Deerstalker - a Sherlolly story

A Race against the Clock

Pesticides, but not the ones his neighbors used. That’s what had eventually made the dogs go quiet. Now the question that remained was who had very strategically dropped them in the dog house. Sherlock groaned, he had been up all night thinking it through. No answer had come and during class he could not stop wondering if he would have figured it out already, if Mycroft had still been around.

Sherlock put on his coat, hoping his business with O’Malley would go quickly, so he could get his order before he got to the library to meet Molly. Maybe tonight would serve as a welcome distraction.

“Sherlock?” his mother called just as he was about to walk out.  Oh, crap. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out,” he mumbled, trying to walk out without success. His mother was holding the door.

She sighed, weariness and disappointment clear in her blue eyes.

“It’s cold,” she just said. “Here, put this on.” She grabbed the ratty deerstalker that hung on the coatrack and put it snugly on his head.

“Just remember that you did not learn your tricks from a stranger, young man.” She gave him one last warning before he slammed the door.

The O’Malleys lived only three blocks away. From the outside their house was perfectly unnoticeable. A half-kept garden,  a few plants on the windowsill and a sign  that read O’Malley beside the door. Yet, most high school students and every alcoholic in town knew better. If you needed anything to cheer you up that the supermarket did not want to sell you, the O’Malleys had it. Grandfather and grandson. It was a real family business. Sherlock knocked loudly on the door three times, he did not want to wait today. He looked at his watch and watched the dial go round until an entire minute had gone by, but he got no reaction. He sighed and decided try the back door. Maybe the family had decided to lay low for a little while.

He swung himself over the fence and trampled the weeds in the back garden. Once he reached the back door he stomped it loudly.

When it stayed silent, he yelled: “Ed! I know you’re in there! It’s Sherlock! If you don’t come out, I’ll come in!”  This was strange, the boys usually welcomed costumers like acquaintances or family, so they would not be noticed.

He could hear footsteps inside the house, someone was trying to hide. With his last bit of self-control Sherlock retained himself to not kick in the door, but use a hairpin he fished from his coat pocket.

Once he stepped through the backdoor into the kitchen, he addressed the younger O’Malley loudly; “Ed! I need my fix! You still owe me one!”

No one answered, but he could sense someone was around. From the kitchen he could see that the lights in the hall were still on.  Without a sound he moved across the wooden hallway floor, further into the house. He reached the living room door and was about to grab the knob, when someone on the other side suddenly pulled it open.

Ed O’Malley’s head peeked out from behind the door. His mouth and eyes formed three perfect O’s and his knuckles turned white as he held the door.

“You can’t come in here! What the hell were you thinking, breaking in like that?” He tried to sound threatening, but Sherlock could hear the hidden nervousness in his voice.

“I came to get my regular. You still owe me quite some cigarettes and marihuana, remember?” Sherlock spoke calmly, but his body was ready to kick in the door any second. He was used to some strange behavior from the O’Malleys (What  else could you expect from a small town booze/cigarettes/drugs/porn-dealer?), but today something was clearly wrong. Ed knew Sherlock was a client that made sure of his steady income.