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“My, what a buzz.”
Sherlock turned his eyes from the path ahead of them to see what had caught William’s attention.
They were on their way home from work, taking the path by the park since it was such a nice day. Summer was slowly crawling into autumn and the late flowers were blooming. William loved the flora this time of year and Sherlock had no qualms indulging him.
Looking out into the park, it was easy to see what had caught William’s attention.
There, surrounding one of the trees, was a dense congregation of insects. Not a frantic cloud, but a living mass—thousands of bees clinging to one another in a heavy, breathing shape along the trunk and lower branches.
They draped from the bark in thick curtains, bodies layered upon bodies, the whole of them humming with a low, constant sound that vibrated faintly in the air. A few stragglers moved lazily around the perimeter, but most remained still, bound together by some silent agreement.
“Apis mellifera,” Sherlock stated. “It has been rather warm the last few days.”
“They seem… calm,” William spoke after a moment of quiet observation.
Sherlock looked back at him and saw the slight apprehension on his face, in his stance.
“They are. Just a bit overheated.” Sherlock made to move closer, but a set of fingers gripped his coat.
He paused, feet straying no further, and placed his hand over William’s.
“It's called bearding—I'm sure you can guess why. When it grows warm, they gather like this to cool the hive,” he explained. “Look at how settled they are. Do you hear it? That steady hum? That's the sound of content. Many voices, one sound.”
William’s lips pursed, eyes drifting to the colony draping from the tree. “Albert swelled terribly the last time he was stung.”
“You know,” Sherlock started, a memory surfacing, and his hands raised as if to conduct the orchestra of his thoughts, “I once solved the murder of a man—well, it wasn't actually a murder—but his staff were terribly convinced he'd been poisoned. There was just no reason nor evidence of foul play. I was informed he had fallen ill directly after taking a walk through the gardens, and upon examining the body, I found the culprit to be an incredibly bad reaction to an insect sting. Of course, the garden he had been walking in had been full of honey bees—a colony had taken up home there. I may have read every book the local library had on the little creatures.” He let himself breathe after his long explanation, his hands dropping to his sides.
William was looking at him with a calculating gaze, a crease pinching his brows.
“In retrospect, perhaps not the most reassuring anecdote.”
Sherlock waved away his blunder.
“You really have nothing to worry about, Liam.” He began walking down the path once more, beckoning William to follow. “They don't want to sting anyone. It's a last resort tactic in defense of the hive. A female—the males don't have stingers—will die shortly after.”
“You know a great deal about them,” William commented from beside him.
Sherlock nodded absently. “They are fascinating subjects to observe. Did you know a single worker bee produces less than a gram of honey in its short lifetime? A healthy hive can yield thirty to sixty pounds in a year.”
William hummed, and Sherlock could practically hear the lightning-quick slide of chalk against his mental blackboard. Glancing over, he found the man holding his chin, eyes shifting side to side as if reading lines of equation.
“That is…” he glanced back at the curtain of insects, “not a small number.”
“Not in the least. Though a hive contains only thirty to sixty thousand at a time.”
Sherlock let that sit in the air as they continued to walk back home, retreating further and further away from that marvel of nature.
William’s voice broke the quiet between them.
“Do you… like bees, Sherly?”
Sherlock's steps faltered before his stride steadied again. Silence fell upon them again for a long moment.
“I suppose I hadn't really considered it,” he said at last. “They are compelling, to say the least. A system that looks like chaos, but actually exists in harmony.”
William’s mouth curved, just barely.
“I see.”
Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what William saw. He left it at that and they walked on, fingers occasionally brushing at their sides.
They kept down the path back home, the hum of the park giving way to the more lively rhythm of the street. William’s attention drifted, as it often did, from storefront to storefront—half habit, half curiosity.
They were just passing the local Domestic Goods, porcelain dish sets lining the window, when William paused.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked.
William briefly scanned beyond the display. “Mm. I'll be just a moment.”
He shrugged, figuring they were still missing some piece of homeware. Furnishing the apartment was an ongoing endeavor.
The bell over the door jingled as William made his way inside, and Sherlock took the opportunity to have a smoke.
He leaned against the wall facing the street, watching the carriages and passersby. Pulling a cigarette and match out of his pocket case, he struck and lit up. He breathed in the acrid smoke, the mint in the tobacco blend cooling his lungs and focusing his thoughts.
Only five minutes later, William stepped back out. Sherlock stubbed the cigarette against the brick behind him, pushed off the wall, and pocketed the blackened butt.
