Archive of Our Own

It was in Jamie Moriarty's nature to pursue the unusual and surprising. Her infinitely complex web of contacts, information exchange and murder had, after all, been designed for the sole purpose of engagement. The fact that she'd made a multi-million dollar business off assassinations alone was simply a fringe benefit and a credit to her... creativity.

Dreams of normalcy had ceased to hold interest for her - not when she saw the world and immediately knew what secrets it concealed. Ultimately, she'd come to find that holding every card was incredibly unsatisfying, and that was the reality she'd resigned herself to.

The all-too rare event of a challenge drew her attention - it always had. Jamie was self-aware enough to realise she wasn't just interested in it, she was attracted to it, not unlike a moth drawn to a flame. That had been why Sherlock Holmes had first come to her attention, and why the possible battle of wills between them presented a rather... interesting break from the doldrums of reality.

The game she'd set out to play with Sherlock had initially looked so promising. Her finest play; a challenge like none other. For a while, Jamie had been correct - it was difficult for her to deny that she had been captivated by what Sherlock offered, no matter her original misgivings and intentions toward him.

Posing as Irene Adler, she'd attempted to understand Sherlock, determine his motives and the extent of his reported 'brilliance'. She hadn't expected him to catch on to the ruse with the paintings so quickly, and even then she'd felt the stirrings of genuine interest.

She'd gotten to know him a little better - both mentally and physically, allowing herself to indulge in intimate knowledge. Sherlock had engaged her, challenged her, and Jamie had been surprised at just how quickly she'd come to value that trait of his alone.

She'd had no desire to be saved, or to give up her network for some fool's idea of love, but… The half-baked yearnings from her youth, for something as normal as camaraderie or companionship, had stirred. One evening, following Sherlock's departure from her bed and apartment, she'd realised that he'd unwittingly put her at significant disadvantage.

For the maintainer of an international crime syndicate, her attachment to him had grown to a concerning degree, and it had been for her own sake that she'd severed contact and purposefully left him to his own devices. She had easily convinced herself that she cared little of what he did next - whether he fell further from grace, or if he stopped short of annihilation and picked up what pieces he could.

Jamie had also not intended to disabuse him of 'Irene Adler's' death until it had become absolutely crucial to her plans. So of course, as with all things unpleasant, their reunion in New York had been inevitable.

Joan Watson, at first glance, had very little in common with Sherlock. After some days of careful observation both before her rescue and at the Brownstone, Jamie had come to the conclusion that Watson was just another mundane human - another dullard that saw the world at its most basic and primitive level.

Watson - Watson had read as boring and nothing more. Her role in Sherlock's life had been obvious, if sickeningly virtuous. She had been a sober companion, employed to assist the once-great detective in leading a life free of drugs. Based on Jamie's intel at the time and her read on Sherlock's state of mind, that task had been well and truly completed. For some reason, Watson had seen fit to remain.

Far more interesting was that Sherlock had allowed it. It had crossed Jamie's mind that perhaps she'd misread the situation - Sherlock's interest could be more serious than a fleeting fancy.

Perhaps Sherlock had seen this Watson as an experimental project, in the same way that one might keep and condition a rat in a Skinner box.

Nevertheless, Jamie had decided that the woman might be worth looking into, if only due to her apparent bond with Sherlock. When he'd put the pieces together - damnably soon - whatever control she had wielded over Sherlock had shattered with the guise of Irene Adler.

Those valuable avenues gone, Jamie had finally turned her attention to Watson - if only for a single reason. If she played the sidekick, then she played Sherlock.

When she'd forcibly extracted the woman from Sherlock's side, Watson hadn't even batted an eye at the casually implied threat of bodily harm hanging over her head. Jamie had sketched it in as foolhardy courage, and nothing she had not encountered before in far more dangerous individuals.

Sherlock had apparently seen something that Jamie could not. Loath to be outdone, she'd had to reconsider. Perhaps she'd be surprised. She'd leaned on one elbow, and openly swept her eyes up and down Watson.

Disappointingly, Sherlock's sidekick had little to offer. She had spoken plainly during their meeting, and she'd truly exemplified the lack of imagination Jamie had come to expect from the mundane. She had smiled coldly, satisfied that she'd solved Watson. The woman had looked somewhat taken aback by the expression.

Perhaps Watson was intelligent - by normal standards - but far from an outlier. It had certainly become clear that she lacked the overwhelming brilliance that so defined Sherlock. Therefore, she served as no more than a distraction to the true game in New York, and Jamie had to wonder - had this red herring been something of Sherlock's design?

With that clear acknowledgement of her superiority in mind, Jamie had confined their chat to the basics. A threat here, a jab there. She had continued to analyse every move, twitch and reaction that slipped past Watson's guard. Even if she no longer cared, she had still sought a rise out of the woman and considered every fact about Watson she'd had at her disposal.

She had been harsher and more confrontational than strictly necessary - the adage of catching more flies with honey still held its truth - but she had not bothered attempting to be considerate. In hindsight, had it been petty jealousy, or had she instinctively risen to the hint of the challenge to come?

Jamie had had little desire to psychoanalyse herself. Whatever the reason, she had been no closer to understanding what Sherlock saw in this woman when their meeting had drawn to a close. An interesting failure for Jamie, but her final act had been upon them. She had scarcely needed to waste her time pondering the nature of Sherlock's sidekick.

Her disregard of Joan Watson had resulted in unexpectedly dire consequences. Jamie had won. The plan had been carried out in spite of Sherlock's propensity for meddling, she'd prevailed, and she'd emerged from the messy affair approximately one billion dollars richer.

Sherlock himself had fallen victim to his own weakness once more, and as for Watson, well, she had hardly proven herself a threat at all. Confident and elated, Jamie had allowed herself one small visit. One concession to the bond with Sherlock that she still felt so keenly.

Having won so profound a victory, what could it have hurt to attempt to convince him - for his own sake, of course - to join her enterprise?

She had never been proven so disastrously incorrect, and her victory had been snatched from her very hands. Numbly, she had listened while Sherlock told her, in that tiny hospital room, that it had been all because of Watson's observations... and that this one last, madly desperate gambit had been entirely his sidekick's design.

Jamie had known, as the captain of the police department entered the room and began to recite her rights, that she had been outplayed.

Her hands had been fastened behind her back, but even then, the proof undeniable, she still struggled to believe that she'd failed - that she'd been beaten. Jamie had shot a look over her shoulder, meeting Watson's eyes levelly for a moment. Something had stirred in her chest, a dull ache.

There had been challenge in Watson's eyes, open and defiant, and Jamie had felt her breath catch.

She'd looked away, thoughtful, and she had allowed herself to be led from the hospital without a word of protest.

She had realised that she'd need to think.

To Jamie, the idea of becoming angry with Watson for orchestrating her defeat simply never crossed her mind. Given that she had spent most of her life in search of a worthy opponent... Rage and petty thoughts of revenge would have been hypocrisy of the highest degree.

Her downfall in the hospital room played over, again and again, behind her eyelids whenever she had a spare moment. The surprise at having been defeated by such an unlikely opponent was both bittersweet and addictive, but it was the defiance in Watson's eyes that day that set Jamie's whole body aflame in a needy ache that preyed on her every thought.

She understood exactly what she felt. It was almost identical to what she'd experienced with Sherlock - an all-pervasive and intense captivation that manifested as primal attraction. The puzzle he'd presented had attracted her on a mental and visceral level, had left her preoccupied with him in spite of her objectivity.

She'd needed to understand him both inside and out, and hadn't been able to rest until she'd done so.

While Jamie was often loath to step out from the shadows and deal with a problem herself, she'd found that a hands-on approach had worked wonderfully. There was little that could be truly hidden in bed, and in one - admittedly lengthy - session with Sherlock, she'd understood that he was no threat. She'd solved him, and in doing so, she'd destroyed him.

