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All the bees disappear, that first winter.
John stares, confused, into the empty hive. A few desiccated corpses rattle around in one of the bottom frames. He wonders, distantly, if he ought to preserve the crime scene.
Varroa mites, maybe, says a reply from Peter of the Sussex Beekeepers Association. Or a virus, or another parasite. Hard to tell now, with all the bees gone. Bad luck. But don't give up; there's always next spring.
He blogs about it, that evening, from an Internet cafe in Littlehampton. Lestrade comments, Too bad, mate.
-----
He does try again, the next spring, with two packages of Apis mellifera mellifera, after the clover and lavender he planted have started to bloom. He names the hives Mendelssohn and Schubert.
-----
John didn't know honey could taste like this, like herb gardens and spring and the wind over the downs.
-----
Mrs. Baker three miles away calls John to scream in his ear, "There's bees all over my property!"
"Er," says John.
"Well? What're you going to do about it?!"
"It's probably just a swarm," says John. "It's the season. They're looking for a new place to live. They won't sting as long as you leave them alone."
"You don't seriously expect me to leave a, a pack of bees alone? What if they sting my poor Tyler? You come here and do something about them this instant!"
John drives over and collects the bees. He puts in a third hive and calls it Wagner.
-----
John stumbles in, still veiled and clad in his beekeeper's whites, to find Mycroft Holmes in his sitting room, on his couch.
"Hello," he says. "Would you like a cuppa?"
Mycroft inclines his head, and John starts the kettle boiling while he goes and changes out of his kit. He brings out a pot of tea and two cups, milk, and a tiny pot of honey instead of sugar. Mycroft adds a generous drizzle to his tea and sips with every evidence of enjoyment.
"How are your bees?" he asks.
"Good," says John. "But I'm sure you knew that."
"And the practice?"
"Keeps me busy."
They drink their tea in silence. John reminds himself to take some beeswax for Josephine. She says she can sell the candles on Etsy.
"How are you?" John queries.
"Busy, as well," says Mycroft.
Afterwards, Mycroft stands, thanks John for the tea and honey, and departs without another word.
-----
"And how did you get into beekeeping?" asks the other man. He's in his fifties, a little shorter than John, and balding. His nametag says CHARLES SWINEBURN. John lets his eye flick over the man's hands, his cuffs, the knees of his trousers, but is only able to conclude that the man is an amateur beekeeper, attending the National Honey Show, like John himself.
John shrugs. "It just sort of happened."
-----
One misty April morning, John traipses out to the apiary, smoker in hand, and sees a tall, dark figure standing by one of the hives. Idiot; he'll be stung for sure.
He gets closer, and is just about to yell, "Oi! You there!" when the man turns around, and his breath dies in his throat.
Sherlock is thinner, if that were possible, and paler. His hair is longer, ragged at the ends, and he holds one arm stiffly. But those are the same mathematically impossible cheekbones, the same pale blue eyes. He looks at John like he didn't expect to see him there.
John drops the smoker.
Later, after John drags Sherlock indoors and away from the hives, after he tears off the veil, after frantic kisses, Sherlock lies among John's sheets and says, "Bees," in the same tone of voice he uses to describe plasticised livers and hanged drowning victims.
"You left a lot of books," John says, staring at the ceiling. "And a lot of money. It seemed the thing to do."
Sherlock strokes John's hands, over the marks of dozens of stings, and kisses his fingers. "I'm sorry. It was necessary."
Sherlock has new scars, too: one on his ribs, another on his thigh, and innumerable smaller ones on his hands, the soles of his feet. John runs his finger along the inside of Sherlock's forearm. As far as he can tell, there are no new scars on the inside of his elbow.
"Did you solve the mystery?" asks Sherlock. "About the bees."
"No," says John. "But it's all right. There's time."