I don’t know what I’ve written.

I don’t know what this is.

All I know is that it includes a bizarre, frustrating wank and Jim Moriarty. You have waited. Reap your weird and silly rewards.

The final line is my new catchphrase.

***

Locks were easy enough to dismantle.

His tongue was sticking out of his mouth, face screwed up only slightly in a look of concentration. Said concentration was only needed up to a certain point, as Jim knew the innards and workings of a lock better than a person probably ought to.

He was crouched, not quite on his knees (he dare not scuff the slacks of such a quality suit), fiddling with the lock to a stranger’s flat. Moriarty’s task was finished quickly enough, and he gave a low whistle in praise and admiration of himself. A gradual shifting of limbs and Jim was on his feet.

The flat was sparsely, though tastefully decorated. All blues and whites, stark and pretty, sweeps of a more subtle breed of paisley spread over the walls, the sitting room scant but for a large white couch and a set of two wing-backed chairs that perhaps were a little too large for their position next to the window. It was one of these chairs that Moriarty proceeded to grasp, tugging it away  from the windows, snatching aside one of the navy curtains to reveal the street below through the panes of glass.

Yes, this was going to be an excellent vantage point.

The denizen of this particular living space was currently out, off at work.  She was a florist, and it was quite close to Valentine’s Day. She had to be rather busy. Janet? Margaret? Her name had been an “-et” name, but such information was irrelevant to his current fixation, and had been pushed from his recent memory, sent spinning into the jumble of other senseless information he ignored in his mind. His people had scouted and made sure Jim would have the space to himself as he watched the quiet street.

There was a smattering of people on the sidewalks, heading past the complex of buildings where Jim now stood. Ants, thriving in their habitat, little insects that had no idea that one of the world’s most adept snipers was currently eyeing them all with a rather large boot poised above their heads.

Moran had been positioned in the belfry of a church that was just a stone’s throw away. Jim could see it from where he stood, and he was probably the only one that noticed the glint of a scope in the distance. Sebastian’s eyes.

And now, they had time to consider. The wait was going to be the better part of an hour.

Considering this, Moriarty turned and moved to perform a bit of feng shui. The chair previously moved out of the way was tugged over to face the window, the curtains pulled aside just slightly to give him a viewpoint without giving away his position. The consulting criminal plopped down into it, wriggling just slightly to find a comfortable spot, and kicked his feet up onto a decorative statue of a lion that didn’t really fit with the rest of the décor.

Relaxed and amused by the way the snarling lion rested under his loafers, Jim waited.

And quickly grew bored.

He was a man of the moment, and they had arrived early. Too early. Nothing grated on Moriarty’s nerves more than being required to be overly patient. A haughty sigh came from his lips, and he squirmed a little, setting his jaw tight.

The criminal pressed his fingers against his chin and slipped into his psyche…in contrast to Sherlock Holmes’s beautiful mind palace, Jim’s had more of a propensity to be a mind bouncey-castle. He ricocheted from thought to thought, fingertips twitching against his own flesh as he watched the simple, boring people that dotted the sidewalk.

He sapped into stores of memory.

Watching interrogation footage, being interrogated, lunch the day previous, Sherlock Holmes’s eyes, an airplane flight to Moscow, watching Seb rub one out, stealing tea from an expensiv—

Stop.

Rewind.

Watching Seb rub one out. Yes, that had been an experience. The sound of his voice, low and guttural, growling even without a specific audience to listen. His neck, tense and taut. One could nearly see the pulse in his jugular vein from several feet away when the sniper was busy with himself. And his fingers, his long, trigger-savvy fingers clutched about the thick length of his sex, pumping it with more vigor than was probably necessary…yes, those were alright too, especially slick with cum and held curiously up to Moran’s gaze. He had been so enthused with playtime that he had neglected to notice Moriarty in the doorframe, watching him with deeply amused eyes.

