So now I have a vague idea of the direction in which this story will go. But it's always subject to change I suppose! I hope you enjoy this and I hope I'm mapping out a clear outline of the kind of woman Ava is and what she's capable of.
"Will you stop that?" Sherlock hissed as he and Ava walked through Borough Market. He was already agitated at being dragged across town to the market by her and this was only adding to his rising levels of irritability.
"Stop what?" She stopped at a stall to inspect several different apples – touching them and smelling them, turning them over and eyeing their colours. Without another moment's notice, she pocketed three into her handbag and carried on walking as though it was completely normal.
"That," he hissed again and jerked his finger towards her bag which was beginning to fill nicely with her pilfering. "It's distracting and I'd rather not have to run through this crowd of idiots when you get caught."
"Oh, Sherlock," Ava's face contorted into a patronising frown, her head shaking from side to side. She had paused in her step to emphasise her point. "I don't get caught, you know that." And then she carried on walking.
While Ava Marwood never broke her own rules regarding her profession, Sherlock Holmes was the only person in the entire catalogue of her life and career to know almost all of her secrets without her ever telling him a single thing. He knew her trademarks, the people she targeted, the objects she targeted, her chosen methods of breaking and entering, the black marketers whom she sold her goods too. He knew the ins and outs of her profession almost better than she did and the idea infuriated her. Whenever she was presented with a moment to belittle his ignorance, she delighted in it like a child with a new puppy.
In this instance, she chose to comply with his request and lifted her bag back up to her shoulder, nodding with a dramatic sigh.
"Thank you," he relented, his features softening the tiniest amount. "Now can we please get back to Baker Street?"
"God, I suppose so. And I'm guessing there will be no food in your fridge, just severed pieces of anatomy. Nothing in your cupboards except for beakers and Bunsen burners. No wine in your wine rack or coffee in your coffee jar. Great. Wonderful. Yes, take us to Baker Street, land of the plenty." Ava complained, her arms gesticulating madly, as Sherlock flagged down a taxi and ushered her in.
"Actually," Sherlock slid in next to her, leaving enough room to fit another person between them, and gave her the most distasteful look. "There is coffee. And maybe even food for that matter. If John's been shopping recently." He looked smugly out of the window, pleased at being able to prove her and her assumptions wrong.
"John? Who's that? Your boyfriend?" She could become so petty when she was hungry.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "No," he said and drew his lips into a thin line. "He's my flatmate and my work colleague."
"Work colleague? I never had you down as man that worked in pairs."
"I'm not, but for the sake of not having to look at Anderson's ridiculous face or Sally Donovan's scuffed knees, I really don't mind having him with me on cases."
"What's he like then, this "John"?" The taxi trundled along through the traffic of London. The usual twenty minute journey was like to take forty at this rate. Ava sighed heavily and rested her cheek against her palm as she looked at the pedestrians and thought about who she wished she could pick pocket.
"Ex-army doctor. Had a psychosomatic limp until he met me," Sherlock found himself sounding oddly pleased at this and he looked over to see if Ava was watching him, or even listening. He was disappointed slightly to see her gazing out of the window instead. Quietly he removed his leather gloves and continued talking. "Sees a therapist occasionally. Has an obscenely boring girlfriend called Sarah. Quite short. You'd like him. If I remember, you had a penchant for short men."
Ava almost choked and Sherlock barely suppressed a laugh. "Jesus, that was a while ago," she waved her hand dismissively. "Besides. That was a random, throwaway comment I made during a particularly drunken evening at university. It hardly bears any relevance these days. Why you'd remember that and not the Earth orbiting around the Sun is beyond me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, as riveting as that trip down memory lane is, John is fairly agreeable regardless. He doesn't seem to mind my violin playing or the severed pieces of anatomy in the fridge."
Ava looked at him, her face painted in mock-surprise. "He actually puts up with your violin playing? What, that terrible racket that sounds like cats fucking?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the vulgarity and then pointed an accusatory finger at her. "I'm a very well renowned violinist and besides, John seems to like it if anything."
"So far I've deducted from this John that he is deaf as well as stupid," Ava laughed dryly. "How oddly intriguing."
In attempt to hide his fury, Sherlock turned to look out of the window and remained silent for the duration of the cab journey. He could almost fee Ava's smirk burning an upturned semi-circle against his skin the more he ignored her but he refused to relent until his mood shifted. She was, after all, vital to him and the case.
221b was as it always was as the taxi sidled up to the curb. Squashed between flats and cafes but still managing to stick out like a sore thumb in the crowd of buildings. Sherlock paid the fair and climbed out of the taxi, his long limbs stretching and extending, the joints clicking wearily in their sockets. He waited for Ava without saying a word and only barely left his hand on the open door in order to let her in. Inside the flat the air hung low and hot, a result of John growing bored and angry with opening the windows only to find Sherlock had closed them again an hour later.