“Alright, what new household item did we purchase this time?”
William answered by handing him the paper bag he had carried out of the shop.
He pulled out a small, round porcelain pot with a fitted lid and a wooden serving spoon—ivory in color, the only decoration a single hand-painted honeybee near the rim.
Sherlock looked back up at William. “Is this because I was talking about honey earlier?”
“We didn't have one yet,” William replied simply. “Come, we should get home.”
The little paper bag felt heavy in his hand as he followed his partner back towards their home.
The sun was close to setting when he stepped through the door of their apartment. It was still early evening, but everything seemed to dim a little sooner this time of year.
“Welcome home, Sherly,” William called from the sofa as Sherlock hung up his coat, eyes only briefly leaving the book in his hand.
There was a low fire burning in the fireplace, providing a pleasant warmth after the chill of the autumn air outside.
Sherlock glanced over, the corner of his mouth lifting. He crossed the room and pressed a brief kiss to William’s hair before answering.
“Mm,” he murmured. “Evening.”
“How was work?”
“Boring without you, as always,” Sherlock replied dryly, walking over to his desk to set down his bag.
That was… new.
His reagents and beakers were untouched, his papers right where he left them. But placed neatly atop them lay something that hadn’t been there before.
Burnished brass, gently gleaming as it caught the firelight. Hexagonal in shape, with a shallow depression. He ran his fingers along the edge—smooth beneath his fingertips.
Sitting within the hollow of it… the pocket watch key he'd been missing for the past week. The pen nib he'd left on the corner of his desk. And the button that had popped off his shirt three days ago.
“What is this?” He asked.
“Hmm?” William hadn't looked up from his book.
“This… thing on my desk.”
He looked up then, blinking as if he'd momentarily forgotten the foreign object only he could have placed there.
“Oh, that. I saw it while I was at the stationer's for paper.”
“Why is it here?”
“I thought it might bring you a little more… harmony.” The way he said that word made Sherlock narrow his eyes. “You lose that watch key every other week, Sherly.”
“It’s in the way,” Sherlock muttered, even as he adjusted the angle it sat at and dropped in the penny that had been in his pocket all day.
William turned a page.
Dinner had been eaten, dishes washed. The fire was lit again—it seemed to be going all the time as they drifted further into fall.
They were lounging on the sofa—together, but separate—with their chosen reading material in hand. Evenings like this were one of the rare times they existed in silence.
William was resting against the opposite arm from him, one leg curled under him, the other stretched into Sherlock’s lap.
One thumb rubbed absently over the arch of William’s socked foot, careful not to apply too much pressure—he didn’t want to get kicked—while he flipped the page with his other hand.
The heat of the room wrapped around them, and Sherlock felt his eyelids grow heavy despite himself. He had been busy with cases all day, which usually wouldn't cause this much fatigue, but the warmth of his partner and his home was slowly dragging him under.
He set his book down to swipe at his eyes, trying to rub the sleep out. The movement made William look up from his own reading.
“Time for bed?”
“Hardly,” he said, blinking slowly. “I was just… thinking.”
“Thinking about how tired you are,” William said mildly as he shifted in his seat, pulling his leg back so he could lean into Sherlock’s side.
Sherlock stared at him in quiet betrayal.
“It's okay to rest when you need it, Sherly. Everything will be here tomorrow,” he reasoned.
That's not the point—and William knows that—but Sherlock sighed and dog-eared the page he was on, ignoring the affronted sound William always made at the action.
A hand covered his before smoothing back the folded corner. William then reached over him, practically in his lap—a cheeky kiss pressed against his jaw—and reached into the side table drawer.
From within, he pulled out a length of ribbon. It was brown and unassuming at first glance, its surface dulled to a gentle matte. When William retreated, placing the strip into his open palm, Sherlock saw the decorative stitching along the top quarter of it. Unobtrusive, soft gold in color, a simple backstitch outlined a honeycomb motif.
He looked back at William.
“It's a bookmark,” he said, like it wasn't obvious.
“And just where did this come from?” Sherlock asked, examining the ribbon closely.
“Oh, it's just something I had lying around,” William replied blithely, placing a bookmark in his book he'd left on the arm of the sofa and getting up to retire to the bedroom.
Sherlock ran his fingertips across the honey-colored stitching—new and unworn. “Just lying around, huh.”
“Of course. Don't sound so skeptical, Sherly.”
