Her theory is confirmed later, when they're face to face with the remaining target. Jamie hangs back as they're leaving the interview room and inquires as to the nature of his allergy to bee stings. He seems to be taken aback by her line of inquiry but soon settles as she fires off questions, short shot. It is a wonder that they've let her interview him at all. She's technically not licensed as a consultant by the city, her presence here is a favor to a friend and nothing more. They know she wants something, they all do, even this gnat of a man who has no idea how large a piece of the puzzle he truly is.

He sit sand listens to her questions, his head tilted off to one side and a positively baffled at her line of questioning. Does he need an epi-pen if he is stung? Does he have it on him? He looks at her, mouth agape like a beached fish gasping for the breath that the air itself cannot give. The language barrier falls away and he slowly nods yes to her questions and starts to explain in rapid Greek that his allergy is severe and something that he and his brother shared.

"Is that why he died so quickly?"

"Perhaps," Jamie answers, and ducks out of the room. She has little use for this man now, his brother, the higher ranking of the pair in terms of Greek diplomatic corps, would have actually been useful to Jamie. She had photographs of a liaison between him and an under-aged (for America anyway) male escort, and was waiting for the appropriate time to use them. A plot like Macedonia was probably beyond her now, with half her contacts burned and the rest of her secrets twisting like sparks – ash in the wind.

She stands in the middle of a police station and does not feel at all out of place. They cannot touch her now, and the satisfaction of knowing that she is willingly standing in the middle of the wolves' den without so much as them sniffing what she had planned is enough to set her face into a full and broad smile. Jamie cannot have that, though not just yet. She needs to find the Viper first, before she can be truly smug about the coup she's just pulled off. She'll take on the Viper's clientele, take his jobs for a while, work as him. She knows his methods well, the glimpse into his work space will prove her task easy enough.

She wonders if she can perhaps train the snakes to do her bidding. A bell perhaps?

No, that would not work, snakes don't have ears, and it would have to be touching the source of the vibrating stimulus to know where to go and what to attack. Far too complicated.

Poison, however, poison was women's work. Jamie knew poisons, not as well as the Viper, but few did. With his book she could find his sources, track their movements, and take out the suppliers, replace them with her people. She would rebuild from there. She'd decided as soon as she saw the reports of the first murder in the London papers.

Watson is leaning against the wall outside of Captain Gregson's office, chewing at her lip. They're slightly chapped, Watson isn't getting enough water, a hazard of the time of year. She's taken out the obnoxious reindeer earrings in favor of simple studs. She looks tired, but when she catches sight of Jamie, there's a moment where her face brightens considerably before she can get her emotions back under control.

That, Jamie thinks darkly, is most curious.

Their flirtation has always been just that: a flirtation. There was one lapse in judgment, a fall from grace of sorts for Watson. Jamie remembers the night fondly, when she'd set to the task of destroying Watson's innocence with her tongue tracing reverent patterns in places that were only ever meant to sin. She wonders if Watson remembers it as fondly. Perhaps that is why she's still receptive. Perhaps that is why she isn't pulling away when Jamie leans forward and into her personal space to look over the itemized report within the folder clutched in Watson's hands.

"From the sub-basement." Watson offers an explanation even when one is unnecessary. She really should know better.

"Ah." It's not needed, a verbal tick of the English language, one they should both be well and truly better than succumbing to.

There are details of note in this text. Things that Jamie thinks stand out. The abundance of dead snakes and insects in the lab, as well as the tools present for milking venom from such beasts seems to speak to her theory as to the Viper's intentions. Both brothers were set to be killed, after all, and Jamie could not let that happen.

She only wished that it was the one that still lived that the Viper had killed first. She has no use for saving this one.

A debt, perhaps, a favor to be cashed in upon at some sort of a later date.

"He's killed his stock," Jamie comments, tapping on the inventory. "Three dead and four severely emaciated and probably not long for this world, plus all the headless centipedes. It's a pity, those snakes are gorgeous killers."

"You would find that beautiful."

"There is beauty in all things Joan; it's simply a matter of perspective. A snake is an artful killer, all muscle and carefully controlled movements, waiting in long periods of seeming dormancy before moving to strike in one precisely controlled attack. It's beautiful." Jamie inclines her head to one side, a wry smile dancing at her lips. "I like beautiful things."

"So you've said. I'm not a thing."

"No one ever said you were darling."

