John knew that he would have to allow his id, something he attempted to hide away oh so carefully, come into play so he would share no remorse. He would for once indulge. Well, he had to. He had but no choice to kill a completely innocent citizen.

He went everywhere and felt time ticking. It was running out quickly. After a while he met a young, and by young he meant a twenty year old exchange student, from North America - Canada perhaps - who was wasting her money drinking. He approached her and offered to buy gher a drink.

He learnt that she had been suffering from a brain tumor, and that she had came to London in hopes to die peacefully in the city she believed she should of been born in. Fucking hipster his id commented, acting as though he were the alter Watson. However he managed to smile, and listened. Turned out she was also quite suicidal, as her parents were planning to come to London and attempt to bring her back home. He got extremely bored.  

The bar tender had pulled him aside, handing him a bit of Rohypnol, for casual acts but he protested. When he realized the other wasn't going to give up, he finally gave in and took it. The bar tender watched intently - was he working for Moriarty too? - and managed to distract the Canadian.

He managed to slip the muscle relaxant drug into her drink, and felt extremely guilty. He had promised to bring her back to Baker Street, where he would intently kill her. He had no plans to rape her. Just murder her peacefully but bloody enough to maintain Sherlock's safety and health.

So he brought her back. He brought her back, and she had completely fell into a stupor. He had locked the door to the upper level so Mrs. Hudson would not walk in and phone the Yard.

He went to the washroom first and attempted to give himself a pep talk, anything that will boost his confidence that he would not be caught and that he wouldn't be charged with first degree murder. After a while, he found himself laughing and brought himself to look at his reflection. His eyes weren't bright and warm. No, instead they turned cold and opaque. He returned back to his victim, where he tilted up her head and smiled cruelly. Her vision became blurred as he did so. "You don't talk, you don't say nothing, okay?" He purred. Oh this was going to be f u n.

He wiped off her chin with a baby wipe, making sure there was no ruddy way his DNA could be traced if her body were to ever be found. He applied gloves, latex and opened up a pocket knife. He cut small cuts, of course, on her face and opened up an orange. Oranges, and any other fruit contained citric acid, not strong enough to cause damage but enough to burn. She moaned in agony, loud enough but he shushed her. He ran and grabbed a pillow case, creating a gag and forcing it around her mouth open.

Jim Moriarty wanted it bloody? His alter and slightly darker ego would want it to look like a massacre. So he did. He snapped her neck and stabbed her at least eleven times in various places. If he would, he'd compare it to Duncan's murder in Macbeth by Roman Polanski.

It hit him real hard after a while that he had just murdered someone for Moriarty's entertainment. He grabbed his phone and texted the other.