Better yet, having her way with him, winning that intimate victory over her unsuspecting opponent… it had sated her for a time. Perhaps the same avenue could be pursued with Watson.

The idea of doing much the same with Watson rather appealed to Jamie's more twisted impulses.

In the meantime, while awaiting her day in court, Jamie had a great deal of time to dwell on the woman who had brought her entire operation crashing down. She examined the facts she had gathered on Watson, spinning and turning them around in her head while she followed millions of different pathways through to their ultimate conclusions. She spent hours doing it, going back through their every incidental micro-interactions with a fine-tooth comb, both before the reveal of her identity and after.

It was much like what occurred at the Four Seasons, and the sense of deja vu was all the more frustrating for it. Without the distraction of a web of contacts and assassinations to manipulate, Jamie's focus on Watson could only intensify.

Wonder of wonders, even Moriarty was permitted regular contact with the outside world. While Jamie's letters and her recipients had been vetted by inept minds with less than basic understanding of code-breaking and hidden meaning, it was her psychological plays with Sherlock that she was most loath to leave unattended.

She had woven in hidden meanings in the letters she sent, seeking to draw him back into her game, away from the support networks she'd foolishly allowed him to establish. He had not responded as Jamie had hoped - all she'd had to work with was icy silence.

That game, then, was completely useless, and she had realised that further attempts would be futile - she did so hate wasted effort.

In the end, she had considered, perhaps Sherlock had been simply a distraction from what she had truly wanted to pursue.

If Sherlock had ignored Jamie, completely against the grain of who he was, then there was only one culprit; Joan Watson, the hidden player. The one who had turned Jamie's expectations upside-down. The more she considered it, the more correct her next course of action had begun to feel.

Jamie had won, and then right at the end the whole lot had been reversed on her, and galling as it was she'd ended up in here.

Watson was who Jamie needed to deal with, and she could not do that in here.

Caring little for the false identity under which the government held her and more than willing to trade it out for another, Jamie decided to dispense with delusions of due process and take matters into her own hands. With her extensive resources and infinite contacts, it was far from difficult to grease a few palms and let herself out of prison.

Really, it was a tip of the hat to Sherlock and Watson's undeniable victory that she had remained behind bars so long.

Stepping out into the fresh air as a free woman for the first time in close to half a year, Jamie nodded to the lieutenant at the wheel of the car. The corner of her mouth curled into what had to be a smile, and she felt a stirring of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

Despite her previous promise, Jamie rather thought she'd remain in this insipid country a while longer.

There was yet a game to be played.

While Jamie had decided on a far more direct approach to the issue, reconnaissance was a vital part of any operation. She had always been of the philosophy that things worth doing were also worth doing well, and given Sherlock and Watson had proven themselves adept at bypassing her conclusions… she was hardly willing to allow them another opportunity.

As a result, she undertook the lion's share of surveillance herself, though a few odd tasks were given to her remaining, trusted lieutenants. Fortunately they all knew better than to question her. They'd come to accept her odd orders regarding Sherlock, and given that she'd been recently bested by this Joan Watson, they understood further study was merited.

Few of Jamie's inside men truly realised the depth of her obsession with solving this particular puzzle, and she scarcely cared to explain herself. She focused in on what truly mattered to her - the game of wills she'd begun to play with an as-yet-unwitting opponent.

That would change soon enough, of course. She had no interest in playing a game with an opponent who refused to come to the table.

From the shadows, Jamie watched Watson, measuring her in every aspect. She examined Watson's role as a partner to Sherlock, her ability to reason, deduce and critically observe. Jamie tried to do more than watch - to predict her actions before she made them, to read Watson's body language and know her history, to and the sleights before they happened.

The more she watched, the more she was intrigued. When they'd first encountered one another, Watson had appeared uncomplicated. However, there had been a remarkable growth since then - it appeared that Sherlock's efforts with her had paid off admirably.

Jamie's eyes narrowed in thought as she carefully examined Watson's most recent case file, thoughtfully liberated from the precinct by one of her contacts. If such growth was what ten months alone could yield, what could Watson be capable of in another year?

Jamie let the cheap, cardboard file fall closed. She leaned back, her mind far away as she looked out the motel window. Unbidden, a prickle started at the back of her neck, before running down her spine.

Joan Watson. I was wrong. You aren't boring at all.

In the wake of a string of high-profile businessmen ending up in the morgue, the city's pathetic, struggling police department had again engaged the services of Sherlock and Watson. That was no surprise, though for Jamie herself, the solution to the case had become obvious within a few moments of careful consideration. The result was none of her concern, and fortunately it affected none of her ongoing plans in the States.

Maybe it was testament to Watson's exponentially improving abilities of observation, or perhaps Jamie had simply grown lax and impatient. When her targets split up to investigate two different leads, Jamie had moved to have one of her surveillance operatives follow Watson.

Of course, that would be when the very same target entered the restaurant Jamie had set up shop in, and looked her dead in the eye.

Interesting, Jamie thought, tilting her head in a somewhat mocking fashion. It was a surprise that Watson had so easily - and quickly - found her. There was no use denying it, but Watson would be painfully mistaken if she believed it gave her an advantage.

Watson's eyes narrowed at the lack of reaction, and she crossed the restaurant without a moment's hesitation. It was more of that odd, foolhardy bravery, and if it hadn't been so obscenely maladaptive, Jamie might have appreciated the character quirk.

"Moriarty. I should have known you'd be involved." Watson's words practically dripped venom, and she threw them down like a challenge as she approached the table Jamie was seated at.

Jamie closed her tablet's cover unhurriedly, her eyes flicking up to meet Watson's own and her mind running through a hundred scenarios and outcomes in the precious few seconds she could delay.

It was interesting that Watson would go so far as to assume she was directly involved in the case, misguided though that was. Disappointing, even. She'd expected far better, given Watson's developing skills of deduction.

More, as much as she'd like to claim it had been by design, her first direct encounter with Watson since the hospital was somewhat... premature. Her watchmen had been given strict instructions to advise her if law enforcement discovered her presence, but to otherwise not interfere with Watson. In this it had worked to her disadvantage, and she would need to make do with the changed circumstances and test Watson further at a later date.

"Think what you will, but I have better things to do with my time than lay down breadcrumbs for you and Sherlock to follow." Jamie kept her voice level, careful to maintain her control of the situation.

Watson merely raised an eyebrow. "And last time was...?"

"A game, and not one I expect would work again. A woman who cannot adapt is doomed, don't you believe so?" Jamie leaned back in her chair, completely relaxed as she carefully checked the time on her phone. As interested as she was in playing Watson's game, in baiting her for reactions, time was against her. Watson hadn't reached for her phone yet, however that did not mean that the police were not on their way.

At this early stage of the game, when her grasp of opponent's reactions were still mostly theoretical, caution was crucial.

Jamie's phone buzzed - a message from her precinct contact. That was right - brave as Watson was, she would not have come in here without knowing there was backup on the way.

"If you're not involved, why are you having me watched?"

Watson, on the other hand, wasn't having any of Jamie's flippant responses - perhaps the goal really was to keep her in one place long enough for the cops to arrive.

Jamie allowed herself a tiny measure of delight at Watson's observation, but was careful that none of it showed in her expression. A basic ploy, yes, but it was a drastic improvement. Her earlier disappointment in Watson's poor conclusions eased somewhat.

Jamie exhaled, feigning frustration with Watson. "So. Tell me. How are the folks back home going? Your mother?" She kept a careful eye on the other woman's face. It was somehwat early to be threatening the woman's loved ones, but Jamie needed to establish the upper limits of control quickly. The way Watson immediately bristled was incredibly satisfying.

