So Sherlock was here to do what he should’ve done instead of taken the plunge. He was here to repay him in kind first and then rip his life from him in the most literal sense of the words possible. Then he could truly go home. Then this game would be over and a new one would inevitably whisk him away. But ever since Moriarty, he hadn’t really been able to regain that sense of prowess, ease or control over his thought processes that he required to function without that terrible sound of the phone going silent, the gun going off, their last conversation. He’d even lost John to a woman. John wanted domesticity after all and Sherlock wasn’t built for such a lifestyle. Neither was Jim. Jim searched for himself in Sherlock while Sherlock tried to break the mirror.
Sir Boast-a-lot wasn’t real. But Sherlock was here to kill him for once and for all.
He’d carefully scanned logs of his conversations and was able to piece together where he was living at the moment and what his phone number was after narrowing down the possibilities and conjuring the man’s image back into his mind as perfectly as he could remake it. He pretended to be from the bank and called the restaurants he’d been at, using that ruse to obtain more personal information, he called the bank in turn and faked having a position in Preya’s most secure, unyielding investigative forces, threatening to bring charges against the bank itself if they didn’t provide him with information confirming his place of residence and mobile number. With the proof he needed, Sherlock went a step further. He went to the address and staked it out, watching him leave as he disguised himself as a homeless man across the street. He didn’t try to break in, after all, Moriarty was fond of explosives and this game would be cut short quickly if he tripped a rig he’d set up in case of a break-in.
Then he saw it one day. Jim left with a bit of luggage and Sherlock seized the moment. He followed him from a safe but close distance, using a bus going in the same direction of his cab and pulling the emergency stop when he saw Jim exit the cab at the PTA Lightrail Station. He also had John’s Sig Sauer that he’d knicked from him before he left and stowed in his checked luggage, dismantled and put in clever places so its purpose was unclear and wouldn’t particularly stand out when they x-rayed it. It sat heavily in his pocket now and he kept one hand in there and the other at his side, wearing his gloves and scarf against the biting cold.
They were alone. The blizzard had shut down the Lightrail that night and Sherlock wondered if he’d been lured here or if Jim was just caught off-guard by the recent closure. He stepped from behind as silently as he could, pulling off the beanie and beard he’d used to disguise himself with and closed in on Jim. His prey.
Of course, he was caught before he could reach him and he stopped in his place, a few feet away from him and looked at him with dull, dead eyes. The lighting here made razors of his cheekbones and cast shadows under his eyes, stark, haunting, yet haunted.
As usual, he spoke first. Sherlock took note of that slicked black hair, his impossibly dark eyes, the playfulness in his voice and took his time, looking him up and down before he finally spoke.
“We’re not going anywhere. Perhaps you already knew that but your stride was unguarded, you wore your tension in your shoulders and walked swiftly, in anticipation of something.” His voice came from deep in his throat, almost a low vibrato to it. “Come now, Jim. You like me because I won’t give it up to you and you’re so very used to getting your way. But you’re a bad, bad boy,” Sherlock admonished him mockingly. “So I’ll keep my unabiding passion locked deep in my heart, which still beats steadily, somehow intact. The two of us are walking dead men. Save your uninspired innuendo and give me a reason not to do what you should’ve done on that roof.” Sherlock still had his heart. Jim hadn’t burned it out of him. His grip tightened on the gun in his pocket.