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“John, come help me.”
It was a phrase John Watson had heard countless times these past twenty years, and yet it was still effective. No matter where or when, once spoken, he would drop what he was doing and rush to Sherlock’s side.
Today’s emergency was bees. Honey harvesting was upon them and Sherlock needed an extra set of hands. Hands John willingly supplied. Hands that once held a gun or a scalpel but were currently providing refuge for one knackered little bee.
“He thinks I’m a bus stop.”
“She,” Sherlock corrected. “All workers are females. You must have pollen on your hands.”
John watched the bee wander around his palm and smiled. “She reminds me of you.”
“Dare I ask?”
“She’s curious. She’s brave. She’s attracted to me.”
“My bet is still on pollen.”
“Look. She’s got fuzzy hair like you do.”
Sherlock chuckled in spite of himself. “Stop being ridiculous.”
“Tie a tiny blue scarf around her neck, slap on a deerstalker, you could be twins.”
“John, we still have two racks to finish before dusk.”
With perfect timing, the bee flew away. “There she goes,” John sighed. “Probably off to solve a crime, then back to her home at two two one BEE Baker Street.”
Sherlock pressed a kiss to white-blond hair. “My dear John–you’re completely barmy.”
THE END