"You stay away from them," Watson said, her voice low and fiercely intense. Jamie's eyes flickered down - every shred of body language screamed rage.

Jamie wondered exactly how Watson intended on carrying out the implied threat - she liked to believe she knew a thing or two about killers and Watson hardly had the stomach for assassination or murder.

Visibly, Jamie merely shrugged. "She seemed like such a nice woman the last I spoke with her. You really should keep in contact with her. She does get so worried when she sees Sherlock and yourself on the news."

It really was too bad she could not stay to enjoy the play a little longer. It was a different play to what she'd enjoyed with Sherlock, so yes, Watson was far from an exact replacement. Watching the way Watson had come into her own gave Jamie a very different sort of thrill.

It was the challenge that Sherlock - broken, lovesick, hurt - ultimately refused to provide.

"No need to look so pathetically concerned for her. If I wanted her hurt, she'd be already in the hospital," Jamie said, waving a seemingly careless hand. "You know very well that I have no need to play pretend when I'm serious."

"And you're serious?" Watson asked, her eyes hard and her voice tight.

"When it comes to games with worthy opponents?" Jamie asked, and she smiled. The expression was cold. "I am always serious."

Jamie waved to her hired bodyguard - John? Joe? - as a way of assuring Watson that she was not alone and would not be an easy target. "I expect you've already contacted the NYPD and Sherlock. I'm hardly keen to allow you to ship myself me off to prison again, so I will be taking my leave."

Without further pause, Jamie swept past Watson, her tablet and clutch gathered in one arm.

"Running off already? I expected you'd be braver than that!" Watson called out, just loud enough for Jamie to hear.

Jamie paused mid step, and she felt a sting of resentment. It wasn't for Watson, of course, but for her blindness, a blatant flaw she'd developed without ever knowing it.

Watson might have been correct, before Jamie had been so convincingly bested. She was not going to be caught out in the same way.

"Consider this the... prelude," Jamie said, and she rather enjoyed the way Watson's expression flickered and darkened. "Don't be so foolish to believe my interest in you ends here."

As Jamie's car pulled away from the curb, she saw the expected police lights flashing in the distance behind her. Unworried and certain of her own escape route, she leaned on one elbow, tapping her finger against her cheek as she replayed the unexpected conversation with Watson over and over in her head, examining it with fierce intensity. Unexpected or not, the meeting had stirred that deep, violent heat in Jamie's chest again, building it up ever higher.

Yes, it was the defiance - perhaps even the knowing loathing - that sparked the heat and drove her to distraction. Idly, Jamie noted that such strong emotions always led to desirable outcomes in bed.

Just as it had back in the hospital room, a thrill ran down Jamie's spine. Playing with Watson, possessing her… was not going to be an easy game. Jamie had only ever lost once, though. She was not planning on a repeat of that failure.

The appearance of one Mycroft Holmes in New York City put a temporary dampener on Jamie's plans to ramp up her play with Watson. The older Holmes brother, while comparatively clever, had never been the threat to Jamie's operation that Sherlock or Watson were, so over the past few years she'd paid him little mind.

That, clearly, had proven to be a mistake. Not only had he interrupted a delicate surveillance operation by one of her plants in the support meeting, as soon as she'd gotten her hands on the scratchy audio of their reunion, she'd figured out that there was more between Watson and Mycroft than she'd expected.

Watson had apparently been very busy in London, Jamie realised, her eyes narrowing at the screen. While admittedly she was a little jealous that a fool like Mycroft Holmes had succeeded where she had yet to, it was also reassuring.

Even fully aware of the thorny relationship between Sherlock and his brother, Watson had pursued what she wanted, even if the encounter had been for a single night. Viewed at a certain angle, it was evidence that Jamie could succeed, that Watson was not so morally righteous as she'd deluded herself into believing.

Jamie settled back in her chair, making a few notes on both Watson, Sherlock and Mycroft. She'd simply renew her efforts, once the distraction of Mycroft Holmes was out of the way.

She'd be ready to begin her game with Watson then.

Their next encounter went much more to plan, and Watson did not catch on to her presence until Jamie was well prepared. She staked her position in a coffee shop not far from the precinct the two consulting detectives frequented, a calculated choice.

Jamie had painstakingly studied Watson's investigative routine, and she didn't have to wait long for her opponent to finally appear. Sliding her tablet and notes to the side of the polished table she'd taken possession of for the past hour, she simply watched as Watson gave the room a quick pass over, waiting for the moment of realisation to hit.

Right on cue, Watson's expression froze, and as Jamie raised an eyebrow, she wondered if the other woman would immediately reach for her phone.

No, Jamie decided, as Watson strode past the counter, her orders completely forgotten. Watson has far too curious a mind for that.

"What are you doing?" Watson demanded in a low, harsh voice, and laughably, she did reach for the phone in her pocket. Really, if she expected Jamie to consider that much more than a bluff, she would have already made the call.

"Ms Watson. I would say it's a surprise but..." Jamie said, her voice mild and conveying exactly what she thought of Watson's toothless little threat. "You come here quite often, I believe. Tell me. How are the vanilla lattes here? Please, do sit with me for a while." She gestured to the seat across the table from her, but as expected, Watson ignored it.

She watched Jamie for a few tense moments, her hand still in her pocket, seeming to debate her options. Admittedly, Jamie's presence here was a brazen move, given her escape, and a departure from the cafés and restaurants on her payroll. Now, she wondered whether she'd misjudged how badly the budding detective wanted to prove her independence and worth.

The idea of being so wrong after so much careful preparation was unsettling, and Jamie raised an eyebrow.

"You hesitate. Merely sitting in a coffee shop is hardly a crime.." Jamie trailed off, letting the words hang for a moment. "If you need a further excuse to call them, I could always give you one."

"You've made your point," Watson cut in. Her expression was stone, but her eyes shifted around the crowded coffee shop, weighing her options. Jamie did rather like her eyes, much in the same way she'd liked Sherlock's.

Jamie smiled humourlessly, pushing away the reminder of the man and focusing on the present - and what actually mattered. "I'm glad that's settled."

Watson finally withdrew her hand from her pocket, apparently deciding to grudgingly play along. She looked around the shop, her expression relaxing from one of barely-restrained anger to something more thoughtful, and Jamie allowed herself a moment to drop her gaze up and down the other woman's body. The simple observation she'd allowed herself until now hardly compared to a true battle of wits, and Jamie felt a delicious shiver run the full length of her spine.

She needed this battle, but more, she needed the victory she'd allowed Watson to deny her. As with Sherlock, it was all about getting under Watson's skin, it was playing with her mind, her reactions and stretching her to her very limits - it was turning hatred and fascination into broken need.

Given the recurring threats to the safety of those around her, Watson doesn't look nearly so afraid as she should be. Does she truly believe herself to be in control of this situation? Jamie very nearly laughed at the idea.

Aloud, she said, "Tell me. Did you enjoy your trip to Sherlock's old stomping grounds in London, or did he leave you behind yet again?"

Watson exhaled sharply, and she pinched the bridge of her nose as if trying to suppress a growing - if entirely non-existent, by Jamie's estimates - headache. "I'm not even going to ask how you know that."

"It really would be a moot point." Jamie leaned forward, dropping her voice lower so that Watson had to do the same to hear. "I do find it rather interesting that you'd accede to my demand so quickly."

Jamie carefully took her mug in hand, sipping her tea. It had cooled off far too much and was no longer to her taste. She set it aside.

Watson's eyebrows creased just a fraction and her jaw firmed for an instant - irritation and anger.

Perfect.

However, Watson pointedly ignored Jamie's question, and instead answered with one of her own. "I don't have time for this. What exactly do you want? This is twice that you've shown up without Sherlock present. Your games are with him. Don't kid around with me -"

"My games are with whomever I please," Jamie cut in, her voice sharp and cool. It had the desired effect - Watson went quiet, even if her eyes blazed. "Do not think to know me."

