Something Sweet



  It's just another day at the candy shop for Sherlock: a quiet afternoon spent more on reading his latest fantasy novel than on selling candy. The kind of day he loves, even if the looming New Year's Eve leaves him feeling nostalgic and a little lonely. But then the last person he ever expected to see walks through the door of his shop, and Sherlock realizes that some things don't fade with time, but only grow stronger.

  Something Sweet

  By Megan Derr

  Published by Less Than Three Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Cover designed by Megan Derr

  This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition December 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Megan Derr

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-62004-000-3

  Something Sweet

  Megan Derr

  The downside of having worked in his store for so many years was that he became so used to certain sounds that he stopped hearing them. The shop had been quiet all day; the holiday season was winding down and snow had been falling practically nonstop since lunch. Nobody was leaving a warm house to buy candy.

  He only looked up because the crinkle of plastic and foil was out of place against the jazz music his latest employee thought everyone should love. Sherlock never thought he'd miss Clarence's ridiculous screamy music, but he had learned the error of his thinking.

  The first thing he noticed when he looked up was the man's ass. It was a damned fine one, made for grabbing and much, much more. Sherlock shook himself before he got caught staring. He lived in a pretty open neighborhood, but people still didn't like being gawked at.

  When the man half-turned, and Sherlock caught his profile, he dropped his book in surprise. Flushing, he ducked behind the counter to retrieve it and remember how to breathe again.

  No way. No fucking way was Basil Dalton in his store. Basil had left home to attend college on a football scholarship and never looked back. Last thing he'd heard through the gossip network was that Basil was still shattering records as a pro. After that, Sherlock had stopped looking for crumbs. At some point, a guy had to move on and stop pining after someone who had never really looked his way. High school was thirteen years behind him; it was long past time he got over that crush.

  But Jesus was the thirteen-years-older version worth its own crush. Having a better idea about what to with a man like that was not helping. What the fuck was he was supposed to say? Would Basil remember him? Doubtful. Why would someone like that remember the scrawny, nerdy kid who'd lived in the shitty house at the end of the block and spent all of summer vacation working in his grandfather's old-fashioned candy shop?

  "Hello?"

  Swearing silently, Sherlock finally snatched up his dropped book and made himself stand. "Hi! Can I help you with something?"

  Basil didn't reply, just stared at him with a slight frown, a bit of hesitance. Finally he asked, "Detective?"

  Sherlock grimaced at the old nickname because really, what had his parents thought people were going to call him his entire life? "Long time no see, Basil."

  To his astonishment, Basil broke into a wide grin. "You remember me."

  Brow drawing down in confusion, Sherlock replied, "Who could forget our world famous star athlete?"

  Basil's smile dimmed, turned forced. "It has been mentioned a time or two. Or five hundred. Anyway, what are you doing here? I figured you'd be somewhere causing explosions or creating cures for cancer or something,"

  "Or something," Sherlock agreed, amused and annoyed in equal measure that everyone was so surprised he'd choose his grandfather's shop over being whatever mad genius they liked to think he'd been. "Explosions are overrated. You still like shoplifting peppermint sticks?"

  Even more shocking than the earlier smile was the way Basil went beet red. "That was on a stupid dare," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "Peggy and her crew dared me to do it just to be jerks. They knew—well, they knew too much, back then."

  Sherlock snorted. "Peggy hasn't changed. If you haven't already run into her, keep avoiding. She's pregnant right now, but I think it makes her worse. We were all kinda hoping it would slow her down, but no such luck."

  Basil laughed, and Sherlock tried not to gawk, but it was hard. Being a famous football player been good for Basil: he was tall and broad and fit as hell. His black hair was short, as if it had been shaved and was only just starting to really grow back in. There was a small scar on the right side of his chin, and his nose looked as though it had been broken more than once. His eyes were still the color of faded denim, warm and soft and comfortable. Even if Sherlock had never once felt comfortable around Basil. No, his libido was way too involved for comfort to be possible. "Nothing like a small town," Basil finally said as his laughter faded. "How are your folks? Is it true they moved away?"

  "They moved to the west coast, yeah. Fancy beach house and everything. They came for Christmas; they'll be sorry to hear they missed you."

  "Your folks were good to me."

  Sherlock smiled. "They liked you, and god knows I sucked at mowing the lawn." As he'd hoped, the comment made Basil laugh again. Sherlock tried to tell his cock to behave and the weird feeling in his chest to go the hell away, but he was soundly ignored. Licking his lips, fussing restlessly with his silly book, he asked, "So are you visiting for the holidays? How long are you staying?"

  "Moving back, actually. Now that I'm retired—"

  "Retired?" Sherlock blurted. "I didn't know that."

