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John stood at the foot of the wooden ladder watching the flurry of movements up on the tree house.
As if sensing his presence, a head of messy raven curls appeared by the window.
Five minutes late, Watson. Sherlock will definitely have your hide.
"John! You're late!"
At seventeen, on a summer's night, boys like him were probably losing their virginity in a motel, instead, he's here, the only friend of their rich neighbor's son; fifteen year-old, William Sherlock Scott 'Posh Boy' Holmes.
"Hurry up!"
And a bossy one too.
He went up and found Sherlock, pacing in front of a covered bee hive.
"What's up?" John asked.
"The two hundred and twentieth bee is missing!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at the hive.
"You've counted them?"
John was given an expression that meant 'Obviously.'
"Right."
John looked around at the mess of their tree house but his gaze kept coming back at the boy pouting in front of him. Cute.
Rein yourself, Watson.
His eyes lifted up and there it is—they. Ah. He smiled.
John leaned in closer to Sherlock before pointing at a little potted plant by the corner of the rooftop, where a pair of bees are snuggled on a flower.
"Oh." Sherlock breathed, blushing.
"Not two hundred and twenty, Sherlock." John whispered. "But two hundred and twenty-one bees."