"And why not?" Watson demanded, advancing a step. "I figured you out once."

"Then you agree." Jamie traced the rim of her mug with the tip of her finger, the movement idle. She watched Watson intently, deep and all-encompassing need to understand, test, play rising up. "You are the one that interests me."

Watson was silent for a moment. Jamie leaned back in her chair, drumming her fingertips on the table.

"Perhaps you are not the only one that interests me. Perhaps Sherlock has a few individuals tracking his movements," Jamie allowed eventually, and it was true enough. She had been watching Sherlock, but hardly with the same care she'd been giving to Watson..

"I don't believe that," Watson said, her voice slow. "He hasn't mentioned anything out of the ordinary. And he would."

Jamie's eyes flickered down to watch the woman recross her arms. She could see the swell of Watson's breasts under her jacket, and for a moment, the thrill of their back and forth was lost to the sudden heat between her legs.

"And would he?" Jamie very deliberately returned her gaze to Watson's, resisting the urge to let it stray down to the curve of other woman's lips. Victory would come soon enough, though at present it might as well have been several lifetimes away. "How well can you know a person, when he is... as he is?"

Jamie left her description of Sherlock's character deliberately vague. Better that Watson filled in the details herself.

"You think you understand him. You don't." Watson's eyes narrowed. "He would say something, no matter… I trust him."

The slight hesitation spoke volumes, though. Was a history of mistrust and half-truths coming back to haunt Sherlock, then, if so few words could shake his partner's confidence in him? Or, perhaps, it was more that Watson was critically considering the facts. Jamie watched her carefully, wondering how Mycroft Holmes and the mess with their crippled detective slotted into it all.

Perhaps her pursuit of Watson would not be the only thing to drive a wedge between them.

As it was, she'd drawn out this encounter of theirs long enough, and there would be plenty of time to pull and press for reactions in the future. Jamie took one last sip of tea, before gathering her bag and rising to her feet. She made to brush her way past Watson, who still blocked the most direct path to the exit.

Jamie was unsurprised when Watson's hand flashed out to grasp her wrist, skin on skin, the grip both warm and taut. She looked over her shoulder, unafraid, her eyes half lidded in challenge. Oh, Jamie did rather like that bravery, the anger, and the feeling of Watson's hold - just a shade away from bruising. It reminded her vividly of the more... adventurous things she'd taught Sherlock in bed. Would Watson enjoy it as much as he had?

She leaned forward, closing the distance between them and deliberately invading the acceptable standard of personal boundaries. Much to her delight, Watson didn't give ground at all, simply tilting her chin up and meeting Jamie's eyes. At such a close proximity, Jamie could smell Watson's perfume over the ambient scent of the coffee shop.

"I suggest you think harder," Jamie said, pitching her voice low so Watson had to lean closer just to be able to hear. She smiled, and Watson's gaze flickered down to rest on her lips for a moment. "The questions you ask are just as important as the answers you find."

She didn't spare the woman a backward glance as she strode into the fresh spring air.

Jamie had expected some level of attention from the NYPD following her 'meeting' with Watson. Surprisingly, her sources reported no change in their activities and no sign of any further operations regarding Moriarty's escape from Newgate.

Sherlock, too, had not displayed even the slightest hint of suspicion. As much as he liked to believe otherwise, he telegraphed his emotions when it came to "Irene Adler" and "Moriarty". He seemed quite involved in his new case, chasing after threads with the same level of dedication that made him so dangerous. Jamie watched him, carefully keeping her distance, and admittedly feeling a small kernel of yearning in her chest.

The game with Sherlock would need to wait - Jamie's play was Watson, and until all the cards were down, she could not focus on anything else. There was an addictive thrill to toying with Watson's head, a hungry fire that had ignited in Jamie's chest all thanks to the success of their last meeting.

Watson hadn't seemed upset that she'd shown up again, Jamie noted. In spite of all the usual anger, there had been that telling curiosity about Jamie, so powerful that Watson had chosen to continue their meeting rather than contact the police.

Not only that, Watson hadn't so much as breathed a word of their latest meeting to Sherlock.

Why take such a risk, when you live with someone so perceptive?

The answer, in Jamie's mind, was obvious. She felt herself smile.

When Joe radioed in and reported that Watson was attempting to bluff her way past the motel lobby security, Jamie quickly closed her notebook and told him to bring her up. The motel itself was not high class, not in the way she'd become accustomed to in recent years. When one was rebuilding and refocusing in the wake of defeat, it didn't hurt to take a step back.

She'd still taken great pains to learn the building's layout, to grow a certain rapport with the motel staff. A hundred different escape routes had been painstakingly planned if she roused the attention of the local law enforcement.

She hadn't expected that Watson would be able to track her back to her current base of operations so soon, and she felt a prickle of excitement run down her spine and pool at the pit of her stomach.

That was what she liked so much about this strange game of theirs.

Jamie rose to her feet, and she was looking out the window at the streets below when Joe finally 'escorted' her visitor to her rooms. Watson looked like she had not enjoyed the experience. Her long hair was slightly askew and pulling loose from where she'd tied it back, and her jacket hung oddly thanks to Joe's grasp on her shoulder.

That gave Jamie pause. Joe was a newly acquired employee, so she'd really need to speak with him later about how to treat her... higher profile visitors.

Reluctant to allow Watson the advantage of first strike, Jamie said quickly, "If you'd figured out my location, one cannot help but be curious as to why you didn't bring along some... assistance."

She nodded to Joe, a silent command for him to release his hold. Watson pulled free of him immediately, shooting him a dark look over her shoulder before turning her attention back to Jamie - as was only appropriate.

Watson's eyes quickly glanced around the non-descript motel room Jamie had staked out, cataloguing the details with the same sort of care she'd have expected of Sherlock. She was improving. "Admittedly, I did want to see what "Moriarty" would do."

It was baiting, a deliberate use of her real name - but for what purpose? Jamie exhaled softly, understanding and thwarting the game with practiced ease and a cool smile. "And have I satisfied?"

"Moriarty" was a vital part of who she was. She would not deny that aspect of her life, no more than Watson would deny that the art of deduction had become a part of her own. Jamie would stand for no further pretenses on that matter. The ruse of "Irene Adler" was well and truly dispensed with.

"Not quite," Watson said slowly, glancing across to her with a thoughtful expression. As if speaking to herself only, she continued, "No wonder you fooled Sherlock for so long. You're... difficult to understand. Dangerous."

Watson, on the other hand, was getting increasingly easier to gauge and read with a glance. Now that Jamie knew far more about her - how she'd grown up, how she'd lived before Sherlock, how she'd adapted and become his friend, partner - she could extrapolate and predict with far greater ease.

Some things - perhaps signals that Watson was quite unaware that she was projecting - were somewhat universal. The way her gaze kept shifting back to Jamie's position, flicking up and down before deliberately glancing away...

Watson found her attractive. Uncomfortably so.

Excellent. That makes things easier.

Jamie turned her attention back to the streets below, and she could feel Watson's gaze on her back as though it was a physical presence. She let the silence stretch on, considering every possibility and measuring the meaning of every moment that passed.

It was too soon to move, as much as she wanted to claim her victory from Watson in the most personal way. She exhaled very slowly, her racing pulse slowing.

"I just don't get why you're staying in the city." Watson exhaled sharply, and Jamie closed her eyes for a moment. "With all your vaunted criminal empire, why stay here and do nothing but watch me?"

"Don't tell me you're foolish enough to believe that," Jamie said, her lip curling slightly. As if she'd allow her empire to stagnate for a mere woman, obsessed though she was.