He let out a huff of laughter and stood to follow, tucking the ribbon into place within the pages of his book.
It first happened two weeks ago when William set the usual cup of afternoon tea in front of him.
“Be careful, honey, it’s still very hot.”
Sherlock blinked twice, the word landing oddly in his ears, but he didn’t comment.
And then again last Tuesday, when he’d walked through the door after working late into the evening. William greeted him with a peck to the cheek and a soft,
“Welcome home, honey.”
Sherlock paused. There was that word again. It settled, warm and unexpected, in his chest.
He hung up his coat and stepped into William’s space without remark, telling himself he would think about it later.
It kept happening. Not all the time, but that word—that gentle tone—rang in his ears every time it crossed William’s lips.
He still hadn’t asked about it, and William hadn’t explained.
By the time November crept in and the city began to smell faintly of smoke and apples, it had woven itself into the fabric of their days. The fire in their apartment burned hot to ward off the chilly evenings and the kettle was nearly always on the stove. Winter was knocking on their door.
It was Billy, inevitably, who suggested they do something about the holiday.
Thanksgiving. An American holiday Sherlock and William had never had a need to celebrate. But when in Rome, as they say.
And perhaps celebrating a day of family with the family he had available to him was…
It quelled the quiet ache behind his ribs at the thought of home. If only for a little while.
Now the three of them sat around the small dining table in his and William’s apartment, the surface crowded with food and dishes and a bottle of wine shared between them. Billy gestured animatedly over a slice of the apple pie he'd brought, recounting an exciting adventure from his youth, while Sherlock and William finished their plates of roast chicken and mashed potatoes.
He reached for the wine to top off his glass, but William beat him to it.
“Here, honey, I've got it.”
There it was again. That word, rich with emotion as it tumbled out.
Sherlock knew William probably wouldn't have let it slip in company if it weren't for the two glasses of wine he'd already had.
Billy’s fork slowed halfway to his mouth. He looked from William to Sherlock, then smiled—small and knowing.
“Called it,” he said lightly, as if he might be commenting on the weather.
“Called what, exactly?” William asked after just a moment's hesitation, deliberately mild.
“Nothin’, nothin',” Billy replied, spooning another bite of apple. “You guys're just cute, is all.” He wrinkled his nose. “In a terrifyin’ sorta way.”
Sherlock said nothing, only reached for William’s hand beneath the table when Billy wasn’t looking.
The word lingered in his mind—not startling now, but steady.
Honey.
He thought, distantly, that some things didn’t need to be solved to be understood.
Snowflakes fell outside the window in a soft flurry. The sun had gone down by now, though it wasn't quite dark—snow had a way of reflecting what little light remained.
Inside, the apartment was warm, their fireplace perpetually crackling with heat, staving off the cold that tended to seep into their drafty home.
Billy had left about an hour ago, after the three of them had thrown a small Christmas celebration. Gifts had been exchanged, dinner eaten. The cider was hot and spiced and perhaps a bit strong—Billy had tipped in more than just a little brandy.
Now it was quiet again, just Sherlock and William.
They were settled on the sofa, William tucked into his side, head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. The secondhand quilt Billy had given them a while back was draped over their laps.
It should have been relaxing—should have been a cozy, quiet evening with the man he loved.
But his mind was racing, fingers tapping against his knee as thoughts circled in his head. The celebration earlier had made a good distraction, but now that the world was silent again, he couldn't pull his attention away from the case that had opened just before the holiday.
He twisted the facts over and over in his head, eyes staring unseeing into the fireplace. Vaguely, he registered William pulling away just slightly, a hand resting on his arm.
“—Sherly.”
Sherlock turned to William after what must have been the fourth time he'd called his name.
There was a gentle smile curving his lips, scarlet eyes soft and understanding. He didn't say anything at first—only reached for the hand that had been beating to the rhythm of Sherlock's thoughts. Thoughts that stalled as William's fingers wrapped around his own.
“I actually have one more gift for you,” he told him, voice low in the narrow space between them.
“What?” Sherlock asked, startled. “But I haven't got anything more for you.”
William shook his head. “I don't need anything else.”
He reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a small leather notebook. William placed it in his hand—still warm from where it had been pressed against William’s body all day—and Sherlock examined the object further.
Unassuming, small enough to be kept on his person at all times. Decent quality. He turned it over. On the back cover was a debossed honeybee, about the size of his thumb. He flipped open to the first page.