Watson lets out an exasperated sigh that has Jamie smirking fondly at her. This is the game that they play, the game that has Jamie wanting to twist and push the knife further into Watson without her ever knowing it. She wants to spell out the undoing of the entirety of the universe with her tongue on the sweat on Watson's neck, fingers plunged deep within her, rutting like some beast against Watson's thigh. She wants and wants and wants and when Watson looks away and Sherlock comes out, Jamie knows exactly what the scowl he gives her is for.

He's trained at observing minutiae; after all, Jamie's far better at exploiting them.

It is by executive decision of Captain Gregson that they are set out on stakeout again. Cramped in a cold car and not feeling much like talking. Gone is the flirtation of the night before. Now they just both want to see this over.

Jamie shifts forward, picking at the back of gummy bears that Watson has produced from her purse and selecting a clear one – pineapple – excellent. She contemplates it for a moment before sitting back, eyes on the house across the street. They're watching the younger brother's house. He's locked in Captain Gregson's office, but a uniformed officer who looked a great deal like the man has borrowed his coat and has come and gone from the house with a grocery cart, giving it the appearance of recently vacated. It follows the Viper's pattern of setting out his snake traps while the homeowner was away.

"Sherlock told me you spent a Christmas together." There is no question in Watson's voice. She's merely making a statement, but it is the statement that Jamie finds interesting. So much of this time in this endeavor has been spent dodging the issue of their shared connection to Sherlock Holmes. It isn't that they do not wish to discuss it, but rather that it cannot be mentioned. It shatters the uneasy peace that they've forged.

"We did." She takes another gummy bear and chews thoughtfully. There's a thought here, Watson is looking for something. The want to lie is almost overpowering, but she bites it back. There is no reason why she cannot tell Watson this truth, but Watson has already seen too much of the truth in her every move and action. She looks away, breath fogging before her. "It was lovely."

They had taken pictures, of the tree, of each other, of the morning that they'd spent. Jamie had never seen them developed while Irene was still alive, the roll of film sat dormant in the freezer of her safe house for many months before she'd seen it fit to twist the knife. She'd sent them, one by one, on three Christmases since. Turned them into postcards full of bad memories just to prove something that she could not admit to herself. That those memories did not matter, that she was immune to the feeling of loss that she did not feel when she looked at the snapshot of Sherlock's lips pressing against her cheek.

"He showed me the postcards."

"Ah." Bugger.

Watson turns her eyes narrowed and dark. "What the hell is wrong with you?" She sucks in a breath and sits back, eyes trained on the street ahead of them. Her entire body seems tense, ready to leap out and rain destruction down upon Jamie.

"I had to keep up the image of Moriarty somehow, Joan. Give Sherlock a good shadow to chase."

"You're a monster."

"I'm playing a role, darling, same as everyone else."

They fall into silence then, only this is not companionable like so many of their other silences. Watson is angry and Jamie knows that she's said too much. She wants to be honest with Watson, far more honest than she's ever wanted to be with anyone before. It leaves her feeling confused and terrified that she's treaded far too close to dangerous waters. It's what she wants though, she wants this to be their relationship, and she knows that Watson values that honesty.

Equality in any relationship is a fallacy but the honesty is what keeps them all sane in the end.

So Jamie throws caution to the wind and admits to something that she'd never thought that she'd need to say out loud. Watson's called her on it, used it to undo everything Jamie's worked her entire life for, and yet somehow, it feels like it must be said. "I did love him, you know. That was probably the first happy Christmas I'd ever had."

Watson regards her with a curious expression on her face. Jamie knows then that she's got her. The expectation of honesty is not one that Watson has of Jamie, and Jamie uses it as judiciously as she can. "I wasn't implying..."

They do not have a chance to speak further. The radio crackles to life and Watson is throwing caution to the wind and getting out of the car. The Viper is coming, the Viper is coming. Detective Bell and Sherlock have seen him. Jamie's expression turns grim and reaches for the radio. "Fall back, Sherlock. Let's see what he does."

Sherlock's reply is lost as Jamie follows Watson into the snow-filled night air. She follows half a step behind her up the house's front steps and past the door that the Viper has left carefully open. It's odd, really, to not have to do the breaking in. Jamie likes it, in a way. She can pull out her gun and have Watson let loose a quiet sigh of what Jamie can only hope is relief, and nod once with approval.