"No. I guess I don't." Watson sounded frustrated. "You don't make things easy."

Jamie merely raised an eyebrow. "I'm shocked you didn't bring along one of your pet detectives, if you wanted things to end so easily."

"Don't think I wasn't tempted, but this is your base of operations. You could get away at a moment's notice," Watson replied, though the response lacked a lot of the… heat that Jamie had come to expect. A pity - hate was such a powerful emotion. "Sherlock's offered his own price on information for you, though I'm fairly certain he wants to bring you in himself."

Of course Jamie knew about the reward. How little did he believe she paid her employees?

"And you?" Jamie asked, turning fully now. She openly eyed Watson, considering. "Surely the reward was... tempting."

"Like you said - perhaps I don't want this meeting to end just yet. You do like your games."

"Is that something that you figured out on your own, or something spoon-fed to you by Sherlock?" Jamie deliberately wondered aloud, but Watson didn't so much as bat an eyelid.

"He gave me a complete debrief of your character." Watson's eyes narrowed, just slightly. Her eyes flickered up and down Jamie's body boldly. "Some things were pretty damned obvious though."

Jamie's smile became somewhat less threatening in spite of her best efforts.

"If it's so obvious, why haven't you figured me out?" Jamie asked Watson mildly, meeting her eyes just quickly before turning away. She waved a hand to Joe, ignoring the way the adrenaline roaring through her veins made the gesture tremble almost imperceptibly. "Please see Ms. Watson safely from the building. We can't have him asking too many questions, can we?"

Watson made no word of protest, and the silent concession confirmed Jamie's suspicions. Sherlock did not know of their current encounter, and in all likelihood, wouldn't learn of it any time soon.

Watson's interest in this game was for herself and herself alone. Was it pride, or was it a sense of discontentment with her arrangement with Sherlock? Jamie would need to look into that very real possibility.

There was time for one last play, before Watson left, though. One last test to measure her by.

As Joe attempted to intimidate Watson from the motel room, Jamie turned again. Her enforcer caught the look in her eyes, and immediately stepped off to the side, his hands folded behind his back.

"You were not here, obviously." Jamie let her gaze flick up and down the woman's body, as if in sudden thought. "You met an old medical school friend, one you have not seen in a long time. You never really had seen eye to eye with her, however you found yourself drawn regardless. Perhaps you're interested, perhaps it is a passing thing."

Watson raised an eyebrow in obvious surprise at the story, but otherwise didn't comment.

"If you're going to lie to Sherlock, you need to at least make it interesting for him." Jamie shrugged, looking back out to the window, feigning disinterest in the woman she'd become so obsessed with so quickly.

She only allowed herself to relax when the motel door clicked shut behind Joe and Watson. She had no way of knowing whether the story would work on Sherlock. The only thing she could bank on was what she'd read in Watson's body language - and that told her that the supposed 'lie' was sufficiently close to the truth.

Sherlock would read into that and draw his own conclusions on what his partner was hiding.

The room was far too quiet in the wake of Watson's departure, and attempting to ignore the unpleasant sensation of sexual frustration, Jamie set her mind on her next move.

After their encounter in the motel, Watson began to make a habit of stopping by Jamie's hotel room. Perhaps it was an attempt to feel out the admittedly strange situation she'd found herself in - or perhaps it was simply to keep an eye on Sherlock's sworn nemesis and protect him from whatever plan Jamie had against him.

Interestingly, she never did move to bring the police to Jamie's location, nor had she given them the means to track her visits. It very much seemed as though Watson intended to deal with her on her own, foolish though that was. A part of Jamie that she'd long tried to silence wondered what Sherlock believed was the truth of the visits.

Watson never brought it up though, and Jamie never asked. Eventually, she began to relax - she even came to expect Watson's weekly visits.

The important thing was that Watson did visit, and Jamie indulged in no pretences, not as she had as Irene Adler. In this game, she would not mask her role, her past nor her future. She was a murderer, a criminal, and she was under no illusions of what she'd done to Sherlock - what she was doing to Watson. Calculated, selfish plays that would satisfy Jamie's raw, all-too human needs. Watson was not a fool. In spite of everything, she still visited, still watched her with that reluctant heat, a grudging and mutual fascination...

A part of Jamie... enjoyed the company. It had been a long while since she'd had anything that could remotely be considered companionship. The back and forth sniping, the somewhat scathing remarks that would come from Watson's mouth when she visited...

It reminded Jamie of the attachment she'd inadvertently formed with Sherlock, and she had to remind herself that this was a cold, calculated game for personal benefit alone. Slightly perturbed by the direction in which it had taken her, she wondered how much longer before Watson broke and it finally ended.

Despite the danger, Jamie couldn't quite convince herself to abandon her play. Perhaps that was why she began to push harder.

Several months had passed since Moriarty's escape when one of Joe's fellow guards sent her a text message to let her know Watson had entered the lobby. Her jaw tightening, Jamie sent off a quick confirmation and allowed the woman to approach the elevator unchallenged.

She didn't look up as Watson quietly made her way into the room, rising smoothly to her feet and looking out, down into the darkening streets below. She let Watson's meaningless greetings wash over her as she studied the faint outline of the other woman's reflection against the glass window, considering the options that lay before her.

How could she speed things along?

Over the past few days, Jamie had gathered enough intelligence to know Watson and Sherlock were busy working a somewhat twisted case involving society murder. Jamie herself had little patience for the quaint puzzles Sherlock pursued to amuse himself - after some limited enquiries, the answer had made itself clear enough to her.

Even so, the pair of consulting detectives were not exactly making headway in the case, and it took very little imagination to understand why Watson had come to see her.

Generally, Watson did not speak of her cases. Considering she had very little reason to trust the woman she knew as Irene Adler and Moriarty, that was a wise decision. Something had changed in the woman's bearing, though. There was impatience and frustration, wound tight inside her like a spring.

Jamie could well appreciate the feeling.

Watson approached her slowly, and Jamie listened to the dull thump of her shoes on the thinning motel carpet.

"I know you've been paying attention to the case," Watson said, and it sounded like a concession. In the reflection, Jamie watched her run a frustrated hand through her loose hair. "What - what do you think of it?"

"It was Colonel Mustard, in the conservatory, with the revolver," Jamie replied, without missing a beat. She turned to look over her shoulder, just in time to catch the long-suffering look that Watson shot in her direction. "Were you after a genuine answer?"

Watson exhaled sharply, apparently in no mood for flippant responses. "I just figured that maybe you..."

Jamie tilted her head, and she prodded, "Speak your mind."

She watched the other woman slowly shake her head, clearly frustrated with her lack of understanding. "Look. If you're not here to harm, and you're not here to help, and you're not even going to attempt to apologise for what hell you put Sherlock through - what do you want? What is the point of all this?"

Jamie's eyes narrowed. How could she not understand, after all this time and so many encounters? No, this was a deliberate, stubborn sort of density, and that was the one thing she could not stand. Her patience abruptly dried up.

"I thought that was rather obvious." Jamie leaned in, meeting Watson's gaze directly. "Tell me, why did you win, the last time we had a match of wits and will?"

Watson frowned, as though she believed it to be a trick question. "You're obsessed with Sherlock. Maybe in love with him. Maybe in love with the idea of him. That bled through. That and your… your arrogance."

Watson's dark eyes flicked up and down Jamie's body, lingering just a little too long. She wet her lips, shaking her head as if to impose order on her thoughts.

In no mood to deny on the grounds of technical detail, Jamie waved a dismissive hand. "Do continue. Keep it interesting."

Apparently, that was all the encouragement Watson needed. A message alert went off in her pocket, but she ignored it.

"You're obsessed with Sherlock because he represents both a threat and a challenge. He's the only one at your level, right?" Watson asked, though judging from her tone, she hardly expected Jamie's input. "You disengaged when that was no longer the case, but came back when he started interfering again. Which suggests to me that the reason you stay is much the same. I bested you, and you want to know why."

