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James Moriarty considered his options. He had just faked a terribly, terribly clever scheme and tricked Sherlock Holmes. So fun, to trick someone actually clever. So satisfying.
Definitely not boring.
Absently, he wished he had a pet human the way Sherlock did. John Watson. A doctor, thinking he was so so clever and posh.
Then he considered how much time one had to spend with a pet. Feeding and walking it.
Boring.
Pet humans were also a liability, a loose end, a way that someone actually worth working with (or against) could be compromised. How was it that that awful newspaper man put it? Oh, yes, a “pressure point.”
Boring.
Moriarty did not have many pressure points. True, he was a psychopath, or maybe a highly functioning sociopath. It was hard to tell after all the sensory deprivation that did not officially count as torture for some bureaucratic reason only Mycroft Holmes could understand.
Boring. Boring. Boring.
He supposed that Sherlock could count as a pressure point. For he really was very emotionally invested in hating Sherlock Holmes. Especially after he ruined that plan to rescue Irene Adler and get hold of her camera phone.
Annoying.
Ruining the last thing he had to live for. Meddling fool. If Sherlock Holmes was really anything like James Moriarty, the worst punishment would be to lose his only worthy adversary.
Now that was interesting.
He could kill himself.
That would show him.