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“Honestly Sherlock, I was gone for twenty minutes," John says, holding the ice pack against his husband’s affected region. "I don’t even understand how this happened.”
“I don’t either,” Sherlock grumbles, voice muffled against the sofa cushion. “As I told you several times, I was sleeping.”
“Naked. On the sofa. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon.”
“It’s hot,” Sherlock counters. "And may I remind you, haven’t left these four rooms in weeks. I’ll sleep naked wherever I damn well please.”
“Not like you didn’t before,” John replies, removing the ice and surveying the damage.
The welt is perfectly centred on the left cheek of Sherlock’s arse. It isn’t large -- perhaps the diameter of a pound coin -- but it is undeniably swollen and angry, with a red ring spreading out from the raised area.
“I think the stinger’s still in it,” John tells him. “I’ll need to scrape it out.”
“There’s a stinger?” Sherlock says, craning his neck around, trying to see his own rear end. “That’s not surprising. I told you it was a bee.”
“Looks like,” John affirms, rising from the edge of the sofa to retrieve his wallet. “So not a wasp then. Wasps have smooth stingers.”
“Yes, and they can sting repeatedly without causing themselves injury. Bees have barbed stingers. They leave them behind, along with a venom sac.” Sherlock doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds...remorseful. “It’s a fatal injury. It’s why they seldom sting. They effectively disembowel themselves in self-defense. It's rather tragic.”
John rifles through his wallet and locates his bank card. He returns to the sofa, positions the short edge of it parallel to Sherlock’s (redder and angrier by the moment) skin. “It sounds like you feel worse for the bee than you do for yourself.”
“Of course I do,” Sherlock replies. “She was merely responding to a perceived threat. If I hadn’t been woken from a sound sleep, I never would have swatted at her. My arse will be fine in a few days, while my thoughtlessness cost her her life.”
Sherlock can’t see John’s face, so he doesn’t try to hide his fond grin. “You’re such a pushover for the creepy-crawlies. Sorry love, this may burn a bit.” He carefully scrapes the edge of the card across the center of the sting, making Sherlock exhale sharply, but he doesn’t move. It takes a few tries, but John finally succeeds in removing the stinger. “Got it.”
“Let me see.”
John still has the tiny stinger on the edge of his fingernail; he transfers it carefully to Sherlock’s outstretched index finger. Sherlock studies it intently as John puts the card aside and reapplies the ice pack.
“Those creepy-crawlies are the very foundation of our biosphere,” Sherlock informs him loftily. “We cannot survive without them, and still we thoughtlessly exterminate them by the billions every day. It’s environmental genocide, and I hate that I contributed to that cycle of abuse.”
“Sweetheart, you swatted at a bee in your sleep. It was involuntary manslaughter at worst. Well, bee-slaughter. I don’t think you should come down quite so hard on yourself for a genuine mistake.” He bends his head, kisses Sherlock’s pale skin, just above the injury. “And it’s a known scientific fact your arse is absolutely delicious, so there were far worse hills to die on. You know, so to speak.”
Sherlock groans at the terrible pun, but there’s amusement there.
“Okay, keep still for me.” John places the ice pack on the injured side of his bum and rises. “I know we’ve got some calamine lotion somewhere, and I think I want you to take a diphenhydramine just to be on the safe side.”
“If I were allergic,” Sherlock replies, "I would be showing symptoms by now.”
“Delayed reactions are rare,” John says, “but they can happen. It will help with the burning and itching, as well.” He stands, returns his bank card to his wallet.
“Can you put her in the fridge?” Sherlock says.
John pauses. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The bee. She’s in the Altoids tin on the desktop.”
The mental image of Sherlock, staggering around naked, searching for the tiny corpse of the bee that stung him in the arse, is so exquisitely hilarious that John is certain he will regret missing that moment for the rest of his natural existence. He bites down his back teeth to stifle the laughter that threatens to escape. Sherlock isn’t in the frame of mind to see the humour in it all quite yet.
“Of course I did,” Sherlock says, matter-of-fact. “She gave her life gallantly, the least I can do is give her a careful necropsy. Deduce why she decided to leave the parks and gardens and instead search our flat for flowers.”
“Probably because you sweeten your tea with about a ridiculous amount of honey, and there are…" John surveys the room. "At this moment, I count five mugs in a six-foot radius of the sofa.”
“I like honey.”
“Yes. And so do bees.”
Sherlock considers for a moment, then nods in agreement.“That’s probably the most likely reason. But still, I’d like to make a more thorough investigation.”
John picks up the Altoids tin and opens it. The fuzzy little creature lay inside of it, unmoving and very clearly dead. John finds he actually feels quite badly about the whole thing as well.
“Poor little girl,” he murmurs..
“I wonder if I can determine which hive she came from,” Sherlock muses aloud. “Did you know there are almost six thousand managed hives in the city of London?”
“I did not know that,” John says. “I feel like maybe you’re on the brink of a new quarantine project.”
He doesn’t quite know if he’s observing or encouraging. Managing Sherlock’s boredom in quarantine is… an ongoing challenge. To say the very least.
“Perhaps,” Sherlock says, contemplative. “When you get the calamine, bring me my laptop? I have several avenues of research I’d like to get started on.”
John goes into the kitchen, deposits the little tin in the refrigerator before locating the calamine lotion in the cabinet next to the sink.
“Why do I feel like this is going to lead to a second career as some kind of consulting entomologist?” John says, returning to the sofa. He takes off the ice pack, begins carefully spreading the cool pink lotion over the sting. With the stinger gone, it’s already looking less angry.
“You said the same thing about the raw wool spinning project, and I’m not planning on becoming a consulting shepherd.”
“You have to admit, your interests lately have taken a decidedly agrarian turn.”
“I’ve already grown tired of sheep,” Sherlock says dismissively. They’re hopelessly dull.” He pauses, considering. “Bees, though. They’re much more interesting. The complexity of their colony behaviors is astonishing.”
“Thinking of becoming a consulting apiarist, then.” John's tone is lightly teasing.
“Only until this bloody quarantine is over, I’m sure. Can you imagine me as a beekeeper? That is not exactly a flattering outfit.”
John pauses, tilts his head slightly, considering.
The thing is, he kind of...can, somehow.
John shrugs. “You never know what the future holds.”
“I don't, but I still sincerely doubt it,” Sherlock says. “Anyway, Mrs Hudson isn’t about to allow hives on the roof, and I can’t imagine us ever leaving London, so my interest must remain purely theoretical.”
“I don’t know,” John replies. “I think you’d look rather attractive in one of those beekeeping hats.”
Sherlock scoffs. “Honestly, John, that’s just ridiculous. Can you fetch me that Benadryl? I’m getting rather itchy.”
“I’m the ridiculous one,” John says as he rises. “Okay. Says the naked man with calamine lotion on his arse.”
“Don’t be cruel,” Sherlock says. “I’m in a very vulnerable state right now. Maybe also a glass of water? And my laptop. A pillow, as well, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a lot of research to do, and I’d like to get started immediately.”