Deerstalker - a Sherlolly story

A Race against the Clock

“I don’t owe you nothing, kid. Now get out! I swear, if you take one step further, I will kill you!” Ed barked. Sherlock could not help but grin, the skinny 29-year old in front of him was as impressive as an aggressive Chihuahua. 

Sherlock decided it was time to see what his favorite dealer was hiding in the living room and get his usual packages of cigarettes and marihuana. Also, it was ten to five already.

He put his foot between the door and leaned his shoulders into it. The door opened and Ed stumbled backwards. Ed sprang to Sherlock and grabbed his shoulders in an attempt to push him to the ground. Before he could actually try, Sherlock turned him around in one swift movement and pressed him against the wall.

Twisting Ed’s arm behind his back, Sherlock spoke right into his ear; “You are going to tell me what is going on and you are going to give me my regular order. If you do not I will proceed to slowly break your arm and after that I will call the police to clean up this drug hole. So, what is it going to be Eddy?”

“It’s…It’s grandpa…Edmund. Just…Just let me go and I’ll show you. He’s upstairs.” Ed stammered.

Curiosity winning from his impatience, Sherlock slowly released Eddy’s arm.

“Show me,” Sherlock ordered him. Eddy lead the way up the stairs, while Sherlock followed closely behind.

On the first floor,  Ed slowly opened a white door to reveal a bedroom. As soon as Sherlock stepped inside he recognized the smell of a dead body.

In the bed lay Ed’s grandfather Edmund, he seemed to be sleeping, but his almost purple complexion told otherwise.

“I found him like this, this morning.” Ed told Sherlock, his voice quivering.

Sherlock immediately noticed a bottle of pills standing on the bedside table. A sleeping medicine, he supposed. As he moved closer he saw the instruction leaflet from the medicine lying next to it, someone had written over the printed words in red ink. Sherlock picked it up carefully.

“It’s addressed to me,” Ed said, sounding like the message had been written by death itself.

The first words on the leaflet, that lay beside the corpse that shared his name with the man standing beside Sherlock, read; Sleep well, Ed.

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Molly let her book fall from her bed when her phone chimed. She had been so engrossed in ‘Pride and Prejudice’ that the modern sound of her text alert shocked her. She looked at her screen and saw the text had come from Phil. She smiled at the picture he had sent her of his cat pulling a grumpy face with the caption ‘Toby, don’t you think I look pretty?’

The last few days she and Phil had gotten to know each other better and Molly was surprised to find that she really liked him. The first few days he had  just seemed like the overly loud crush of her friend Meena. Once Molly found out he liked Harry Potter and also had a cat, she regretted judging him so quickly.

Molly bent over to pick up ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and sighed. Why couldn’t she be more like Meena? Sweet and funny Meena, who liked an equally spontaneous and cheerful boy that probably would ask her out in a couple of days.

‘Well, you like fictional guys from the 19th century that are stuck-up, proud and manage to insult everyone (seriously tough, why did she find  Mr. Darcy so attractive?). There was never any hope for you, Mol.’  She thought, while she looked at her watch.

It was a quarter to four. In five minutes she had to leave to meet another someone that had mastered the art of the insult.  She hopped out of bed, put her laptop in her bag and grabbed her Chemistry notebook. She was about to leave the room, but stopped in front of the mirror when she caught her reflection.

Her hair was up in a practical ponytail and on top of her khaki’s she wore red-and-blue plaid shirt. She looked exactly as she usually did. Is it alright? She suddenly wondered. Maybe it was her lipstick that had faded. Should I put on some more? Or would that look like I’m trying to hard? She let out a loud groan. She was going completely paranoid over a lame study date. In one quick movement she snatched her bag and slammed the door behind her.

She arrived at the library five minutes early. She had biked this route many times and knew it only took five minutes, but just to be sure she had left at ten before five.

With her brown leather bag on her shoulder she walked up the steps to the door of the quaint brick building.

“Good afternoon, Molly.” The librarian greeted her, tiny wrinkles forming around her eyes as she smiled.

“Hello, miss Heisy.” In the two short weeks Molly had been in this town, the motherly librarian had already become one of her favorite people.

“Coming to borrow some more books?” miss Heisy asked.

“No, just studying tonight. With a friend. He should be here any minute, actually.”

“Alright, if you need any help with the computers or printer, just let me know.” The librarian replied, still wearing her caring smile.

Molly moved further into the library. When she had passed all the non-fiction shelves, she put her bag down on the large table that stood opposite of the three computers standing against the wall.

From her bag she got her laptop, her notebook, two pens, three pencils, an eraser and a pencil sharpener. The notebook she put in front of her laptop and lay the pencils the pencils left of it. She put them all in a perfectly straight line.

‘Knock of the OCD, Molly’ she thought to herself. She wished she didn’t always try to be little Miss Perfect, but she didn’t know how to stop without feeling out of control.

Content with her arrangement, she sat down in front of it.  And waited. It was two before five, so she expected him to arrive sometime in the next ten minutes. Maybe a bit later, since it was Sherlock she was dealing with.

She decided to already start up her laptop and look through her notes, being prepared could never hurt. When her laptop was fully turned on and she had read all the notes she made in class, she looked at her watch again. Quarter past five. Molly looked through the shelves to the entrance. He would probably walk in any second.

Seconds passed and then some more seconds passed. Molly started to wonder if Sherlock thought they were meeting at six. She decided that she should just start working, otherwise they would never finish before closing time.

….and this is why our experiment proves the hypothesis to be correct. Molly finished her sentence and looked at the time on her laptop.  18: 23. She had been so engrossed in  writing about ionic bonds, she had not noticed many minutes had passed. Still, after almost one and a half hour she was still alone. From the pit of her stomach she could feel a panic start to rise. Had they really agreed on five o’clock? Wasn’t it actually on Wednesday? Could there be confusion about which library? Could the road be closed off? Had she somehow made it all up in her mind? Questions filled with despair raced through her mind, making her unable to form one coherent thought.  Molly told herself to stop it. She knew she was being paranoid and it kept her from her work. She let out one big sigh and continued typing.

“Molly? You’re still here?” Molly heard miss Heisy call from the front of the library. “It’s seven thirty, I was supposed to close up half an hour ago.” She had to speak loudly to be heard over the sound of rain falling on the roof.

“Oh, really? I’m sorry! I’ll get out right now,” Molly replied, trying to keep her voice light. Deep inside, she was still contemplating whether she wanted to burst into a fit of rage or fall to the ground crying.  

She threw all of her carefully laid out supplies in her bag and almost ran to the exit of the library.

“Goodbye, miss Heisy.” Molly prayed she would not ask about her study-partner that never showed.

“Goodby-“ Molly slammed the door, so she never would have to find out if miss Heisy was going to.

Through the pouring rain,  Molly  quickly ran to her bike. She did not bother with her helmet and kicked the pedals hard. As she drove off into the dark, she did not know whether it was the rain or tears that wetted her cheeks. With her heart beating loudly in the cold night, she was only certain of one thing; Sherlock Holmes made her feel things she had never felt before.