It must be known, before I say anything else, that I am not entirely familiar with the original Sherlock Holmes books. I know, I know. Sacrilege to be in a fandom based only around watching a jumped up Hollywood box office hit film and three 90 minute, modernised episodes by the BBC. But trust me, they're on my To-Read List. And my To-Buy List for that matter. So this story is very much an arms length away from the original canon. I do do my research though, thoroughly, and if there's something I'm unsure about, I'll google it until I am. So please don't let my lack of original knowledge deter you. This story is also completely unfinished and I'm not even sure what direction it will end up going in but rest assured there will be plenty of good stuff in further chapters.
I own nothing apart from 'Ava Marwood' and she herself is loosely based on Irene Adler, though tailored to fit the modern bill and my own personal preferences. Everything else belongs, accordingly, to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Oh, and the title of the story is taken from the Bukowski poem 'Love Is A Dog From Hell'.
Ava Marwood operated under several rules that bore high importance to her field of work : One, always work alone. Two, never speak to anyone about your profession. Three, always wear gloves. Four, never carry any weaponry. Five, always work during the night. Six, never be seen. And finally... Seven, never break the rules.
Should these rules be broken, one would face incarceration and imprisonment for a long, undefined amount of time. And Ava Marwood never broke the rules because Ava Marwood was not a lady suited to prison and because she was very, very good at her job. A professional thief of her calibre, after all, had to be.
"Drop me off just here, thank you." Ava handed over a ten pound note fished from the inside of her bra and smiled sweetly, sliding legs first out of the taxi.
She watched as it drove away before looking over her surroundings. She was three streets away, almost a mile and a half. Not far at all and plenty of time. Ducking down an alleyway, she walked quickly, shredding clothing easily and shoving them into her backpack. The tight black jeans were tucked into black non-descript boots. Her black long sleeved jumper covered her arms right to her wrists. She tied her bottle red hair back into a ponytail and fitted a brunette wig carefully over the top. The route was long, longer than necessary, and full of twists and turns down other alleyways and over a few fences but Ava thought the sacrifice to be essential. It always was.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged at the back of the garden of a large Victorian detached house. It was vacant except for one older gentleman of whom she'd been observing for just over a week prior. Victor Stephens, a popular artist with a lot of money and an appetite for handsome young men. It wouldn't've surprised her to find he bathed in the money he earnt from such mediocre pieces of art. Mediocre in Ava's opinion anyway. He was a man born into wealth who'd chosen an easy lifestyle and Ava hated him for it. Carefully she knelt down after scaling the fence and fixed her wig with a few more bobby pins. She'd watched the artist packing a suitcase with a man younger, and prettier, than she. The straw hat and folded khaki shorts told her it was a holiday they were pursuing together. The timing couldn't've been more perfect.
Two days later and the lights hadn't been turned on for almost forty-eight hours. They had left.
Like most Victorian houses, the windows opened upwards, or downwards, so one pane covered the other. The task of prying the window open was so mundane that Ava almost thought this particular hit to be too boring to go ahead with. But she slid in regardless, wiping the bottom of her shoes before they hit the ground, and moved with feline grace straight towards for the bedroom, bypassing the living room and kitchen until later. As she suspected, the place was littered with expensive jewellery and several separate safes containing undisclosed sums of money. A burglar's wet dream. Quickly she placed the money and jewellery within her backpack and continued.
There wasn't a hit in the history of hits that could've prepared Ava for what she found in the living room downstairs. There, lying perfectly in a pool of his own dried blood, was the artist. His eyes were open, glazed with death. His torso littered with several stab wounds. It was a perfect mess. Ava almost screamed, clamping a hand over her mouth as she stumbled back. Of course, she suddenly thought, her mind swimmingly violently. The alarm. There was none. This had been set up and Victor had been murdered and if she didn't leave the house soon, there was a chance she'd be suspect number one. Without another thought, she slipped back through the window at the back of the house and closed it behind herself carefully. She crept across the garden, hoisted herself over the fence and ran until she was out of range, ran until her chest felt tight and her legs ached. Ran until she was all the way home, safely locked away in her flat.
Three days ticked by and Ava kept a very low profile, her fingers only lingering as she moved through the early Saturday market masses. Lingering but never taking. She needed to be utterly sure before taking the risk. Whilst eating a late breakfast, she saw the news report detailing about a local London artist's murder in his own home. The theft was not mentioned and Ava breathed a sigh of relief. Although she already knew that the police would suspect it was the murderer who stole as well as killed. Regardless, her coast had been cleared and she was free, once again, to plan her next adventure.
Ten minutes after the report ended, Ava received a text that made her eyes narrow.
You and I need to talk. Meet me at the cafe at the end of Baker St today at noon. You know where it is. SH
What's the verdict? Good? Bad? Not even bothered? Let me know.