  Basil grinned. "You keep up with the gossip on Peggy, but not on me? I'm hurt, Detective."

  Sherlock laughed, shoving his paperback aside and leaning his elbows on the counter. "That's a matter of survival. I just lost track, figured you were still kicking ass somewhere."

  "So you did keep tabs on me?"

  Realizing too late he'd been played, Sherlock flushed and said, "Doesn't everyone? Our big, famous jock. You and Henry were the only ones who amounted to anything, though most of us have done alright. But selling candy has nothing to do with regular appearances on ESPN. You're uncle and aunt must be beside themselves, especially after that Super Bowl win."

  Basil smiled, but there was a distinctly wobbly quality to it. "We don't really talk much anymore. Let's face it, we never really did."

  "I'm sorry," Sherlock replied, meaning it. Everyone knew that Ron and Angie Dalton had been the biggest asses in town. They'd done their Christian Duty bringing up the nephew Angie's sister had left behind when she died in a car accident and had never let anyone forget it. While Sherlock had buried himself in studying because that was what he was supposed to do, Basil had worked hard at what had probably seemed his only ticket out of the pit of god-fearing vipers with whom he lived.

  "Eh," Basil said. "I got over them a long time ago. It's their loss. It's good to be back, though it still feels kind of weird."

  Sherlock smiled faintly at that. "It goes away pretty quick. I felt weird when I came home for Granddad's funeral. After being in Boston for so long..." He shrugged. "When the will was read and everyone learned he'd left me the shop, my parents thought I should sell it. But I couldn't bear the thought and liked the idea of staying. It stopped feeling weird soon enough."

  "Good to know. Do you still live—" He broke off when the door opened, the bell above it ringing, and they both turned to see who had entered.

  "Hi, boss!"

  Sherlock rolled his eyes. Clarence, his assistant manager, ha
d left for lunch with blue hair. He had returned with orange. "Nice hair. You barely had the blue a week."

  Clarence grinned. "Orange will look better with my outfit for the New Year's bash tomorrow night. You been harassed into going, yet?"

  "I plan on spending New Year's Eve the same way I always spend it," Sherlock retorted. "Far away from the drunken shenanigans of the rest of you."

  "Just you and gramps and—holy shit, you're Basil Dalton!"

  Basil smiled, friendly and polite and one hundred percent business mode. Sherlock knew a professional smile when he saw one. Damn it. Turning away, leaving his old crush and his goth-punk assistant manager to talk sports, he tucked his book under the counter and went to tidy up around the store.

  He fussed around with a display of candy ideal for parties and gifts then went to get a broom. When he came back out of the back room, he saw that Clarence was alone. Disappointment hit him hard, but Sherlock told himself he was being stupid. A remarkably friendly—and entirely too enjoyable—chat didn't mean anything. It definitely didn't mean that Basil owed him a goodbye.

  "Dude, dude, I can't believe you never told me you were pals with Basil Dalton."

  "We aren't pals," Sherlock said irritably and started sweeping the floor with a vengeance. "We lived on the same street and at completely opposite ends. He mowed our lawn, and in high school sometimes I'd give him a ride home. That's all."

  Clarence smirked, the effect somewhat ruined by the melodramatic sweep of florescent orange bangs falling in his face. Sherlock really couldn't wait for summer when his hair returned to Standard Emo Black. "Is that why you were making eyes at each other when I came in? Cause you weren't pals? Man, wait until I tell Mel you already snapped him up."

  "Like Mel wants anybody, but his millionaire," Sherlock said. "I haven't snapped up anyone. And we weren't making eyes."

  "You were making eyes," Clarence said. "If I'd come back any later, I bet I would have found the stockroom door suspiciously locked."

  Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Go home and finish getting ready for the annual alcohol-poisoning. Your orange hair is scaring away the whole two customers I'm going to get this afternoon."

  Clarence snickered. "I'm gone. Never fear, I'll be in Monday to manage the store. Oh, Basil said to tell you sorry he had to bolt, and he left you something here. Bye!"

  The door banged shut behind him, and Sherlock gave up all pretense of sweeping to see what Basil had left him. He hadn't even noticed Basil was holding anything, and why would he bring Sherlock something? They'd barely known each other. He frowned when he saw the plastic grocery bag folded around whatever was inside—whatever obviously being a hardback book.

  Picking it up, he got the plastic bag open and off—and then stared in shock. The cover was of a fierce looking black dragon equipped for riding, the reins held by a man who looked equal parts flesh and clockwork. The title was in a font that furthered the steam punk vibe of the rider. The Timekeeper, it said. But it was the author's name that blew him away: B.M. Dalton.