Yes, that was one worth keeping, and remembering…

Jim’s tongue slid over his lips. He glanced from the streetcorner where the mark was supposed to show up, to the bell tower where the tiger lay in wait for his prey, and then back again. Well-manicured fingers scraped along the inside of his thigh, touching and brushing along the fabric there, picking over thread after thread. Here was his entertainment, he thought snidely, splaying his fingers over the junction of his thighs. They spread inward and grazed the swelling curve of his own cock, which was beginning to harden within his tailored slacks.

Nothing wrong with a good wank of his own, right? That was one way to kill time. Boredom was the primary motivator for most of Jim’s self-love anyway….and the thrill of being in a complete stranger’s apartment, and perhaps mussing up their furniture a little were exciting prospects as well.

So, locked with the image of the lover-that-was-not-his-lover jacking off bright behind his eyes, Moriarty unfastened and unzipped his slacks.

He tugged his cock out and gave it a gentle squeeze, stroking more than his ego as he leaned back just a little bit more in the wingback chair. Displeased with the friction there, he spat into his hand once, and then twice. Much better. Jim rolled his shoulders and rocked his head back, mimicking what he could remember of the other man’s hand movement, reliving the memory through his own body. His nostrils flared, his legs twitched and shifted, playing his thumb along the slit in the tip of his cock. There were sensitive little nerves there, and he pressed the digit in deeper. Moriarty kept that kind of pressure with one hand, the other moving to caress the shaft and his aching balls, trying to ignore whatever just brushed up against his le—

…

Wait.

Jim gave a glowering glare as he bolted fully upright, glaring down at the little black feline who was making friends with his trouser leg. The small creature was purring louder than was natural, and looked up at Moriarty with bright yellow eyes. The criminal regarded it with a blackened stare, eyebrow twitching. Though quite a bit of an exhibitionist, this was not a welcome audience. What are you looking at?

“Meow.”

…Fucker.

Grumbling something about rabies infections and the perineum, Jim quickly stood and nabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck. The little thing was placed quickly in the bathroom, and the door was  pressed shut. What a stupid animal to have in a room filled with white furniture.

He returned to the chair and sighed out a sigh of relief and elation. Now. Where was he?

Oh, right…

Jim licked his lips, fingertips once more sliding with feathery touches over his own sex. They slid around the hardness there, and his free hand gripped the arm of the chair, gently moving to fuck into his own palm. He squeezed gently with every outward movement, and released his grip every time he pushed into it. This was technique, perfected over the ages and seasoned with a few little additions of his own. One of these newcomer sensations was the feel of his own nails, dragging along the engorged flesh between his legs, as well as up and down his inner thighs. The attention drew more blood into the capillaries in his cock, flushing deeper. Pretty.

After some time, he turned in the chair, draping himself across it sideways as he tightly gripped his dick, giving a pretty little cry, which echoed funny in the room. He smirked and rubbed himself a bit more before doing it again, and this time the echo was a bit louder. As he teased his own body, he was beginning to note the architecture of the room with a slight frown. His voice was echoing from the wrong walls, and it had the consulting criminal rather confounded…for a moment. His hand slowed. It wasn’t an echo.

The little cat was yowling and pawing at the bathroom door now. A sigh of discontentment left his lips.

Slacks open, fully hard cock still out, he trudged over to the bathroom door and opened it , picking up the cat again. This particular cat was an enemy now, and he gave it a sneering glare as he crossed over to the window by the chair he had not been occupying. “Just as capable of being a pest as getting rid of one. You remind me of someone.” This time he murmured this out loud, unlocking the window and holding the cat outside. The poor tiny thing wriggled and squirmed and mewled. Luckily for the creature, there was a balcony just under the window that led down to a fire escape. Jim liked to think he could have heard a nice SPLAT, though…

Right then. No more frustrations.

He was back at it, twisting his hand now, around the thick spear of his erection, working it much faster. Yes, he was going to cum…he was going to cum right here, right now, in some stranger’s home, into the palm of his other hand, which rubbed hard at the crown of him.