They move silently, as one, until they encounter a hallway and a set of stairs. Jamie indicates the footprints on the steps and places one finger over her mouth. She gestures for Watson to check the first floor, knowing that there will be no danger there. The Viper works alone and Jamie wants him alone, even if only for a moment.

She climbs the stairs silently, breath steady and even.

She hears him before she sees him, and raises the gun to level at his knee, shooting twice and watching as his body crumples down to the floor with an anguished groan. She steps forward, and he scrambles backwards across the white carpet, leaving a trail of smeared blood in his wake, his leg hanging limp and useless to one side.

"Diego." Her smile is self-satisfied as the false epi-pen falls from his outstretched fingers and her assessment of his next move has proved accurate. He was planning on triggering an allergic reaction and killing with the supposed saving grace of the epi-pen. It was a clever ruse, but one that Jamie had seen through after the centipedes had gone missing from the zoo as well. "Fancy meeting you here."

He is ashen-faced from blood loss, and his naturally tan skin has taken on a pallor that Jamie finds particularly disgusting. His scraggly facial hair stands out under his shaggy hair in the half-light from the hallway and Jamie wishes that she could stop before the temptation to hurt him more overwhelms her. It will be no fun if he simply rolls over and shows his belly to her.

"Y-you're supposed to be in jail!" His voice is laced with pain and Jamie wants to shoot him again to see what will happen. He looks like one of his snakes, creeping and crawling around on the floor, injured and unable to do anything but waste away from his injuries. "You turned down this contract!"

"Yes, Diego, I did. Did you ever wonder why you were on the receiving end of my organization's castoffs? This is not a glory grab, I assure you." She levels the gun at his face, imagines the bullet splitting his forehead in two. His blood would spray so pettily against these pristine white walls. "The police are looking for you and I intend to let them have you, provided you can give me something in return."

The problem with snakes is that they have a strong sense of self-preservation. They know when they're beat, when they are too injured to get away from what is sure to be certain doom. Diego is no different, the Viper is just like all the others, possessing weakness and inferior intellect. Jamie longs for a challenge, a mind that she can readily match against without feeling as though she wants to spill all her secrets out like some sort of snitch.

She longs to get out from underneath the pull of Joan Watson. It is Joan Watson, after all, that is making Jamie even consider staying her hand.

He grasps at his mangled knee and Jamie knows she's won. She moves, presses booted foot into the wound, crushes his fingers into the mess of blood and bone. She wants him to suffer for this. She wants him to feel the pain of what he's done by making her come back here. "I want your book."

"My book...my book isn't here!"

"Then I want its location and don't you dare lie to me Diego, there is not a corner of this earth where I cannot find you and grind the answers out of you until there is nothing left of you but a fine dust."

He rattles off a name, a church in Barcelona where a priest is holding it for him. He's crying now, tears streaming down his face and Jamie's about to push down harder with her foot just to ask again, just to ensure he's telling the truth when she hears the stairs creak and a quiet gasp of air behind her. Watson has found her, Watson is going to—

Jamie's thoughts are derailed by Watson's question, by her bending down to pick up the epi-pen and stare at it, a scowl deepening across her face. "You've shot him."

"So I have."

"Was it really necessary?"

"Of course, he tried to run away."

Jamie glances behind her to where Watson is bending to pick up the Viper's fallen weapon. She stares down at the gun for a moment. "You didn't kill him."

"Happy Christmas, Joan." Jamie gestures with her gun to the Viper. "I do think he might require medical attention if he's going to be of any use to either you or the Greeks."

Watson rolls her eyes and steps away, pulling out her phone and speaking to presumably Detective Bell on the other line.

It is late before they're allowed to leave the precinct. Jamie has given her statement to five different investigators by the time they're all said and done, and she's got a missed call from Agent Matoo on the line that he knows about. The sky is crisp and clear and Jamie's breath fogs before her face as she checks the notifications on her phone, one glove pulled off so as to enable the use of her touch screen. She's heard the quiet footsteps behind her, and she know she's acquired a shadow. The sort that she wants, however, not the irritating sort that bring up bad memories and twist her gut.

She'll call Agent Matoo in the morning.

Watson is standing behind her, hands plunged into her jacket pockets looking entirely too casual for Jamie's liking. Jamie is used to her being on edge and uncomfortable with every passing moment of their interaction. This seems too friendly, too open, to inviting. Watson sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and meeting Jamie's gaze shyly is certainly not helping the situation.

"Have they let you go then?"

"I was always free to go."

