Jamie does not sleep.

To sleep is to descend into the land of nightmares, the place where her life is meaningless, a pool of blood underneath Sebastian Moran's tripod. She turns the case over in her mind, staring up at the perfect blank of her hotel room's ceiling. Watson had turned down her offer, a lamenting admission of exhaustion; they'd been running ragged for days on this case now.

Jamie is glad that she'd missed that, come in at the eleventh hour when they already knew their target well enough. She'd been able to immerse herself in getting caught up, in gathering information and providing the key pieces that they'd yet to set into the puzzle. She's been holding back a few detail here and there, trying to keep herself one step ahead. She has a goal, a want, from this meeting with the Viper. She even knows his name.

She's held back though, cautious with the details. Information is her business, after all, and she plays the game well. These are the details that she wants to hold back, to play close to the vest until she knows that this man won't survive the encounter. It is starting to look as though that will not be the case, and the twisted pull of satisfaction that comes with the realization is almost enough to chase away the nightmares of this night.

This time of year is not easy on Jamie. She's long-since given up caring for such times, they hold no sentimentality for her. There is no one left to share them with, she supposes. And yet she is forced to confront her humanity during this time over and over again. It comes in strange guises, the pleasant face of Joan Watson or the haunted recollections of all that she and Sherlock had once been. She hates it, hates how it makes her weak, makes her remember things that are meant to stay buried. The memory of her quest for divinity, the vicar who'd helped her along on her quest for god-hood. She'd been a god, torn down and turned around by the same fallacy that they fall prey to eventually.

Love, lust, it is all the same in the end.

The memory of a Christmas past plagues her thoughts now, unrelenting in its persistence. She sees Sherlock in a knit cap and scarf, standing in the middle of a forest of short pines, hatchet in hand. They'd bought a Christmas tree together, their one holiday that they shared. They'd strung popcorn and cranberries, made ornaments out of the surplus of supplies that littered Irene's apartment. She knew then, as they shared a moment before this tree, that this had to end and end soon. She was growing fond, affectionate, and such a thing could never last.

She'd given him a scarf of red knit wool, bought in Sweden on business. He'd given her something far more precious. A slip up, a case file left out and the unfurling of a whole future before her very eyes. She'd known of the man beforehand, but never seen his work in such detail before. Sherlock was vexed by the case and had snatched the file from her hands and thrown it away onto a pile of his papers in the corner of her studio where it had lain through Christmas Eve and Day, lingering into Boxing Day and then beyond. It was by the New Year, the tree out on the curb, that he'd let her see the file again. He'd shown her what Sebastian Moran did, and Jamie had seen her final solution to the problem of Irene Adler.

It is strange for her to unlearn her habits around Sherlock. She twists them around and projects them back onto him, onto Watson. She likes Watson for her ability to see straight through anything that Jamie dares throw at her. There's want there, twisting a curling at the pit of Jamie's stomach. She will have Joan Watson again, this time with the chance to linger beyond their hurried and violent coupling of before.

Perhaps this is her Christmas present. To have the memory of what it felt like to be loved, once, at this time of year, only to be caught up in wanting another and the disquiet that comes from the memory of Sherlock and how foolishly she'd fallen. Perhaps this was her doom, to always remember how she could have given up her enterprise for that feeling, and how she'd never even considered it.

Sleep does not come easily for Jamie, it never has. The nightmares turn to dreams, and it is in the dream world that she is at her most vulnerable.

And the beauty of a winter night all covered in snow is all that keeps her from feeling as though she's gone truly mad.

A sleepless night leads to a restless morning. Her enterprise is in shambles after her stint under Agent Matoo's care, and brick by still-crumbling brick she's trying to rebuild her empire up into something that she sink back into, wrapped in a cloak of shadow and anonymity. This is a chance to get back into the game under the guise of doing good and winning her the affection that she wants from Watson. She's on the side of angels ostensibly, she holds no allegiance save to herself.

She wants the Viper, she wants his contacts and his methods examined, and she wants him gone. She'll kill him if she has to, but it seems more fitting to stow him away in an American prison until she can find cause to use him once more. Sebastian is gone, Gaspar is gone, she has very few people left that she can trust, and her number of contacts is devastatingly low. To win the Viper's contacts, to take them in a meeting of wits and minds, that is what Jamie wants, and Joan Watson is going to help her get them.

