Jim's Bad Day

James Moriarty was annoyed. Very annoyed indeed.

First of all, last night Sebastian had gotten drunk again so he'd had to take care of that. Then he woke up early in the morning to the lovely sound of Seb vomiting up his hangover. After getting up and making sure Seb wouldn't drown in a pool of his own vomit, he showered and dressed in one of his favorite Westwood suits, hoping to brighten the day. Instead, the world decided to add insult to injury by having a fucking pigeon shit on his suit.

He swiftly made a quick call to have all pigeons in the London area exterminated before noon then cleaned himself up in the car, watching the driver from the corner of his eye and making small comments to himself about what he did to the last person who dared laugh at him. The driver was smart and uttered no sound.

Jim left the car, eyes wary as he scanned the sky for any stray pigeons, the scurried into the building where he had a semi-important (and rather boring) meeting with the Head of the Spain crime syndicate.

Who refused to speak bloody English and didn't think to bring a damn fucking bloody translator.

Jim silently gritted his teeth as he suppressed the urge to slit the man from head to toe with his pocketknife. He knew he could have a translator in a matter of seconds if it were a different day, but as it was, it was some holiday of theirs and he'd let all of them take a few days off to celebrate. Fuck. Why was he nice sometimes? It rarely worked to his favor. He had to stop immediately.

So now he was sitting and not listening to the Spaniard prattle off in Spanish as he cleaned his nails with his pocketknife, a ticking time bomb about to explode with madness. And then that stupid man set the fuse.

Jim actually knew a bit of Spanish from when Sebby tried to teach him other languages. The phase had ended soon after it began with a frustrated Seb slamming the bedroom door and a bored Jim sitting upside down on the couch, spouting vile things at him.

But he did know the sentence the man had said by heart and was extremely annoyed with it. No. Make that extremely angry.

"Excuse me," Jim drawled in his Irish accent. "Did you just say you owned me?"

"Si," the Spaniard grunted, obviously annoyed at the interruption then proceeded to continue prattling on. But Jim wasn't going to have that. Not over his portrayed-to-be-dead-but-not-actually-dead body.

"I'm sorry." Jim interrupted lightly, standing. "I don't quite understand. Do you think you could actually own a person like me?"

"Si,"

Jim smirked dangerously, madness slowly creeping into his eyes. "I see. Well then, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disagree with you."

The man's eyes narrowed. "┬┐Por que?"

Jim laughed maniacally, causing the man to step back warily. "Because, it's quite simple, you stupid bastard," Jim rarely cursed so it was obvious the man in front of him wasn't going to be much longer in this world as Jim leered at him with a feral, almost beastly grin. "I am a king and, compared to me, you are mere horseshit my royal steed would never even think of disposing on the sewer floor." He stepped closer and the man took a few nervous steps back.

"Lo siento. Lo siento. Por favor," the man begged.

"Lo siento," Jim whispered harshly, "Usted va a morir ahora." He stabbed at him, slitting the man's stomach deeply, then his neck. Blood splattered everywhere, covering Jim's face and suit, causing him more irritation.

He sighed before wiping his face with his pocket handkerchief and stepping over the pooling blood. Now he remembered what Seb felt after a close job and put a reminder in his head to treat him much gentler the next time he came home covered in muck. It was obviously inevitable with a messy job like his.

Jim sighed again before leaving the building. He checked the time. Just a bit after noon and no pigeons in sight. Excellent. He climbed in the car without a word and quickly sent a text to have the building cleared of any and everything that would give the meeting today away to any . . . prying blue eyes. He didn't have the time or patience for any of that boring nonsense today. All he wanted to do was go home and snuggle with his Tiger. Maybe have a quick shag.

A few minutes later, Jim was unlocking and opening the door to his flat, silently wondering if Sebastian had recovered from his hangover, only to have a box shoved in his face by said man. He rose an eyebrow and looked at him suspiciously.

"Open it." Sebastian growled, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall as he chewed on an unlit cigarette. Jim refused to let him light one in the flat or when he was around Jim. They were disgustingly foul smelling things that brought lung cancer. Jim was surprised Sebastian didn't already have it considering how much he had smoked when he was younger.

Jim shut the door behind him, eyebrow still quirked and peered at the box cautiously.

"For god's sake, Jim, just open it." Seb snapped. "It's from me and you know I wouldn't try to kill you."

"Better safe than sorry." Jim murmured before opening it and furrowing his brow in confusion. "What are they?"

"Shoes."

"Yes I can see that." Jim snapped. "I meant what for?"

"You know that asshole Spaniard you met with earlier?"

Jim didn't even bother asking how Seb knew about that. "Yes?"

"Well that's what's left."

Jim stared at the shoes, the Sebastian, and then back at the shoes before a grin slid slowly onto his face and he began laughing. "You . . . you turned . . . him into shoes!" He cackled maniacally before tackling Seb into a hug and giving him a kiss.

"Of course." Seb murmured. "He was being an ass to you. And you already killed him so his skin would've been wasted." He brushed Jim's cheek gently, causing the small Irishman to lean into his touch and purr softly. "I thought I'd give a gift to my kitten as a thank you for dealing with my hangover."

Jim smiled softly and gave him a gentle kiss. "Thank you, Tiger~" He purred.

"Anytime, kitten." Seb smiled before pulling him into a tender kiss.

Let's just say, the rest of James Moriarty's day was much better.