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Joan Watson joined Sherlock at the brownstone door, a large purse slung over her shoulder. "Let's go see Hendricks."
Her partner looked at her wide handbag in pale brown and cocked an eyebrow. "An unconventional way to take a pet for a walk."
She shrugged. "As long as the pet fits in a shoulder bag, you can take it on public transport. I've seen a guy with a pit bull in a canvas duffel for God's sakes."
"All right." Sherlock shrugged.
The evening train was its usual tardy, noisy, jostly self. The suspect's nightclub was equally noisy, jostly, and sweatier. Hendricks' hired goons cornering the pair where they rummaged in the Dumpster behind the nightclub were heavily armed.
Joan Watson pulled out a sheet of plate glass from her purse and smashed it before the two gunmen before leaping on Sherlock and wrapping her arms around him as he hunkered down.
The shrieking gunman flailed and fled the swirling swarm of angry bees that fled the shattered hive panel – and that circled Joan without touching her or the man she embraced. They fled before reinforcements showed.
"Thank your namesakes for me," Sherlock said as she tended his few stings back home.
"That was fun, Joanie!" the queen said from behind Watson's left ear as she let her pheromones respond: Good bees.