  Since when did Basil write? Hopping neatly over the counter, Sherlock snatched up his phone from the shelf just below it and pulled up a browser. An hour later, he had learned that B.M. Dalton was a promising new addition to the world of fantasy with six remarkable short stories to his name and a novel debuting the first week of the new year.

  Had Basil quit football to write? Basil set his phone on the counter and picked up the book, opening it to read the blurb. He didn't look up again until his phone started playing the most obnoxious country song he'd ever heard. Silently plotting revenge on Clarence, he snatched it up, saw it was Mel calling, and hit the silent button.

  When it finally stopped ringing, he waited for the ding of an incoming text. He grinned when it showed and typed back a brief "hell no". He ignored the reply, which was along the lines of a drunkenly typoed "fuck you".

  Noticing the time, Sherlock wondered when the hell it had gotten to be so late. Reluctantly setting the book aside, he went about closing up the store,

  Two hours later, he grabbed the book, killed the lights, and went through the stockroom to the stairs in the back that led to the upstairs apartment he called home.

  He'd redone the whole place after he'd taken over the shop, but he still saw the faded old furniture, the table stacked with leather bound books, the ashtray piled with cigarette butts ... He still saw his grandfather and remembered all the summers he had spent either helping about the store or listening to him read. If not for his grandfather, Sherlock knew he'd have been wearing that lab coat everyone had expected to see. Every now and then he thought about those first two years of college: the classes, the labs, his future already drafted and waiting.

  Then he'd gotten the call that his grandfather was dead. Sherlock had cried through the whole funeral. He'd been astonished to learn all those old books and so many other things had been left to him. He'd cried all over again to realize the candy shop had been left to him. His parents had not been amused when he said he wasn't selling it; they were even less amused when he'd dropped out of college to run it. They'd gotten over it, though, when they realized he really was happy.

  Still he felt ... interloper wasn't the right word. Granddad had been gone too long for Sherlock still to feel as though he were intruding. But something still felt wrong, as if there were something missing. He didn't know what, though. He'd torn out all the old shelves, carpet, and wallpaper. The front rooms were now painted a dark rich green, his bedroom blue, the kitchen red, the bathroom a lighter green. New oak shelves were mounted on most of the living room walls, packed with his own books and those his grandfather had left him. The furniture was warm-toned brown leather matched by a soft green recliner. Everyone kept telling him to get a TV, but Sherlock never got around to it. His Mac sat on the coffee table, still open. An enormous fat tabby was sprawled across the sofa, looking as lazy as only a cat could. "Have you moved even once today, Doyle?"

  The cat blinked at him, then went back to sleep.

  Rolling his eyes, Sherlock set the book down beside his computer and went to go shower and change. Half an hour later, wearing his favorite black sweatpants, towel draped over his shoulders while he worked at drying his thick hair, Sherlock started a pot of coffee and threw a Tupperware of leftover casserole in the microwave.

  Immediate chores addressed, he snatched up Basil's book and opened it up to where he'd left off. He stopped reading when his stomach growled and finally set the book aside to go get the coffee and dinner he'd forgotten. He dumped the casserole into a bowl, got a clean fork from the dishwasher, poured a cup of coffee, and carried it all back to the living room.

  He downed the coffee quickly then ate enough of the casserole to shut his stomach up. Pushing the dishes away, he picked the book up again and stretched out on the couch. When he finished, eyes were sore from reading for so long and his body stiff from lying on the couch; he saw it was three in the morning. December thirty-first. The new year loomed. Sadness pulled at him, a familiar old ache that refused to fade off. He'd always adored his grandfather, always been happy to spend his summers working, but he hadn't realized just how much until he was long gone.

  New Year's Eve was the worst. It had been their tradition for as long as Sherlock could remember, ever since his parents had gone out of town when his father's mother had died. Sherlock had never interacted with that side of family, who had never forgiven his father for marrying his mother.

  Sherlock had spent that year end with his grandfather, there in the candy shop. He'd fallen asleep, but had woken and to find Granddaddy missing. A few anxious minutes of searching had found him downstairs in the candy shop, looking sad and drinking a grown up drink. They always had a certain look to them, grown up drinks.

  Granddaddy had set Sherlock on his lap and let him have a sip and told about the tradition he and Sherlock's grandmother had had of toasting the New Year in Something Sweet. Sherlock had joined him every year since, even after he had left to attend
college.

  It had been hard, carrying on the tradition by himself for the first time. It wasn't the sort of thing his parents cared for, and he'd had no friends close enough to want to ask. No, it was a tradition to be kept close. An especially close family member, a lifelong friend ... or a lover, the kind who became a partner.

  Pointedly not letting his mind wander places it had no business going, Sherlock stumbled his way to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and fell into bed.