"You." John splutters when he sees her, sitting in his and Sherlock's flat as if she owned the place. Jessica's lips, carefully coated in a layer of dark red lipstick, tug upward into an amused smile.
"Me." She sounds just a little too smug for John's liking. She motions for him to sit down with one perfectly-manicured hand. John has a rather lovely vision of shooting her until her body was filled with nothing but bullets, but he doesn't do anything other than give her an annoyed glare.
"I'm just fine standing, thank you." He snaps. Jessica rolls her eyes and settles back into Sherlock's chair, crossing her legs as she does so. The way she sits, almost like a queen on her husband's throne, bugs him. Certainly, the way she nonchalantly traces patterns on the arm of the chair with one finger makes him bristle.
"No need to be so cold." Jessica said after a rather long moment of silence, idly examining her nails as she spoke. She pauses for a moment, frowning at some imperfection John can't see, but continues her examination a few seconds later, running her thumb lightly against the ends of her square nails. "I'm not here to kill you or Sherlock."
She lifts her gaze to John, a smirk playing about her lips. John feels trapped, even though the door is close to him, and he has a handgun with him. However, he was a resolute man. He lifts his head, narrowing his eyes and puffing out his chest slightly as he does so. Jessica's smirk doesn't change, other than to become wider, but the glitter in her eyes is a little harsher, more malevolent, as she narrowed her eyes as well.
"Where's Sherlock?" He spits.
"Out," is her simple reply.
"I don't trust you." John feels the need to state the obvious for some reason. Jessica laughs softly. He'd be a fool if he didn't hear the derisive tone to it, and the knowledge that she's laughing at him brings an intense rage to the surface, causing him to ball his hands into fists.
Jessica's expensive pencil skirt rustles as she uncrossed her legs, placing both of her feet next to each other. She leans forward slightly. John's suddenly aware of how many of the top buttons on her pure silk blouse are undone and how easy it would be to look. He doesn't, though. No doubt that she'd find tempting him into doing such a thing a victory, and the last thing he wants her to feel is accomplished. Not after the hell she's been putting him and Sherlock through. Of course, this personal hell she's crafted for the both of them is probably about to get a lot worse. He would have been able to pick that up, even if he hadn't learned any deductive skills from Sherlock at all.
"That's probably a wise move on your part, Johnny boy." She purrs. "I wouldn't trust me." The smile from earlier is on her face again, causing John to scowl ferociously. Jessica laughs again, this time a little louder and even more clearly aimed at him, if that was possible. His knuckles turn white. She merely smiles wider, like that crocodile in one of Lewis Carroll's poems. The only comfort in that thought was that John knew he wasn't the particular fish she was after, merely one that was obstinately standing in the way.
She leans back into Sherlock's chair, making a show of getting comfortable. John's nearly seeing red. He wants to do something, call for Mrs. Hudson, text Sherlock and warn him, get Lestrade in here to arrest her, but he knows that whatever she's planning for him would become much nastier if he did any of those things. She's made that clear, with her grins and the way she intently watches his every move, almost daring him to try pulling something. Obviously, she wanted to speak to him and him alone. John catches himself wondering how many times she's visited Sherlock while he's gone, wearing that smile and speaking to him in that sultry tone she so fond of. That thought alone almost causes him to snap.
"You're smarter than I gave you credit for." Jessica's voice breaks through his thoughts. "I fancied you to be a dumb lap dog, just there to marvel and wonder at Sherlock's observations." She stops and gives him that nasty smile that makes him want to knock out several of her teeth. "Don't let that go to your head. You're just there to make him feel smarter about himself is all. You're nothing special." The unspoken words of 'Unlike me' drift between the two of them.
"If you're not here to kill me or Sherlock, what are you here for?" He's not going to play her game, not going to let her drag him down into the depths of the violence he so desperately wants to give in to. She sighs and shakes her head.
"Always have to cut straight to the point and ruin the fun, don't you Johnny boy?" Jessica pouts. "You're no fun at all."
"What are you here for?" Jon grinds out from in-between gritted teeth. She lets out another long-suffering sigh before slowly, and rather elegantly, standing. Even without the heels, she would have been an inch or two taller than him. With the extra five-inches her shoes provide, she practically towers over him. He straightens up more, shooting her a hate-filled glare. She chuckles and steps toward him, more silent than he would have thought possible. It's not entirely noiseless, though, just softer than he anticipated.
"I was going to have a friendly chat with you, but you seem unreasonably hostile today." Jessica's close, too close for comfort. John can smell her floral perfume, can almost feel her skin brushing against his. She leans down slightly in order to whisper in his ear, and her hot breath almost sends shivers down his spine.
"Stay away from my Sherlock."
"I beg your pardon?" It's a miracle she pulled away before he regained his sense because he would have hit her, her being a lady be damned. "He's not yours, and I am his friend. You can't tell me to stay away from him."
She rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb with me." The condescension in her tone makes him angry, so angry, it can't even be qualified as that. Fury and rage would be better, although those two words still didn't come close. Before he can give her a piece of his mind, she starts talking again.
"I know how you feel about him." She's walking away, and he's not all that surprised when she starts circling him. "It can't be helped. Poor Irene couldn't help it either. And we all know what happened to her." John has suspected Jessica was behind Irene's gruesome death, but he'd never gotten any conformation, not even from Sherlock. Of course, he hadn't asked Sherlock about it. Sherlock's face upon finding Irene's mangled and broken body had been beyond heart-breaking, and that expression had gotten worse when the package with Irene's heart in was found on their doorstep. John hadn't, didn't, want to put his friend through that kind of pain again.
"You know you're not fooling anyone, right?" Jessica's voice sounds from behind him, causing John to whip around. Pity is written so clearly on her face. "I mean, everyone knows you're in love with him. It's impossible not to see it. The whole world knows."
"The same can be said for you." John spits. Instead of getting angry, Jessica laughs again.
"Oh, I know." She steps forward again, too close to him, but he stands his ground. "But, you see, I don't try and hide it. Not like you do." She smirks. "Which is why I told you to stay away from him. He's mine." The sultry tone is dropped altogether when she says that. Her tone is ugly and possessive and full of the promise of John's split blood if he doesn't leave Sherlock.
"He's not yours. Or anyone's." It's a bold statement, but John doesn't regret it. Jessica's expression briefly flickers into something incredibly ugly, but it's gone as soon as it appeared.
"Your funeral, then." She steps back, away from him and toward the door. As she turns and descends the steps, she calls over her shoulder, "I've got so many plans for you, it'll be hard to choose which one. I might do all of them."
Once he hears the door to the flat slam shut, John walks over to his chair and collapses. He's shaking, shaking so hard he's surprised his teeth aren't rattling. A part of him knows that if he wasn't afraid, he would be a fool. So far, Jessica Moriarty has kept all of the promises she's made, no matter how terrible.