Jamie's irritation spiked again. Deliberate - it had to be deliberate! - ignorance. Joan Watson was a smart woman, that much was clear. It took a very calculated stupidity to now underestimate the degree of Jamie's fascination with her - and then to pin it all on Sherlock! Perhaps that had been how it had begun, that day in the Four Seasons, but they were far past that point.

The only possible answer was that Watson had understood the truth - but found it so undesirable that she'd prefer to deny it instead.

It disgusted Jamie that someone so clever could choose to be so witless.

Enough was enough. It was time to spell her purpose out for Watson, as she apparently so desired.

"He is not at my level, and likely never will be. Morality holds him back, as much as I wish otherwise." Jamie's voice was flat, and she stepped forward. Watson froze, just over a pace away, so close that the scent of her warmth and perfume toyed with Jamie's head.

If Jamie reached out, she could have taken hold of Watson and demonstrated what she wanted. She could have twisted her fingers in Watson's loose top, pulled her close and claimed victory.

She swallowed, her throat somewhat dry. Despite the signals of interest Watson was broadcasting that were so clear to her, she doubted that the action would facilitate the end she desired. Not yet.

When Jamie continued, her moment of weakness had passed and her voice remained steady. "Secondly, he did not best me. That honour went to you, and you well know that. Deny it and you disgrace us both. Thirdly, I know why. I've had that figured out long ago. That's not what kept me here. That is not what I want."

Watson began to shake her head, slowly at first, then then more vigorously. With a growing coolness, Jamie realised that she was having... difficulties... with the inevitable conclusion.

"You think I'm going to - you think I would -" Watson cut off, her eyes narrowed, and she took a step backward. "You can't be serious! I can't -"

"And why ever not? What, exactly, had you thought this was about? Not Sherlock. Not this time. He's not who I want. He's a game I've solved, you, you on the other hand… you're different." Jamie crossed her arms, moving back to her refuge at the motel window. That backward step that Watson had taken told her enough, but what was done could not be undone.

Watson shook her head, apparently stunned by the audacity of the question. "Because you're an escaped Bond-class villain?"

A Bond-class villain? Jamie was not nearly so delusional, and she felt a sting of disappointment in Watson for having made such a comparison. Her eyes narrowed, she watched the reflection of the room behind her, waiting for whatever would come of her... revelations. Surprisingly, Watson made no move to storm out, and never one to let a chance slip by, she began to speak again.

"You are the partner of my greatest enemy, and yet..." Jamie trailed off, sighing softly. She looked over her shoulder. It was a fraction melodramatic, but Watson had hardly responded to subtlety. "Here we are. Seeking one another out as though we are helpless to deny it."

"What the hell am I doing?" Jamie heard Watson ask herself. Her posture had gone rigid, and her jaw had grown tight and defensive. "You are dangerous. After what you did to Sherlock, I can't..."

Jamie objectively understood Watson's internal conflict, though if she was honest, she was at a loss as to why that should stop the woman from pursuing whatever it was she wanted. Then again, what else had Jamie expected? Watson's defiance had been what had set her on fire, had roused her from dull complacency.

Perhaps it was best to be frank.

"You interest me, Joan Watson. More than I can articulate." Jamie felt that familiar hot-cold thrill run down her back and spread out through her every fibre. "And as much as you'd like to deny otherwise, I can tell it's the same for you."

It was in every signal Watson sent - in the sly, sidelong glances when she'd believed Jamie hadn't been looking, the way her eyes strayed, pupils dilated, the tiny shivers of adrenaline. She wanted Jamie, but the question was, would she own it?

That seemed to rally the shreds of purpose in Watson, because the woman's dark eyes snapped up in an unwavering glare. Jamie saw her right hand twitch, as though she longed to lash out.

It was disproportionate anger, Jamie noted coolly, whipped up to combat and mask her own attraction and stubborn interest. Such simple tricks certainly couldn't fool Jamie.

From the way Watson's gaze dropped, flickering up and down Jamie's body as if too afraid to let it linger too long, she doubted Watson even fooled herself.

"I am nothing like you." Every syllable of Watson's words was enunciated and clear, as though by that virtue alone it was the indisputable truth. "Don't expect me to-"

"Let's not pretend that you're an innocent party in this," Jamie cut in, her jaw tightening in anger. If Watson thought she was going to get all sickeningly self-righteous, then she had another think coming. "You have been coming to me of your own free will for the past month. You could have stopped at any time. Instead, you decided to continue to lie to Sherlock under the pretense of keeping an eye on me. And we both know that's only half of why you come here."

This time, Watson did not hold back. She lashed forward, and Jamie allowed her to shove her back against the glass window. The impact almost knocked the air from Jamie's lungs, but she did not let herself flinch. She'd been right in her assessment, all those months ago in prison. Watson was no killer, and Jamie would not give her the respect of one.

"Don't you dare try that with me," Watson growled, looking for all the world like a woman with a purpose. Through her grasp on Jamie's shirt, though, she was trembling just slightly. "I've had enough of your games."

Jamie took hold of Watson's hand. She squeezed it tightly, deliberately, before letting the touch move lightly across the skin. Watson shivered, her grasp immediately loosening and she backed away.

"Then all you had to do was say so," Jamie said, slowly and clearly, meeting Watson's eyes. In spite of her greedy obsession with the woman who defeated her - the game was not nearly as fun when her opponent wouldn't play - that had been what she'd learned with Sherlock. There were ways to make them come to the table, that was for certain, but lately... the idea had lost much of its attractiveness.

That in itself was alarming, she realised it was time to sever the matter with Watson before she'd become too compromised. If that were even possible now.

Jamie let her lip curl, and her anger was only half feigned. "We're done."

Watson's eyes narrowed, and she didn't look like she was going to protest. "We are."

She turned her back on Jamie without a further word, and the motel room door slammed shut behind her.

Raising her hand to her temple before allowing it fall back to her side, Jamie let out a low, frustrated growl. The room was silent in the wake of Watson's departure. Jamie looked over her array of surveillance equipment and wondered if it were simply best to have one of her agents take care of Watson on her way home.

She almost didn't reconsider.

Within the hour, Jamie had relocated to another motel on the other side of town, one of the many at her disposal. She wiped and destroyed her equipment, determined to be done with the fruitless endeavour of Watson. She'd made her gamble - there was little to be gained by attempting to recoup her losses.

It was coldly practical. She would not be further undone by her wayward emotions, and she refused to linger. If Watson refused to own her attraction, perhaps it was for the best.

Jamie hated, with a vicious, hot anger, that she was going to miss Watson. The way she had stopped by the hotel room, the deadpan humour, the long-suffering looks from a woman far too used to dealing with people like Jamie and Sherlock.

Severing the tie was really the only option she had.

Jamie sent her skeleton crew of guards to watch the hallway and lobby, and sank down on the cheap double mattress the motel provided. She felt drained of what frenzied energy that had been powering her over the past few weeks.

The outcome of the matter with Watson led her to one inexorable conclusion – there really were hairline fractures in who she was. There were exploits. She was Moriarty, the manipulator, the liar, the artist in the depravities of the human condition. Even so, she was just as much a victim of her own emotion and desperate desire to form a connection, as Sherlock was of his.

She couldn't stand for it.

Given the circumstances, Jamie saw no point in remaining in New York. In fact, she reasoned, it was better that way, if indeed she'd been as compromised as she feared. Why waste her time further, when she'd neglected her contracts for so long?

That was how she framed it in her mind. It was not running - it was a tactical retreat. It didn't matter how empty it made her feel.

