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"Whose arse do I need to kick?" Hermes had heard the words too many times to count, in every language that had existed since he'd taken up the job as psychopomp. Leading departed souls to their resting place – at least for the first leg – meant facing many embittered, angry reactions. Rarely, though, the words had been spoken in such a casual, matter-of-fact tone.
"Nobody's to blame for your death. Not unless you plan to complain to Atropos and Ananke, and I wouldn't suggest it. Besides, if there was anyone to take revenge on, you should know that you needn't be personally concerned with it, either. You have people who love you, and wouldn't let you go unavenged. I wouldn't be surprised if they wished there was someone to take to task." ù
She laughed. "Oh, yes, of course. I didn't mean it like that. And you have a point, if I was to leave Sherlock alone, the least I should have done was to gift him with a nice murder to keep his spirits up. But, well, old age and all that. No, I wasn't inquiring about me. "
The god raised an eyebrow. He wasn't one to make mistakes, but – perhaps he'd grown too complacent. Any work could turn into drudgery, given long enough. And the fun times when heroes would break into the underworld and go back again seemed so long past.
"I come from a line who's given bees to Apollo as long as Delphi stood." Boasting was another thing Hermes heard all too often from the recently dead. It took a while to realise that nothing mattered.
"Not as much as my many-grand-aunts, but I know things sometimes," she continued. "The obvious, at least, I bet Sherlock would say. He might not be of my blood, but he's still my family, and when he met John, I thought I could stop worrying about him. Soulmate found and all. He'd have someone who cared for him and made him happy, the day I'd have to follow you. But despite my best attempts, they're still being stupid and – this isn't how things were supposed to go. I know it, and you can't talk me out of it. So. Whose arse do I need to kick?"
Hermes considered lying, just because she'd said he couldn't persuade her she was wrong. He'd talked smarter people into believing complete nonsense, only to amuse himself. Challenging him was unwise, and she should know. Then again – he liked Sherlock Holmes. How could he not, when the man wielded words with such sharp mastery, half the time lying his way through data collection? Besides, Apollo would back him up for a little rule bending in favour of one of his beloved's lines. He might not know the family itself, but if her words were true...well, he knew Apollo. Still. "You should know," he huffed.
Mrs. Hudson had proven aware of too much not to be able to make an informed guess. " Atë," she breathed. The goddess of blinding deceit. As much as he loved tricking people, he despised Atë's fog and the resulting inability to see what was right under your nose. For one, it made his hobby too easy, and hence, no longer fun. And sweet Cyllene, was there confusion and blindness in this case.
He nodded. "With a side of Eris, as usual." Strife. The stirrer of trouble, from personal rivalries all the way up to wars. You'd think John Watson would be inured to her influence by now, Asclepius' healing hold on him stronger, but apparently not. And when those two worked together, chaos always happened. More to the delight of Ares, the big , oafish bully, or sometimes Melpomene's than his.
Even if he could fight and kill – he was a god, and dad gave him the oddest jobs, especially when he was after a girl (when wasn't he, really) – Hermes preferred no blood to be spilt. You could always talk it out. Or at least, you should be able to, if you had the brain and the tongue for it. Speaking of... "I might have an idea." Her eager grin matched his.
No matter how many goddesses were in the way, the bond between these two people couldn't be entirely broken. Rosie safe – and enthusiastic – with Molly and her kitty, John had accompanied Sherlock to pay his respects. After the funeral, because the detective couldn't handle crowds at his best, and now? Mrs. Hudson's sizeable – and entirely deserved – swarm of family, lovers, friends and appreciative acquaintances, each with their own tears, smiles and memories was not something either of her adopted children wanted to dive through.
They were quiet, standing shoulder to shoulder, brimming with feelings, but – she wouldn't hear. This was no staged disappearance. John had personally checked, and double checked; he was a doctor, he knew the difference, ta very much. Besides, she knew. Talking would be useless.
The first bee landing softly on her stone was a cute distraction. Neither of them was aware of the bugs' ties to the underworld, or their ability to carry messages across dimensions.
The winged army that followed on her heels became a much more pressing concern. They tried to shoo the sudden attack away, or run. But a black and yellow, buzzing screen closed around them, relentless, pushing, curling no matter how they tried to defend themselves, or each other. They ended face to face, the stone digging into John's back.
If Sherlock stooped lower against the assault, and John stretched, determined to slap the bastards away if nothing else – hadn't they all gone through enough? – well, that was just common sense. One of John's hands accidentally clutched a shoulder, to balance himself, not expecting Sherlock to follow it down and – their lips brushed.
It could have ended there, with nothing more than embarrassment. Without the red thread their landlady/mum had always seen clear as day, it would have. Naturally, things went a bit farther. By the time kiss-swollen lips were forced to separate by sheer lack of oxygen, the bees were gone – and Mrs. Hudson was ready to pass on, too. Let Atë and Eris try to mess with that. Aphrodite and the Moira had taken over.
And if decades later Sherlock, finally ready to retire himself, only half-joking suggested to keep bees...as a thanks, you see... he still didn't expect John's reply.
"We gotta try if instead of smoking them numb we could placate them the good ol' way." They shared a laugh, like they'd shared (would share) a life.