somewhere to watch it?' surely that was a hint. If you called me, I'd have told you my username. Another favourite of mine was the blind banker. As I recall, the text was on the lines of 'lol, gonna see chinese circus. Totes excited!'. Sherlock, all I'm saying is that if you wanted answers, just follow me on twitter. I update regularly. And if you followed me, you'd know today is a LAZY DAY!" Jim mostly said before ending with a scream.

Sherlock seemed lost for words for a few moments. "I followed you on twitter. I stopped because you post irrelevant things such as 'omg, dinner was scrummy, #get me some apple pie pronto'. I don't need that foolishness in my life, that's why I have John."

Jim laughed before pulling a gun from his pocket. "Alright, Sherlock, it's time for you to go now. I'm tired and I'm going to have a nap. You've got to go."

The detective stood up and looked around the room once more. "Please don't start a war while on my way home. As I tell Mycroft, it causes traffic."

Jim smirked at Sherlock before waving him towards the door with his gun.

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes."