Work Text:
The cottage in Sussex was Janine’s. (“It’s the least I can do,” she tells the two of them at the train station. “Besides, no one’s been using it anyway. Looks like I’m a London girl through and through.”)
John takes Sherlock’s hand, gives him a reassuring squeeze, and gently pulls him towards the cottage. With its winding wisteria and ivy vines and warm red bricks, it feels cosy and inviting, waiting for its new human inhabitants. “It’s not so bad, is it?” John asks his husband.
“I suppose not,” Sherlock responds, looking thoughtful.
A layer of dust covers just about everything in the house, and it takes a few days before they get a chance to settle down. John is pleased to find that the fireplace is in working condition, and their armchairs from Baker Street look right at home.
But the best part is undoubtedly the beehives in the back. Sherlock absolutely lights up when he sees the little honey bees, flying from flower to flower, hard at work.
(“Slow but sure, John, not dissimilar to yourself,” Sherlock tells him, echoing words from years past.)
The bees take kindly to him, and Sherlock responds with enthusiasm, finding a new type of work to pour himself into. John is more than happy to pick up books on apiculture along with the week’s groceries if it means seeing Sherlock with that bright smile.
Sometimes, when the weather’s nice, Sherlock will take his violin outside and play beautiful pieces to the bees. John recognises fleeting parts of each: a certain Bach motif, perhaps, or the opening to Vivaldi's Spring, or the rapid, running notes of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee.
(It's the only time that he's ever willing to play that piece. Quite fitting, isn't it?)
The bees don’t understand (“Of course not, they don’t have ears, John!”), but Sherlock’s presence seems to invigorate them. A stray bee will hover near him for a few moments before flying off, the buzzing providing accompaniment for the lively tunes. Sherlock always adores their company, and John can’t help but cheer up at the sight.
The local farmer’s market is wonderful, as they soon learn.
After all, all those bees produce more honey than the two of them will ever need, even with John putting a generous helping of it on their toast in the morning. It has to go somewhere other than the pantry.
There’s always a group of bees somewhere near the market, and they show up like clockwork every Sunday as Sherlock and John set up their stall. Sherlock prepares a separate jar of honey just for the bees, which seems to delight the tiny creatures.
As always, Sherlock murmurs little deductions to John as people pass by, quick, harmless comments like “their new baby is lactose intolerant” or “his mother is buying a new watch for his birthday on Wednesday.”
“Show-off,” John tells him with a smile.
“I like to think it’s one of my more endearing qualities,” Sherlock quips back. He gently scoops a bee off of John’s arm, allowing it to explore his nimble violinist’s fingers instead.
Of course, Sherlock is right, and John promises himself to never tell him that.
They both know that he’ll find out anyway, but it’s all fine.
The day that Sherlock gets glasses is… an eventful one.
“They suit you,” John tells him.
Sherlock takes off the wire frame glasses and glares at them with an intensity honed over decades of chasing criminals. “They’re terrible. I look terrible.”
“You never look terrible, Sherlock.” John gently tugs the glasses out of Sherlock’s grasp and puts them on. “I, on the other hand–”
“– am biased,” Sherlock finishes for him. “You’ll ruin your eyesight like that.”
“See?” John asks teasingly as Sherlock puts his glasses back on. “They’re fine.”
A bee wanders in through the open window and lands on Sherlock’s proffered hand. Sherlock frowns at it, and John can practically hear the gears turning in that big brain of his.
“They’re so fuzzy ,” Sherlock eventually whispers, enraptured by the tiny insect. “I can see all the little hairs.”
“Yeah, you can.”
“I’m telling the bees about this,” he declares suddenly, standing up and striding purposefully to the back garden.
The glasses are alright after that.
“It’s almost like there’s three of us in this relationship,” John jokes. “Me, you, and the bees.”
Sherlock lowers his textbook (technically, John’s old textbook from medical school) to look at him. “How so?”
“I don’t mind, if you’re worried about that. But they know everything.”
“Well, yes. Telling the bees; it’s an old tradition in which a beekeeper will keep their bees updated with the going ons of their lives. Weddings, funerals, everything in between.”
John nods and turns to the fire to hide his smile.
“When the day comes, I’d like for you to keep it going.”
“Of course, Sherlock. Anything for you.”
John knocks gently on each beehive – two knocks, a second between each one. It’s Sherlock’s pattern, the one that he always uses to coax the bees out.
He sits down on a stool as if he has all the time in the world. Eventually, the bees begin making their way out of the hives. Some of them recognise him, landing and roaming around his calloused, weathered hands. John doesn’t mind, lowering his voice and addressing the bees.
“Sherlock always wanted me to keep the tradition going, so, uh, here I am. Telling the bees and all that.”
John pauses for a second to gather his thoughts and put them into proper words. The dozens of tiny legs are slightly ticklish, and he has to resist the urge to scratch.
"Sherlock's gone, you know. Passed peacefully last night. He says not to mourn him too much."
He chuckles awkwardly as even more of the bees settle down. Christ, there's a lot of them, huh?
"I'll take care of you guys. It's the least I could do."
John gets up carefully, wary of his aching joints. The bees trail behind him as he departs.