"And yet you stayed." Jamie has her suspicions, and Watson's playing a dangerous game. A game that is sure to be noticed by the prying eyes of Sherlock, if not Detective Bell and Captain Gregson. Jamie's eyebrows furrow ever-so-slightly and she turns away from Watson to hide the crack that's so clearly erupting from her mask of indifference. "Why?"

What does Watson think she's playing at?

"I thought maybe you'd like to make a happier memory."

A slow and easy smile curls at Jamie's lips and she turns back around to face Watson fully. This time the smile feels as genuine as Jamie can muster without feeling as though her face is splitting in two. Small, closed-off. That's what she does when she's not pretending to be someone else. "I never realized you were so bold, Joan."

They're in each other's space, close and breathing warm shared air. Jamie is taken with her, with how her face looks in the glow outside the precinct. She's taken with how Watson looks when she's horrified, when she's terrified, or when she's aroused. She wants to see all the emotions of life expressed across Watson's face, twisting and contorting it until she finally understands.

From her purse, Watson produces a small wrapped package. "This is for you," she says. There's no shyness in her manner, this is just a simple gesture at this time of year. "I'd like a shower, as I'm sure you would as well. I thought maybe we could meet up and have that drink afterwards."

"What is it?" Jamie asks, fingering the package. It has been three years since anyone has given her a Christmas present.

Watson's smile is tight-lipped, like a grimace or a smothered laugh. Jamie cannot tell. She gives a small shrug and tilts her head to one side. "Wait and see. There's only two more days until Christmas."

They walk down Sixth Avenue, close enough to the bustle of shopping and Times Square that Jamie's skin crawled at the exposure. They were close to Macy's soon enough, and she let Watson pull her towards the windows. The streets, even at the late hour, are clogged with holiday shoppers. Jamie lets Watson pause and examine each one, only half-listening to Joan's cheerful babble about how she used to come to look at these when she was a child. "—My father would bring me," she was saying, and Jamie pauses, stopped before a display of Santa's elves on Neptune, lit in blue and green and oddly mesmerizing. "Even after Oren decided he was too old for Christmas, I always went with him."

"You've never spoken about your father." She feels stupid as soon as she says it. It the clever sort of comment that she wants to use to impress upon Watson how interesting it is to her that this detail is being shared at all. Jamie knows all about Watson's father, she'd done her homework before she'd returned to Sherlock's life. The wildcard of Watson merited some research. Jamie had been a fool to dismiss her as another daughter of a mentally ill man dying on the cross because she could not save her own father.

She would never make that mistake again.

Watson was just like her, Just like Sherlock. Different and yet somehow the same; a great mind that saw through all of Jamie's masks to the core person underneath.

"I figured you already knew."

Jamie looks down at her boot-clad feet for a moment before looking up. She meets Watson's gaze evenly. "I did, but I assumed there was a reason he was never mentioned, same as my father."

"Ah."

"Quite." Jamie looks back to the window once more. As a child, this display in particular would have been fascinating to her. She loves space, the stares. Always has and probably always will. "Do you think she cares for the stars?"

Watson is quiet for a long time, staring straight ahead at the next Window and the gaggle of tourists clustered around it. She sucks in a breath of air and reaches out. There's a press of warm fingers against Jamie's hand, hanging limply at her side. They tangle together and Jamie knows then, she just knows, that this is the humanity that Watson wants to see in her. The humanity that Watson is attracted to.

If only she knew better how to show it. It would make this game so much easier to play.

"I think that she's eight years old, Jamie. And that she cares for the woman who saved her life a great deal." Watson's face is close then, and Jamie kisses Watson like she's some sort of college dalliance, quick and chaste on the lips.

"I know a place," Jamie says against Watson's lips.

"Then let's go."

It is snowing outside when Jamie awakens with the itch to create. She traces cheap hotel pens against paper found in her purse until she has a perfect sketch of Watson, legs caught up in a sheet and dozing as snow fell gently outside. She leaves the drawing next to a card and a perfectly wrapped box of water color paint procured for her during the night. Watson will see the name and know what to do.

No child of Jamie's will ever be holy, but perhaps knowing Watson will steer her down the path of angels.

And when she opens the package Watson had given her and finds a small stuffed panda bear, she shakes her head and sets it aside. Watson had seen her childhood disappointment hidden beneath the veil of adult loathing and had sought to remedy that. It is a gift for a child, perhaps. A child that Jamie never truly had a chance to be.