They meet for coffee in Chelsea, far away from Brooklyn and further from the Zoo. It's snowing gently, it's been doing it all night, and it's started to accumulate now as Watson sweeps a swirl of snowflakes in with her and settles down on a stool across from Jamie on the small table she's taken for them.

"Sherlock says nothing happened at the apartment last night."

Jamie's man she'd set on Sherlock's tail had said the same thing. There was no activity outside of the zoo the previous evening. Sherlock had spent the night curled up in a very expensive car trying not to freeze to death. Jamie supposed it was better than being surrounded by non-native fauna and people who enjoyed panda bears.

"Pity," Jamie purses her lips and eyes the menu written on chalk in a flourishing hand. She cannot let on, not just yet, how much she knows of this situation. Watson has figured out that she wants something, yes, because Watson isn't stupid. To have her guessing while Jamie steers them towards the most desirable outcome seems a reasonable solution to the problem at hand.

This coffee shop was a suggestion of her driver. Far enough away from familiar territory that they are sure to be left alone until they are ready to venture out into the snowy city once more. There are high tables and low benches, a sign urging people to please not use their laptops in the door and the surly, frowning face of the shop's logo emblazoned in white at the window. There are bits of evergreen, fresh and not fake, dotting the long narrow space, and everyone seems to be full of the good holiday cheer that Jamie finds herself detesting.

Even Watson is wearing reindeer earrings.

She's tugged off her knit cap and is trying to smooth her static-charged hair into some semblance of order. It's a moment of humanity that Jamie did not expect from Watson, who is perhaps the only angel of destruction that Jamie knows. "I've never been here before." It's a confession, Watson tucking her hair behind her ears and drawing more attention to the obnoxious earrings she's chosen to wear. To admit that this is unfamiliar turf is interesting, doubly so when Watson sucks her lower lip into her mouth and gives Jamie one of those sheepish self-conscious smiles that betrays only how far Jamie would be willing to go to truly know what was going on inside that pretty head.

There's a moment then, when Jamie wants to rip the earrings from her ears and throw them away into the gathering snow. She hates them, hates that Watson is not as immune to the season as Jamie thinks she should be. Watson who is not of this faith, Watson who should know better. This season is a lie, fake cheer and ill tidings all wrapped up in an opiate for those who are too afraid to think for themselves.

Her hand shakes and she turns, staring up at the menu. She can't look at Watson. Not now. Not until she can reign in her emotions and present the sort of person that Watson would want the way that Jamie wishes to be wanted. They've been through this, the twisting web of all that is and yet is not said between them.

They are both far better actors than they let on, and the games they play with each other are truly delightful to a mind starved for stimulus.

"It is a bit far, isn't it?"

"I imagined it was your intent." Watson tilts her head, a fond smile on her face and reindeer at her ears. There is a familiarity in her voice, a casual tone that betrays how far they truly have come in order to be at the point where they can accept each other. Such things will never come to pass, but Jamie knows that she can take her small victories in the form of Joan Watson's pliant skin beneath her lips. "To get away from where prying ears might feel inclined to listen in."

Jamie lets out a small snort of a laugh even if she doesn't feel amused in the slightest. She does not wish to be reminded of Sherlock after the night of dreams she'd had. "He does make a habit of such things, doesn't he?"

"He's asleep, if you must know. He spent the night be cold and miserable with Alfredo -" Watson falters, as though she's realized the name might be alien.

"His car thief sponsor, I know."

"Of course you do."

"It is my business to know things, especially about the people I find interesting Joan." Jamie is starting to relax. Starting to feel calm enough to look at Watson and not want to commit acts of violence. She exhales, leans forward just a little bit and tries not to look eager. "I'd like a flat white."

Watson orders an espresso shot and pays without question. Jamie had gotten the last coffee they'd shared, almost six months ago. That had been Watson's fall from grace, her concession to Jamie's constant needling and coy flirtation. She'd let it happen, or maybe had even wanted it to happen. Jamie didn't know.

Perhaps that wasWatson's game.

"Marcus called when I was on my way over here," Watson says. She's coming back with a tiny cup and a larger one for Jamie. "They found the manifest when management got in this morning. Is the Viper known to use bugs?"

"Bugs?"

"More specifically centipedes."

"No centipede bite will kill a person, Joan. They aren't that venomous, especially not in a city as big as this."

Watson purses her lips and sips delicately at her espresso. "There was a note on the manifest that there was a shipment of centipedes included with the snakes in that shipment from the Washington Zoo."