On the eve prior to her departure from the States, Jamie had made her way down to the bar in the motel's lobby. She had not returned to any of her old haunts, preferring to maintain her low profile lest Sherlock begin to take interest.

She was halfway through her second glass of wine, half tempted to do exactly what she'd mocked Sherlock for and disappear into the bottom of a bottle for a time, when she heard someone approach her from behind. In no mood for interruptions, Jamie cast a quick and irritated glance over her shoulder.

Pushing down her instinctive surprise, Jamie turned back around and took a slow, deliberate swallow of her wine.

"Found you," Joan Watson said, apparently not to be deterred by the blatant lack of greeting. "You know, you should really pay Joe a little more. He's not too good at keeping secrets, though I suppose seeing your employer moping about a bar is somewhat alarming."

The smouldering remains of bitter anger stirred in Jamie's chest. Remembering how compromised Watson had made her, she debated simply calling for Joe.

"I thought I'd made it clear our understanding was at an end." Jamie lifted her lips in the ghost of a smile, running her fingertip along the edge of her glass. No matter Watson's remarks, she would not wallow. "I am a little surprised that you came back without half a precinct of police to take me back into custody."

Or Sherlock, Jamie added silently. That would have truly been a disproportionate blow.

"Don't think it didn't seriously cross my mind," Watson retorted, and there was an edge to her voice that Jamie could not help but notice. She said nothing, too wrapped up in her anger with the woman to care.

Watson did not seem to relish the silence, and after a few moments of hesitation, she slid into one of the bar stools. In spite of herself, Jamie's eyes narrowed. It was the first time Watson had ever elected to sit down in her company. She let her gaze drop up and down the other woman's body, grudgingly admiring. She would not deny herself simple pleasures - that did not mean she was willing to entertain whatever fancy had resulted in Watson's further interference.

"I need a drink," Watson murmured, burying her face in her hands for just a moment. After taking a deep breath, she waved to the bartender - and she had not yet met Jamie's eyes.

Jamie took another sip of her wine, deliberately schooling her posture into one of relaxation.

Watson downed the shot set in front of her in a single swallow. Jamie's eyes were drawn to her hands as she set the glass back on the bench, watching the way those slender fingers moved -

"I can't stop thinking about it," Watson said, and it came out in a slightly breathless rush that seized Jamie's attention with dizzying strength. "About... about you. What you said. And I started to wonder why. What have I offered you that Sherlock has not?"

Jamie said nothing.

"You wanted me to solve you again. That's why you're here. That's why you reached out." Watson exhaled, her dark eyes sliding across to Jamie's own. Her lips curved up into a tiny smile. "I hadn't expected to find you wallowing in your own disappointment, though I suppose it makes sense."

"Enough with the chatter," Jamie said, her voice cool. "We're done. I have little interest in you now."

"You latched onto Sherlock that first time because he was the same as you," Watson continued, blatantly ignoring Jamie's icy dismissal. Where the hell was Joe? While Jamie could rid herself of Watson's presence easily enough, she was not in the mood to employ non-lethal means, and in spite of her anger she knew she'd regret leaving Watson to bleed out on the bar floor. She reached for her phone.

Watson rested her elbows on the bar counter, resting her cheek in the palm of her hand. "Your obsession with him was your downfall, but why did you fall so hard if you're as harsh as you say you are?"

Jamie paused in the motion of dialling out to Joe, her jaw locked. She didn't answer, and watched for a moment as the barman handed Watson another shot.

"Let's be honest. You've got everything. Money, power. I'm sure you could have a dozen willing men and women in your room at a moment's notice, if that sort of thing was what you wanted." Watson raised the shot glass to her lips. "You're only interested in Sherlock and me. That's because we present a challenge that takes up all your time. You're lonely, and you want... you want just one connection, just to feel like it all means something after all."

Jamie's eyes flickered up to Watson's face, watching the column of the woman's throat move as she swallowed the contents of her glass. A flush had darkened her cheeks just faintly, but she looked... she looked certain.

Let her be certain, Jamie thought bitterly. I owe her no answers or confirmations.

Jamie watched Watson draw in a deep breath, watched her lace and unlace her hands on the bar in a show of obvious nerves. It was a good sign - if Watson was focused on what she herself felt, then she would not see how incredibly weak to her Jamie had become.

"You think I can give you a connection when Sherlock can't - or won't," Watson continued. She wet her lips, fixing Jamie with a stare that reflected both despair and haunting, inescapable desire. The mix made Jamie's throat grow dry. "I might. Perhaps we can..."

Jamie set her glass back down on the bar top very carefully, ignoring the way a slight tremble had started in her hands. She could not let herself become swayed by impulse, even if the thought alone of having Watson in every way she wanted made her thoughts circle and ruminate on it. It did away with the mental faculties that she'd so prided herself on. She'd promised herself that she was done with Watson.

Apparently, she was wrong. She slipped back into the chase with ease, intending to win once and for all tonight.

"You're like me. You seek the unusual, the exciting... even the forbidden." Jamie let her eyes run up and down Watson's body again, and she raised an eyebrow as though she wasn't entirely fixated on the idea of leaning forward and finding out how those lips tasted. "Is that not how you see it?"

Even distracted, Jamie was still a master of her art, and she'd made Watson quite a case study. It was almost sinfully easy to invoke that very same curiosity that had led Watson to stay on with Sherlock as his partner. This pursuit had higher stakes than simply changing professions, though, and Jamie did not doubt that there would be fallout no matter how this night ended.

Already, Watson had lied and sought out Jamie time and time again. To believe that Sherlock did not already suspect would be foolhardy at the very least.

He was smarter than that, and part of Jamie knew he deserved better. She pushed those thoughts aside and turned her attention back to Watson. Morality had never stopped her from doing as she wished, so why start doubting now?

The play of emotion across Watson's face told Jamie enough to say that she realised it too. it was nothing short of fascinating - Jamie could see her inner conflict as clearly as if it had been written on a page. Had she come here, only expecting to talk? Why had she changed her mind tonight? What had changed -

Then Watson surprised her, seizing hold of Jamie's coat lapels in a tight grasp, before dragging her forward.

Jamie impulsively braced herself against Watson's shoulders, feeling disturbingly dull-witted in the face of Watson's mouth, hot, hard and insistent, against her own. She gathered herself with an effort, hooking an arm around the back of the other woman's neck and pulling her close, already testing the limits of Watson's resolution -

Watson pulled back, her breath hard and heavy against Jamie's lips.

"One night," Watson said, swallowing heavily and her hands shakily threading through the loose strands of hair that had been carefully tucked behind Jamie's ear.

One night would be all Jamie needed - was all she could afford.

Jamie didn't let Watson pull away any further, heedless of the incredibly public setting they were in. She let her gaze linger on every detail of Watson's face, engraving the sight to memory, before claiming the other woman's lips in another rough, hungry kiss.

The 'why' had slipped away from Jamie's attention, and she was eager to claim what was offered. While it was Watson's choice, the victory belonged to Jamie.

Some indiscernible time later, Jamie eventually found herself shoved back against the door to the room. She fumbled blindly in the breast pocket of her coat for the keypass the receptionist had given her less than ten minutes prior, while Watson seemed to be doing her damnedest to make that simple feat remarkably difficult.

Watson's mouth moved from Jamie's own and down the column of her throat, forcing her breath to catch in her throat and vanishing her own task from her mind. Jamie attempted to pull away to recollect her thoughts, but Watson followed, pushing her coat down past her shoulders and elbows.

Watson had insisted they move to a motel less likely to be bugged with all manner of recording equipment. Given the intensity of Watson's current actions and in the cab ride on the way over - Jamie wasn't quite sure when the woman had started on the buttons of her shirt, but she rather liked the initiative - she'd been happy to allow almost anything.

She had, of course, sent Joe out to bribe or blackmail the motel staff, but that was standard security procedures.