Images danced through his head. Images of violence and sex, shaken, not stirred. He saw Moran there, in his mind,  giving that final sharp, bestial cry as he came. Such a good boy…such a naughty thing, jacking off when Daddy wasn’t looking…but the tense of his abs and the jerk of his hips when he came, so pretty, so pretty—

Jim was riding the razor’s edge, hard. His hair was in disarray from rubbing against the back of the chair, and his legs tremored horribly from nearing orgasm. Oh, he was going to finish, right here, straight into his hand to swallow down.

The dulcet tones of the Bee Gees vibrated in his pocket. Phone call.

Ignored. A throaty sound akin to a whimper reverberated from his lungs. Almost there, for fuck’s sake, almost there.

A gunshot from his pocket. Seb’s text tone. Speak of the Devil’s Helper.

Also ignored. Jim’s breath was dewy, and all that dew in him was about to condense and spill out.

A second gunshot.

With a growl of exasperation, Moriarty fumbled to grab his phone from his pocket, unlocking it even as he continued petting himself. He opened the first message and shouted out an irritated “WHAT?!” as though the text could actually hear him speak.

First message: [Job’s done.]

Oh, so he had missed that. Shame. Oh well…he trusted in Sebastian to make a clean kill.

Second message: [I see you.]

Oh.

Oh.

Deep brown eyes snapped back up to the belfry, and he knew he made eye contact, even from this distance. Sebastian was watching. Sebastian Moran was watching him have a wank in the home of some girl whose name ended in –et.

Brilliant.

A smirk creased his lips as he speed-dialed the sniper and raised the phone to his ear.

“……………………..-click- Having a bit of trouble with some pussy down there, boss?”

Moriarty snorted, keeping the phone close to his ear as he petted his cock. “Oh, Sebby. Take care mocking me. I know you wish you were the one here right now, playing with my body instead of me, hmmmm?”

The soft grunt on the other end of the line seemed to signal some sort of approval. Jim smirked and stood, slowly moving to the window. To hell with onlookers…no one looked up in London. The criminal cradled the smartphone between his shoulder and ear, pants audible to Moran over the device. His forearm rested against the firm panes of glass, and he leaned into it as he continued pawing his erection.

“Do you see?”

“Just so.”

Moriarty laughed at that, his breathing quickly growing heavier. “I want you to watch, Sebby. I want you to watch my cum as it drips down this window.” His hips pressed in, and he rolled his cock against the glass for a brief moment, giving a husky groan. “I want you to imagine how warm and sticky it is, honey.” Jim bared his teeth, rubbing himself much faster now. “I want you to imagine swallowing it all down for me, being a good boy—nngh!! …A good boy, for Daddy.”

He kept eye contact with the scope, enjoying a few inarticulate sounds from the other end of the phone. Here was the edge again. Here was his final moment…

“…Boss.”

“Nngh, yes…yes, gonna cum!”

“…Boss.”

The noise here was a pretty, strangled little groan.

Sebastian laughed, and that’s when Moriarty’s hand stopped.

There was the sound of broken glass.

Jim’s lips pursed. He slowly glanced over to his right, where the main entrance was.

Her nametag read “Scarlet.” She had dropped the vase of fresh flowers she had been carrying.

And here was James Moriarty, leaning into a window in a flat in a mildly busy street, stroking his cock, his pre-spending in droplets on the panes of glass, talking on the phone to his pet sharpshooter across the street. Things had gotten just slightly awkward.

She seemed about to scream, reaching for a poker from next to the fireplace.

“…I fancy your curtains.”

Jim said it simply, his only deadpan response before dodging the cast iron that was stabbing at him, obscenities flung at his back as he evaded past the girl and the pile of broken glass.

The criminal mastermind hung up on Moran, silencing peals of laughter from the little headset of the mobile.

Here was James Moriarty, still nearly fully hard within finely tailored dress slacks that were barely fastened, and running away from a girl with a pointy stick.

…Sebastian was going to need punishing. So. Much. Punishing.

He glowered at the exiled cat on the balcony above that seemed to mock him with a tiny, pitiful mewl, strode briskly past the crime scene that was unfolding on the street corner, and dissipated into an alleyway behind the church.

Hell hath no fury like a cock blocked.