"Well," Ava murmured as they ascending into the living room. She unbuttoned her coat and removed her black beret. "This place hasn't changed at all, has it? Do you still keep your Tin Of Wonders under the floorboards?" She asked with one hand on her hip and one eyebrow raised tauntingly. She was the definition of luxurious in a high waisted skirt that smoothed so effortlessly over her hips with a crisp white collared shirt tucked into the waistband, the buttons open loosely around her neck and barely concealing the lacy bra beneath. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in crimson waves. It was a sight to floor any man. A man like John, or even Mycroft for that matter, and Ava knew perfectly well that she could use her prowess to her advantage against the male race. But the only difference between Sherlock and the rest of his gender was that Sherlock didn't care for aesthetics. Her tits bursting out of a top made no difference to what he wanted and he how he was going to get it.
However, he froze upon hearing her words. Only for a second in which his shoulder tensed and his eyes narrowed. And then he regained himself as quickly as he had lost himself. They had cut a thin line across his icy exterior, one that he was eager to cut back. "An addict is always an addict, Ava. I thought you of all people would know that." His eyes pierced hers sharply and the moments silence that descended over them was so palpable Sherlock thought he may cough from the heat of it clogging his throat so suddenly.
It was Ava's turn to narrow her eyes this time. "Oh yes," she smiled calmly. "I know very well." She looked as though she may something else, something sharp and cutting. But she didn't and Sherlock's chest swelled a little in relief. Instead she said, "so what do you want to know about Victor Stephens? Can't we hurry this along so that I may go home and make my dinner."
"Ah yes!" Sherlock sprung up and paced into the living room towards the arm chair. "I want to know everything. All the information you have to offer. Starting with why you robbed him and how much you took."
Ava sighed and sat down, crossing her legs neatly one over the other. "I hit his particular house for several reasons, Sherlock. One, I hate his art. Two, I hate his kind. Three, all of his boyfriends were much prettier than me and any of my boyfriends. And four, he was incredibly rich and that's always a major factor in any house I burgle." She smirked.
Sherlock put his head in his hands and then looked up. "The real reasons, Ava." He scolded.
"They were real! Okay, fine, Jesus. You want an explanation. Look. I don't like people who are born into wealth and do nothing but take the high road and ride the coat tails of everyone before them. Which is exactly what he did. That and yes, he was very rich. And despite whatever anyone tells you, money does indeed buy you happiness and happiness is all anybody wants in this world. Happiness and fame I suppose."
"Okay," Sherlock sighed, ignoring her quips mostly. "What can you tell me about him? I know you, you must've been watching his house before you made your move. What did you see?"
"Well, he had a lot of different boyfriends. I assume they were boyfriends. Young men mostly. Incredibly good looking, chiselled and model like. Something tells me they were paid for because why any of them would want to gallivant off with an old codger like him is beyond me. He was going on holiday. Or about to, anyway. That's when I hit his house because the lights had been off for two days and I assumed he and his latest slice had gone jet-setting off to wherever."
The information processed in Sherlock's mind like a filing system. He took all of the useful bits and filed them away carefully until he would need again. The rest he discarded of easily as though he was simply pressing the metaphorical back space key and deleting it. As the cogs whirred relentlessly, he formed an ideal train of suspects like a spider diagram. Everything was connected. It could've been one of the boyfriends, but most likely not. Too obvious. A jilted ex, perhaps. Just a jilted man, perhaps. The possibilities were endless. He looked up at Ava. "Anything else?"
She thought for a moment. "No," she shook her head slowly. "Although... I do remember watching one night and he had a particularly vocally violent argument over the phone. I couldn't hear what he was saying but afterwards he looked quite perturbed and anxious. Then started making other phone calls with lots of wild hand gestures. But that could mean anything. Maybe he owed someone money, which would hardly be a problem considering how rich he was. Perhaps it was nothing."
Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth. He pursed lips, his jaw resting in the L-shaped groove his clasped fingers created. Humming audibly, he let it all sink in. "He was definitely up to something. Drugs, maybe. Fraudulence. Something. This is going to take time and research," He jumped up off the sofa and waltzed into the kitchen. "Coffee?" He called to Ava as she stood and bent to collect her coat.
"No, thank you. You've got your information. I'm off. It's been wonderful, truly, Sherlock. It's always lovely having such a despicable dog from my past drop back into my life but please, next time, give me some warning first."
"I don't think so," Sherlock spoke with authority as he strolled back into the living room. "You're not going anywhere. You're the only person who can possibly help me solve this case. And unless you want your manic little secret divulged to the Scotland Yard, you better stay put."
"You arsehole," Ava conceded, her eyes narrowed to angry little slits. "How dare you emotionally black mail me. I could have the police round here in seconds on a drugs search and with my careful directions, they'd find a lot more on you than just Intent To Supply that's for sure."
"Well," Sherlock smirked. "Would you look at that. We are both in a position to black mail the other quite accordingly. You may as well stay put because whatever the outcome of your leaving, we'd both be going down."
Ava all but started screaming and waving her hands around in a fit of wild, frenzied anger as she looked at him. Instead she clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might break it and threw her coat down on the sofa. "You are a naughty little wanker and I hate you," Ava flopped down and crossed her arms. "Get me that coffee and tell me where the hell we start and where your take away menus are."
Sherlock turned back into the kitchen, laughing so hard he thought he might fall over.
Wot do you fink, luvlies? I'm rather enjoying writing their snarky, sarcastic relationship. Give me your criticisms if you think I'm doing something wrong and I will try and correct it.