Work Text:
Itʼs May. Our gardenʼs in bloom and buzz. A lilac flavour floats into my window: I canʼt see it, but a bush of lilac is planted on either side of the porch. Then purple, violet, crimson — the alliums and... I shall ask Holmes later if the peonies have come in yet. Heʼs in the far end of the garden now, where the white apple cloud has already fallen, where the swarm is humming and shimmering. Bees, small and multiple — Holmes remembers every one. And every flower, too: daily, his words paint a picture of our garden for me. Sherlock Holmes, once a hound, now a beeherd, a doctorʼs guide dog. I canʼt even read this diary without him, but not to write — about him — I canʼt either.