Now that is interesting, and it feeds into a theory about this case that Jamie has had since examining the first report from the medical examiner. The snakes the Viper had used were not known to be especially poisonous, especially not in a city of this size. Anti-venoms were common enough here, and the snakes were known. It should have been easy enough to save him, had they gotten to him in time.

Perhaps that was the method of the Viper, to show his hand and then go forward with a new method, an added element of despair. Jamie admired the cruelty. She exhaled, leaning against the table on one elbow, schooling an expression of disinterest onto her face. "While fascinating creatures, they truly aren't a threat. Their bites cause irritation yes, and pain, obviously. But not a threat to your man."

"He isn't mine."

Too right, Jamie thinks. Jamie twists her cup around, admiring the perfect blankness of the drink. Beauty to hide a dark underbelly. It is almost fitting. "You know what I mean."

"But then why steal them?"

"Haven't the foggiest. I am more concerned with finding the Viper."

"There must be a reason...who wants to keep a venomous centipede?"

Jamie has no answer she cares to share. She has a theory based on the medical records that they'd obtained from their first dead diplomat. The Viper's second target, the first's twin brother who'd worked as his aide and policy advisor, would have a similar disposition. An allergy and sensitivity to certain venoms. How the Viper would know this is a mystery that Jamie finds fascinating.

They are called back to the precinct not long after Jamie finishes her coffee and regards Watson with quiet disinterest as she finally caves and goes back up to order herself a cup of coffee to go. They run on the stuff, she and Sherlock both, and Jamie had anticipated that there would be a second coffee order in Watson's future. She disappears into the tiny cell of a bathroom while they're preparing it, leaving Jamie to collect it from the smiling barista who winks at Jamie and offers her a sticker to go with the order.

"Because you ordered twice," she says. "Merry Christmas."

Jamie stares down at the scowling face on the sticker and feels as though her expression must be mimicking it back. She nods her thanks and tucks the sticker away, waiting for Joan by the door in the tiny window alcove that looks out over the swirling snow.

Her driver is waiting, and when Joan appears she does not protest the offer of a ride back to Brooklyn.

They sit in the back seat and do not speak. Watson fiddles with her purse strap, and then her phone, before letting out a great exhalation of air and tugging the casefile from her purse and flipping it open. She is reviewing the initial case, all jumble of inappropriately applied facts and extraneous information.

The case itself is fairly mundane, as far as murders go. A man died, alone in his apartment. What was more interesting than the man's line of work – he was a diplomatic aide to the Greek embassy in the city – was the manner of his death. He had been bitten no less than seven golden lanceheads which had been let loose in his apartment, the flesh melted clear away from the bites. Jamie could understand why the case caught Sherlock's attention, it had caught her's as well. Even the London papers were carrying it, touting this story of a man who'd been attacked by a rare viper indigenous only to the Ilha da Queimada Grande off the coast of Brazil. Jamie had recognized the work, but had somewhat dismissed the case when she'd seen that the man was living not three floors up from an exotic snake dealer. It could have simply been an accident.

What followed, however, was a whispering that the Viper was in New York on a job, a girl passing a note on, a favor for a favor. Jamie had swallowed her pride to state her interest to her former captor through the Interpol contacts that he was so quick to bring up any time she was in prison. They had nothing on her and knew that they could not give chance until she'd given them something legitimately criminal to base a line of inquiry upon. Jamie had decided, however, to do just the opposite. Offering her services to Sherlock, especially at this time of year, just stank of benevolence and good will.

Jamie wanted the Viper. She wanted his contacts and to see her name smeared in his blood at the tips of his fingertips. She wanted to use this moment for a coup even before she came to New York. Now, trapped in the melancholy of nostalgia that comes with this time of year, Jamie wants him even more. Perhaps it is this want that drives her to the memories, and not the other way around. She has no use for such emotions, and had killed them all long ago.

Perhaps that was her failing.

"You're quiet." Watson says.

She says nothing as the car speeds over the Brooklyn Bridge.

Watson gets a text and reads it quickly. "They're bringing in Nikolas."

"Good, I'd like to talk to him."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"It's nothing untoward, Joan. I want to know if he's allergic to bees."

"Bees?"

"It might explain the centipedes."

It is Watson's turn to shake her head and dismiss a theory out of hand. "It wouldn't matter, those are two different reactions."

"The viper is a genius with poisons, Joan, I'm sure he could figure it out."

They lapse into silence once more.

