John had killed his sister, doping her with stolen cocaine and stabbing her until she stopped screaming, when he was twelve. He had picked locks since he was six, delighted in torture since he was eight and found the cat. He slipped on masks since he was thirteen, leaving the role as traumatized orphan and slipping into accomplished student and selfless soldier.
John had delighted in carnage, made the CIA shake in terror, had killed everyone MI6 sent until he grew bored, he had outwitted Sherlock Holmes, and Mycroft still didn't know who he was? Still thought he had stumbled into Sherlock's good graces and was merely a pawn of the unknown consulting criminal, still thought he could be played.
John had traced Jim's scars while planning mass murder, he had burned men alive and dismembered women as presents, and he'd been given the same presents in return. Jim had given him his life, his love, and his trust, knowing one day his lover would aim for him.
The Holmes brothers would burn.