Work Text:
The tour guide was an idiot, apparently. But that was according to Sherlock so John wasn’t sure how much stock to put into it.
“How did she even get this job?” he hissed as John sighed. “ALL bees don’t sting. Only FEMALE bees sting. And even then, it’s only the female WORKER bees. This is ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous?” John looked at him, trying not to laugh at the over-dramatics. “Really?”
Sherlock only hmmphed, glaring at the back of their guide’s head as she turned to lead them onward. John just shook his head and followed. If it hadn’t been for the fact that they were currently on a bee farm (he could practically hear Sherlock shouting in his mind: “the Sussex Beekeeper Association’s top ranked apiary, John! Top ranked!”) and that Sherlock had been bursting with excitement that morning, John would have been certain that Sherlock’s strop would have lasted the rest of the day. But as it happened, by the time they’d reached the hives 10 minutes later, the scowl Sherlock’s ire had produced had dissipated, and all that was left was wide-eyed wonder.
John did have to admit - it was impressive. There were dozens upon dozens of hives that he could see, and this was only one of their fields. John watched Sherlock’s eyes move about as he took it all in - his brain very obviously on overdrive. Every hive was full and buzzing, each colony keeping their home alive and thriving. Though one couldn’t see the bees inside the specialized wooden boxes, the field was in a constant buzz and there was no shortage of honeybees to be seen.
The tour guide spoke and eventually led the group away, but Sherlock didn’t move. John didn’t mind.
“When did you first start loving bees?” he asked curiously.
“I can’t remember a time I didn’t…” Sherlock replied softly, eyes still moving about. They watched the bees fly around, tracking their patterns. John, not for the first time, wished he could see what Sherlock saw.
“Many of my memories of bees are with Mycroft, actually,” Sherlock said after a minute. John glanced back up at his friend, a bit surprised. “He used to take me out to find different species of them…I was single-minded in my efforts, but he’d walk with me for hours just to find a single hive.”
“Really?” John hummed, trying to reconcile the big brother Mycroft Sherlock was describing with the big brother Mycroft he knew now. Sherlock nodded.
“He did side with Mummy when I wanted to put a beehive on our roof to study, but…”
John chuckled, shaking his head, and Sherlock followed the sound, pulling his attention from the bees to John.
“What?” he asked, a small pucker developing between his eyebrows.
“Only you…” John smiled. “Of course, a hive on the roof, only you.”
“Not only me - plenty of apiarists have roof hives. It’s not at all-”
“In primary school?”
“Well…” Sherlock conceded, eyes dancing.
“So everything you’ve been telling me about bees, everything you’ve been correcting her on, you learned all that as a child?”
Sherlock hummed in the affirmative.
“And you…didn’t delete it,” John stated, huffing out a laugh when Sherlock fixed him with a look. “No, of course not. What was I thinking?”
“I couldn’t delete them,” Sherlock murmured. “They’re fascinating. There’s so much to them, so much to learn, to apply. The studies that have been done thus far still don’t cover it all…”
“So what was your favourite piece of information?” John asked after a moment.
Sherlock paused. “Honeybees dance,” he settled on with a slight smile. “To communicate, they dance in patterns.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Mycroft used to read me a story about it, actually…” Sherlock replied. “It was called ‘The Bee’s Knees’, and he’d read it to me nearly every night.”
John grinned. “That’s hard to imagine.”
Sherlock’s lips quirked up, and he huffed out an amused breath. “Yes, well. We had a…somewhat different relationship back then. I would get a bedtime story, and that was my favourite, and I would only want him to read it to me. It was on the subject of hive dynamics and dancing, about a lonely bee who has trouble communicating with his fellow workers. He goes to the hive dance and meets another bee, and she calls him the bee’s knees…and they stick together, and he’s not alone anymore…” Sherlock trailed off, his brow furrowing as he looked out at the hives.
It wasn’t hard for John to draw parallels. He knew Sherlock had had a lonely life, that he didn’t let people in easily or at all even now because of it. He wished he’d been there then, that they’d met as kids. He knew he couldn’t change that. He knew that. It was in the past. But…perhaps he could change what he’d been dancing around for the majority of their friendship. He looked back at the field, and it wasn’t long before he had come to a decision.
“I don’t see why they’re so special, though,” Sherlock continued quietly. “Bee’s knees. Bees have segmented legs, yes, but that saying makes no sense. Knees are just fine I suppose, and bees are fascinating, but their knees aren’t the reason why. They-”
“You know what I think?” John asked, quietly interrupting before the amateur apiarist could start into a rant about the merits of bees - one he’d heard many times over.
Sherlock glanced at him. “Usually,” he quirked an eyebrow. John grinned back. It faded slightly as he gathered his courage.
“I think it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t make sense…” he started softly. “It just means you’re the best at…being you, I suppose. And that you’re amazing, all together…” he paused and swallowed. “And I…I think you are the bee’s knees,” he said, quite seriously. “I think you’re amazing, everything about you. I think you’re brilliant and clever. Kind and thoughtful, when you let yourself be. I think I’m lucky to have to you as a friend…and I think when the smartest man in London assumes you’re trying to ask him on a date when you first meet, then it means you very much are…”
He glanced up, nerves fading slightly as he saw the pink flush dusting Sherlock’s cheeks and running down his neck. The blush was endearing, but the open vulnerability in Sherlock’s eyes spoke volumes.
“I think you give your heart far too little credit…” When he received no protest from the detective, John moved a little closer. “And I think I’ve been ignoring mine for far too long…”
John’s eyes searched Sherlock for a moment, before leaning up slowly and pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, lingering there before then brushing another onto his lips. When he pulled back, he was greeted with several blinks and with the beginnings of a smile that spoke more than words ever could. Something unknotted in John’s chest, and he smiled back.
“And if you wouldn’t mind, Sherlock…” John offered his hand. “I would love to dance with you.”
Sherlock’s smile grew, and though he shook his head slightly at the randomness of dancing in a field full of beehives, he took John’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled in close.
And the bees, their buzzing soft and constant, played them into their first dance.