It isn't surprising to Jamie that one of the missing snakes is found dead a few hours later, while they're sitting at the precinct waiting for something to happen. Sherlock and Joan are going over their notes with Detective Bell, and they've left her alone to stare at Captain Gregson in his office. He'd been the one who was the most hesitant to have her included in the investigation, not liking the implications of her presence or any ulterior motives that they might have. But the circumstances of the case, as Agent Matoo explained them to him, were such that he could not reasonably say no.

She had manufactured the circumstances by which she was invited into the investigation, yes, but it had been for the best. The Viper was not the sort of foe that would back down easily, not one to be easily dissuaded for his continued pursuit of the target. Jamie knew her involvement would make him cautious, provided he even knew she was involved at all. There was no such guarantee.

Sherlock insisted that they be taken along to examine the extremely aggressive snake that had been killed by a bodega owner trying to put together a basement supply run when he'd stumbled upon it, coiled up next to the exhaust pipes of the basement cooler. He'd grabbed a shovel and successfully removed the creature's head.

"Good riddance," Detective Bell mutters. He's bent down inspecting the headless snake. It is easily a meter long and shows signs of being emaciated. The Viper is clever, but the snake should never have been here; this bodega owner smells like the surge of humanity, but certainly is not his target. "Murdering snakes, what's next, diabolical pigeons?"

"The idea is not without merit, Detective Bell." Jamie cannot help herself, not when Watson and Holmes but stand stock-still and stare at her as though she's started singing some great aria and not merely making something that could possibly resemble a joke. She merely raises an eyebrow at them and pulls a pen from her pocket to inspect the snake. It looks warm and comfortable, if headless and clearly starving.

Jamie frowns, her lips pitching downwards and a thoughtful expression drifting across her face. Sherlock's noticed what she has, and is pacing the floor. He bounces, testing the wooden floor. There are boxes everywhere full of crisps and abysmal American chocolate. There is a moment of silent communication between him and Watson, before he bends and pushes away a larger, heavier box labeled 'Frito-Lay Dip.' There is an indentation on the floor in the shape of a trap door.

"Oh well played," Sherlock mutters. Watson seems impressed as well, but more cautious. Sherlock has always been the brash one of the pair. He's eyeing Jaime now, watching her with narrowed, almost accusatory eyes. Jamie gives him a little wink and turns to Watson.

That is the difference now, she does not feel as compelled to twist the knife. Twisting the knife feels almost petty after Irene's grand reappearance and Sebastian's death. Instead she's set her eyes on Watson. Watson who comes far more easily to Jamie than she'll ever care to admit. She'd gone about Sherlock all wrong, she admits this freely now. She'd seen Watson as a mere hanger-on, captivated by Sherlock's brilliance and swept away by it. Her shortsightedness had been her undoing.

"A basement within a basement?" Watson sounds almost bewildered, but there's a crinkle of amusement at her eyes that Jamie knows is genuine. It's pleasant. She likes it, likes how Watson's looking to her with the same wry sort of smile that Jamie's flashing at her. This is a flirtation; and Sherlock is probably well aware of it.

Jamie wants him to know what they did. What she wants to do again.

"Everyone has to have a secret lair somewhere, Joan," Jamie replies. She'll have Watson again.

"I don't suppose you do."

Jamie gives a mirthless laugh. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Watson shakes her head and smiles, ducking down the steps after the uniformed officers that have ventured down first, guns drawn and prepared to fire upon anything that they encountered. Jamie follows, one hand plunged into her pocket, fingers curling around her gun.

Below there is a chemists' lab set up along one long table against the far wall. Everything is dimly lit by the glow of heat lamps and it feels almost cave-like. Sherlock has to stoop, as do many of the uniformed officers, to even look around.

The entire place is filthy, dirty beyond compare. There are biohazards that dot the place and she's forced to step away from the work bench before she can get a good look, the smell is so powerful. Everything looks to freshly placed, the man is just gone, probably while his snake was being killed. She'll have to see if they agree, but her theory is beyond sound. Whether or not the lackwits who work with Sherlock and Watson figure that out is up to some debate, but Jamie sees the whole situation as somewhat promising.

The walls rattle as the subway passes by and the snakes that are housed in long tanks under heat lamps shift, uneasy. The lights are still on, and the acrid smell of smoke and chemicals fills the air. Jamie wrinkles her nose and sees the moment when Sherlock makes the realization of what they're dealing with. They've just missed him. And he's gone after the target.

"He's just gone," Sherlock announces.

Jamie, hands plunged into her pockets, shakes her head in disgust. "Damn."