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He drapes the black cloth carefully. He doesn't want to disturb more than necessary. As he works, he murmurs to them, softly, ever so softly. Periodically, he pauses and stares into the distance, as if he's watching for a visitor. No one will come now. Not out here. Not for him.
The hum soothes him. They're so...focused, he thinks, always so intent on their work. He used to be like that. Focused, intent, always moving. He stops again and considers this. He doesn't remember losing his drive, his ability to focus to the exclusion of everything and everyone around him. In truth, it's been so long he can't quite remember what it felt like. There are a number of things he can't remember these days.
But he remembers her. He'll always remember her. So clearly, so very clearly. She was different. She made him different. She changed everything back then; now she's changed it again. Everything will be different now.
He pauses yet again, raises a hand to wipe at his face and finds...wet. His face is wet. There is a heaviness in his chest, his heart has expanded painfully, it weighs too much. He must sit. He drops the cloth he's been holding, makes his way to the old wooden bench - her bench, where she used to sit and watch him putter, where she listened to him explain everything. He was always doing that, explaining everything, not just to her but to everyone, all the time. He suspects she didn't need the explanations but it gave him an excuse to talk to her and he loved to watch her as she listened. He huffs, a breathy chuckle. God, she must have gotten tired of listening to him blather on about everything under the sun, but she never acted like she minded it. She just watched and smiled and...listened.
His eyes ache. Too much sun, he thinks. I'll just sit here for a bit longer. They won't mind.
They won't mind. They always listen, too, like her. So he speaks to them. Again. It's important, and he will them everything now, the way she did.
"She went peacefully, as was her wont. She didn't like conflict, didn't care for struggle. That was just her way. In the beginning it always felt like a battle, but I never remember her fighting. I was always the one, the fighter. Took me forever to realise I was only fighting myself." He huffs again, soft laughter, which brings on a cough. "Ah, but she was the strong one. She may not have battled, but she always won."
He glances around at the wooden boxes, lined up neatly in their rows. There aren't as many as there used to be, not like when they started. He looks down at his hands, wonders where he dropped the cloth. She would know. She always knows.
"I remember...once, when the blight started, I caught her out here at night. She was carrying a lantern and a cup, and she was collecting the little bodies. So gentle with them. She cried as she moved from box to box, so very careful to keep from disturbing the rest of you." He had silently taken the cup from her and begun to collect the tiny corpses himself, while she followed with the lantern. She had thanked him afterward. "It just...makes me so sad, to lose them like that. Thank you for helping me with them."
You belong to her more than me, he thinks.
When the others went, she was the one who draped the cloth. It was she who had told the stories, left the bits of food. He had helped but it was her tradition and he loved her, so he helped. He wasn't good at it, never knew quite what to say, never knew exactly where to tuck, where to leave things. Who will do it now? he wonders.
The hardest one for her was the first, Mrs. Hudson. They had grown so close during the years at Baker Street. It had annoyed him at first, hearing them whisper and giggle together. God knows what they talked about. Him, of course, probably more than anything else. When they had left Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had seemed to fade very quickly. When they got the news, she had been inconsolable for days. Moving away from someone is one thing. One misses them but knows they are still there, within reach. When they leave for good, it's a different kind of missing. A true loss. She had started the tradition then, had found some comfort in the activity, comfort he had, in his own grief, not been very good at providing.
He had asked her once where she had learned about this tradition. Her father, when he was a boy, had kept hives with his father. He had told her in detail, while he was ill and she sat by his bedside, all the things they did. She had thought it was so beautiful, and when they moved here and found the hives, she had been delighted. She told them everything after that. Everything. All the losses, all the joys, she shared with them. He had watched, puzzled at first, but gradually understanding the importance. A loss shared is half a loss, she said. A joy shared is twice a joy. I think that means sharing with people, he had said stupidly. She had just looked at him and gone about it. After a while, he had joined in as much as he was able, doing the physical work, caring for them. But the telling...that was always hers.
Hers. I was hers. We all belonged to her.
He looks at his hands, gnarled and veiny now, grown so much weaker. She had always loved his hands. He had always loved hers, so small in comparison. I won't be holding her hands anymore, he thinks, and is startled at the pain that suddenly threatens to overwhelm him. He bends forward, catching his breath, covering his face with his empty hands, covering his hands with tears.
I can't do this, he thinks, and gives in to the pain, surrendering finally. He falls forward off the bench, onto his knees, bends his head down to the ground, body shaking while he spills his grief into the dirt. When the wave passes, he rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. I should get up and finish, he thinks, but he's so very tired now. Perhaps he can just lie here a bit longer. The bees will understand. Molly will understand.
"What was he doing out here?"
The constable glances around at the black cloth draped around the hives, the bits of food, now pecked at and scattered by birds. The ambulance is waiting. There's no hurry now.
Dr. Ames kneels by his friend's body. He won't explain to this young man what Sherlock was doing out here, though he knows. It doesn't matter. Sherlock Holmes is gone now and the world is a darker place. It didn't matter whether he was solving crimes or tending bees, we were...richer...for his being here. A light has gone out in this world, an important light, he thinks.
There's nothing he can do here, and as he turns away, he spies something on the ground near one of the hives. A tiny glint flashing...he stoops to pick it up. A gold locket. Familiar. He's seen it before. He turns it over and there is script on the back: "To Molly, with all my love, forever." He turns and looks at the body lying there among the hives, bees buzzing peacefully around it. Yes, he thinks. That about sums it up. All my love, forever. She's been gone three days. Of course Sherlock would go with her. Of course. He rubs his eyes, then smiles and walks away, leaving his friend to the bees.