There, in William’s elegantly curled script,
Sherly,
For when you need to let go of a thought and still have it within reach.
The words sat heavy in his chest.
He read them through once more, slower this time, etching them into his memory.
Closing the notebook, he released a breath he didn’t know he'd been holding, exhaling through his nose. His thumb brushed the pressed honeybee once more before he slipped it into his pocket.
Sherlock pulled William close, dropping his nose into the man’s blond hair.
“You see me…”
“Always.”
They were moving slow that morning. There was nowhere to be, so they had slept in a little, not wanting to leave each other's warmth just yet. By the time they left bed, the sun had already crept over the top of the neighboring building, teasing past their lacy curtains.
Sherlock sat at the dining table as William set to make tea.
He was just finishing jotting down an idea when William placed a teacup in front of him, and he slid his notebook back into his pocket.
“Happy birthday, Sherly,” William said, arms wrapping around his shoulders from behind.
Oh, yes. That was today.
He knew that, of course. Mykey's birthday had been yesterday, and Sherlock had poured a glass of whiskey for the occasion.
Not that he'd admit to it.
William’s arms tightened briefly, as if he knew the shape of Sherlock’s thoughts, then he stepped away.
“I don't think I ever told you when it was,” Sherlock replied after a moment of thought.
“It wasn't difficult to find the information.” William set some milk and honey on the table, the little porcelain pot catching the sunlight.
“You’ve always been thorough.”
“So have you,” William whispered teasingly into his ear as he passed.
Sherlock chuckled and made up his cup—a generous amount of honey and just a splash of milk today—as William stepped back into their kitchenette to prepare something simple.
It was just a few short minutes before William came back with two plates of toast and a jar of orange marmalade, setting one dish in front of Sherlock.
He spread the marmalade onto his toast, a small drizzle of honey following, and was about to take a bite when he noticed William lingering beside the table. He hadn’t yet sat down, despite the plate of toast resting in front of his chair.
“Yes?” Sherlock asked, drawing out the sound as he lowered his toast back to the plate.
William met his eyes. “I wanted to give you something,” he said quietly. “Before the day gets away from us.”
From behind his back, he drew a large book, the cover unremarkable and economical, and held it out for Sherlock to take.
It was a thick tome, heavy, with sturdy binding. A dense scientific journal—part field study, part entomological treatise—written by a naturalist devoted to apiculture.
Sherlock looked back up at William, whose lips were turned in a soft smile.
“It looked like something you might enjoy.”
Oh, his Liam knew him so well.
He thumbed through, skipping past the title pages to the bulk of the book. Facts and anecdotal accounts filled the paper—dense, methodical, exactly the sort of thing he would have chosen for himself. He turned to a new page further in, eager to get a sense of what he might learn from it.
Sherlock almost missed the notes in the margins.
They were tidy and restrained, written in pen—small, looping letters tucked neatly alongside the printed text, careful not to intrude.
Hexagonal efficiency again. Minimum material, maximum stability.
He stilled, breath catching just slightly.
William.
He flipped to another page, this one with a diagram and explanation on bearding.
This aligns with the park colony we saw last August.
Even all the way in the back of the book, each page had ink in the margins. Words underlined, references to previous chapters. There was even a small equation next to one paragraph about beeswax.
Loses structural integrity between 144°F and 149°F. (F°-32)5/9=C° ≈ 62°C to 65°C.
Maths. Of course.
Sherlock let out a soft laugh at that before opening to a random page near the beginning. More ink. More proof that William cared enough to walk beside him.
A system that looks like chaos, but actually exists in harmony. Just like you, Sherly.
Everything seemed to pause for a moment as Sherlock’s breath stuttered once more. His lips pressed thin and he closed his eyes, pulling in a deep inhale.
He shut the book with a soft thump, running his hand across the cover. Standing, he rested it on the table before moving toward William.
His eyes moved briefly around the room, catching on his desk first—the paperweight sitting atop some work papers, home to his watch key and other bits and bobs that would have been lost to the mess of his mind.
They traveled to the sofa, where the simple ribbon bookmark held his place in an academic case study he was working through.
He felt the weight of the notebook in his pocket, several pages already filled with things he wanted to let go of in the moment and still be able to reference later.
Sherlock’s eyes landed back on William, still standing there with that quiet smile. He stepped close, into his partner's space, hands coming up to hold pale cheeks.
Gently, he rested his forehead against William's, thumbs sliding across soft skin.
“Liam, you rascal.”