Deerstalker - a Sherlolly story

Prologue

It was a cold November night and Sherlock Holmes lay wide awake on top of his dark blue sheets. He had been lying like this – staring straight up at the ceiling, his hands  forming a pyramid underneath his chin – since midnight. Ever since Mycroft left, his nights seemed to drag on endlessly. The soft ticking of the clock on his bedside table being the only reminder that this darkness would end and the rising sun would bring a new day. Like those are more exciting, he thought and let out a sigh.
He sat up and looked at his clock. With help from the moonlight shining through his curtains he could just make out the dials telling him it was one o’clock.  This meant the dogs would start to bark any second.
His neighbor, Mr. Lowell, kept two Great Danes. Unlike their names, Tootsie and Blossom were anything but sweet. In the last two weeks alone the two pets had managed to bite and attack five people in the neighborhood.  Every night at one o’clock a bus, bringing businessmen and drunkards back to their homes in the small town, would drive past Lowell’s house.  Each night the bus would wake Tootsie and Blossom and the Great Danes would start to bark frantically at what they assumed was an invisible enemy.  
Lying back down, Sherlock could hear the bus turn around the corner, the engine purring softly.  He counted down in his head to moment the growling would begin.  3…2…1…. Nothing. No barking. Had he miscounted? He never miscounted. Sherlock waited until an entire minute had gone by in complete silence.
The quiet was starting to unsettle him.  Animals are used to patterns and those patterns are not suddenly broken, he thought.  This afternoon he had still seen the dogs fight over a toy in Lowell’s garden and he had heard the bus come by just a minute ago. So he could not offer an explanation  for the dogs suddenly remaining quiet. Not yet.
Sherlock quietly put on his shoes and tiptoed to the window. He slowly slid it open and jumped onto the little balcony outside his room. He thanked himself for not deciding to move into Mycroft’s empty room, for his mother always placed the bins very conveniently underneath  this particular balcony. Sherlock swung his legs over the railing gracefully and let go. ‘Thump!’ His shoes went as he landed on top of the garbage cans. Thank god his parents were deep sleepers.
He moved across the garden as if he was part of dark itself. the He reached his neighbors fence and leapt over it  skillfully. As he made his way around Mr. Lowell’s house, the cool night’s air filled his lung. A small smile escaped his lips. He could feel his blood pumping through his veins, while his breath formed little white clouds in the cold dark. This was what a night was supposed to be like for Sherlock Holmes.
As soon as he entered the back garden, he saw the silhouette of the Great Danes lying curled up together near the broken-down doghouse.  The two aggressive beasts resting side by side so peacefully created a bizarre picture. Sherlock approached swiftly, reasons for the pets’ sudden deep sleep running through his brain.
It was only when he reached the doghouse that he saw something was off. The dogs were lying too still, their chests were not moving. Sherlock felt himself awakening, adrenaline filling his veins and his mind starting to race, as he realized he was staring at the corpses of his neighbors’ beloved pets.  He was certain now, he could feel it in the ice-cold darkness that surrounded him.  Something was starting.