You don't find James Moriarty, he finds you.
It's a common misconception people have, he is the all-knowing, all-powerful, ultimate bad guy; the man who spent £30 million just to get Sherlock Holmes to come out and play. Ordinary people assume that a man like that simply can't be tracked down. Moran knows better, but then she isn't ordinary, or so Jim's always telling her. J. Moriarty and fem!Seb (I regret nothing).
Disclaimer: All characters belong to BBC, Mark Gatiss, and the Stephens Moffatt and Thomas, as well as Arthur Conan Doyle (since the unholy trinity have yet to introduce us to a Seb!) No theft or bad intentions meant; fanfic is simply a good writer's block cure.
2004: The first time she saw him she had him between the crosshairs of her rifle. She had been loathed to take the job but the client had offered a fee she just couldn't refuse, so here she was in Hong Kong at 2am, brushing her fringe out of her eyes, she really needed to get her hair cut, steadying her breath, slowing her pulse, letting the moment take over. She pulled the trigger and the little man in the swish suit was down. He wasn't dead, not yet, but that had been the deal; her client wanted him to know he was dying. She watched him a little longer as he lay on the deserted pavement, blood pouring from his left leg. Most people thought leg wounds were harmless; they believed what the movies told them, they were idiots. She'd severed the femoral artery; he'd bleed out in minutes, leg shots were just as dangerous as head shots, they just took longer. Further along the street she saw several suited men running towards Moriarty. Help this late at night was odd, she assumed they were bodyguards, which meant it was time to move. Packing up her kit she made a hasty retreat. There was a private jet waiting to whisk her back to London, courtesy of her client; a little sweetener on top of her £800,000 fee. Someone wanted Jim Moriarty dead, really dead.