If Jamie was honest, perhaps she should be rethinking her pursuit and Watson's potential ulterior motives for coming to her tonight. The thought didn't have a chance to linger, dashed by the thrill that ran up her spine when she felt rough, insistent hands scorch along the small of her back.

Whatever Watson's reasons and rationalisations for the night, body language was one thing Jamie had trained herself well in, and that told her enough. Watson was going to have her - out in the motel corridor if Jamie didn't get that damn door open soon.

That wasn't right - Jamie still held all the cards, she'd won, Watson wasn't meant to be -

With Watson's mouth still on her throat, hungry, unyielding, raising marks on the skin in a way that made Jamie gasp and shiver... she didn't hold the cards, this time, and she found she didn't damn well care.

"You do know that if you keep this up, we'll never get into the room?" Jamie asked, her arms still tangled in her coat, Watson pressed flush up against her. She couldn't focus, her thoughts made hazy by the scent of Watson's shampoo alone. "Front pocket of my coat -"

"Got it," Watson said, her voice breathless, taking a card from within her own jacket sleeve. Jamie stared for a moment, recognising it immediately. That certainly explained why Jamie had been unable to find it, welcome distractions aside.

Jamie kissed her again, harsh and demanding as Watson reached around her and slid the card into the lock. Somehow, she managed to turn the handle, and they stumbled into the darkened room. Jamie didn't bother with the light switch.

She did take the moment's reprieve to finally shrug her way clear of her damned jacket. Loath to let it last, she was on Watson again immediately, hooked a hand in the belt of her jeans, and dragged her over to the bed.

"Just this once," Watson repeated as she fell to the mattress, but it sounded as though it was more a reminder to herself. Jamie eased onto the bed, allowing the other woman to tangle fingers in her loose hair and pull her in close. She claimed Watson's mouth again in a kiss that left them both completely breathless. When Jamie pulled back, she scraped her teeth across Watson's lower lip.

She felt Watson's soft exhalation of surprise, loud in the silence of the room. When lips met Jamie's own again, it was harder, fiercer, and Watson's teeth very nearly drew blood.

That's it, Jamie thought, her breath catching in spite of her feigned control.

After that last line was crossed, things began to move in a blur. Watson, with some stubborn presence of mind, managed to pull Jamie's shirt off. Her fingernails dragged and scraped over the skin she exposed, her breath growing heavy and hot on the side of Jamie's neck as her own top was pushed up a bit higher.

The corner of her lips curling into a smile, Jamie seized her chance. She moved down Watson's body, catching her hands swiftly and pressing them into the mattress harder than what might have been necessary. Judging by the full-body shudder she'd elicited, she was more than forgiven, and she continued to bite and suck her way down Watson's stomach and abdomen.

Jamie felt fingers slide down to tangle in her loose hair, realising at some point that she'd forgotten her grasp on Watson's wrists. She allowed the other woman to knot her fingers in the strands, letting the sensation become rough - almost painful - and she gave Watson's stomach a final kiss before she was pulled back up to eye level.

She didn't have time to reassert herself - Watson was already moving. Jamie was no slouch physically - in her line of work only fools did not know how to defend themselves - but somehow Watson slipped from her grasp, and in one movement had rolled her onto her back. They landed back on the mattress in a breathless tangle, one shaky thigh pressed hard between Jamie's own.

In spite of the insistent, hot ache that had started up between her legs, Jamie met Watson's eyes easily, and raised an eyebrow.

The challenge did not need to be verbalised - it just was. It made the fire in the pit of her stomach burn with even more intensity.

"One night was the stipulation, wasn't it?" Jamie asked, and she swallowed to rid herself of the unwanted hoarseness in her voice. "We'll need to make the most of it, then."

The look of accepted challenge that had kindled in Watson's reminded Jamie of that afternoon, years ago, when Sherlock had caught on to her stolen paintings. It reminded her of being solved back in the hospital room, and all her encounters with Watson since. It was more than a challenge, it was a connection.

Jamie pulled Watson in, determined not to waste a moment.

Dawn was a few hours away when Jamie slipped out of the motel bed and began to dress in silence, her resolve once more like steel and her boundaries reinforced. Watson didn't stir as Jamie worked, tangled in the sheets and snoring slightly, her breathing soft and even in a way that spoke of deep sleep.

Attachment. How she hated it.

In spite of the somewhat breathtaking nature of their night prior, Jamie would be true to her word. As much as she wanted more - as with Sherlock, it would always be more - she had made a promise. That promise was as much for herself as it had been for Watson, and she could not allow herself to be swayed once more by the disturbingly fickle nature of her heart.

As she finished dressing and quietly opened the motel door to meet up with Joe and his fellows, Jamie still looked back over her shoulder.

Strangling the feeling of fondness with brutal efficiency, Jamie let the door swing shut behind her.

The motel she'd ended up at with Watson was not one she was familiar with. In the wake of her victory and the night's exploits, she was relaxed and more than happy to ignore the laxness of her own security. In spite of herself, a few choice moments replayed over in her head.

It really was too bad it was over...

Joe and his team were meant to meet her in the cramped motel lobby, however, as she exited the elevator, there was no sign of them. Instead, there was a single man sitting with his back to her -

Sherlock.

Jamie froze as he smoothly rose to his feet, clapping his hands together once. She said nothing, her jaw locking, her mind whirling through her options. The motel was unfamiliar to her, and she didn't have all her meticulously planned contingencies to rely on this time. The staff didn't know her, would not have risked themselves for reward. Joe and his team - she could see lights flashing out the narrow section of window looking out over the streets, and she knew that she was alone.

Sherlock rose to his feet, his face tight.

"Checked your pockets lately?" he asked simply, and slowly, Jamie slipped her hand into her breast pocket. She remembered that Watson had taken the keycard from her undetected last night.

Jamie's lips tightened, anger rearing up like fire in her chest.

She'd been too distracted by physical sensation to have minded the play at the time. Again, right at the finish line, she'd become weak and arrogant. Presented with victory, she'd become blind. Watson had known that yet again, had played Jamie in exactly the same way as before.

It was maddening. It was beautiful. How long had Watson been playing a hidden game? She looked back over the past few months with new eyes, desperately trying to understand where she had failed.

Had it been that first time Watson had found her at the motel? The second?

Jamie closed her eyes, listening to the elevator open up behind her. She didn't need to turn to know that the owner of those slow footsteps was Watson.

"You always let your guard down when you think you've won," Watson said, loudly enough for even Sherlock to hear. "It took a while, but... I let you believe you had."

Obviously, Jamie thought, her anger spiking. Why had the woman waited so long to call in Sherlock and the police? Once they'd arrived at the motel, it would have become very clear how distracted Jamie had been. There had been no need for things to progress to the bed.

Why wait? Jamie asked herself, needing to come up with an answer that satisfied her. Considering every signal Watson had given her, the need, the sidelong looks, and the intensity of the night they'd spent together... Because she'd wanted to.

Jamie smiled, her anger fading to some strange mix of frustration and flattery. It almost didn't matter that she'd lost this game with Watson, that she'd failed.

She'd won in a deeply personal way, and that, that was what she'd wanted if nothing else.

"She's quite an opponent, your Watson," Jamie said to Sherlock, opening her eyes. He didn't return her smile - his expression was frozen in one of anger and bitter disappointment. Was that look just for her benefit, or did he include his partner in that assessment for now?

Jamie didn't raise a protest as, for the second time, her hands were fastened behind her back and she was led out to a car. As one of the waiting cops opened the door for her, she cast one last look over her shoulder, to where both Watson and Sherlock stood on the motel steps.

The thing about challenge - even defeat - was that she'd only become better for it. For every victory they claimed, she'd improve.

She looked forward to it.