"Marriage, birth, or burying,
News across the seas,
All your sad or marrying,
You must tell the bees."
- Celtic Wisdom
Telling the Bees
Dr. John Watson felt foolish. Sitting there in his cab all the way out into the Sussex countryside he had contemplated just what to say. He had not so much as looked out of the window as the cab trundled over roads that had so recently only ever seen horse-drawn carriages, wagons and dogcarts while he considered what words to use. And even now he could still not think of how to go about this. It was nonsense and he could not believe his old friend had actually asked him to do this. It made no sense at all, confound it. No sense at all. He looked once more at the note.
Watson,
You must tell the bees.
Holmes
"Sir?" the cabby said looking over his shoulder to the old man. "We're here, sir. Are you alright?"
"Hhmm?" Dr. Watson grunted, startled out of his contemplation of the simple, enigmatic note. He had not even noticed they had come to a stop. "Oh! Yes. I'm fine. Just thinking about something is all." He turned his eyes to the cottage. "I'll be some few minutes. I don't know quite how long. Will you wait?"
"Surely, sir," the cabby said with a slight smile. "Take your time. I'll have to charge you for it, though. Sorry, sir."
"Of course," Watson said. "I understand."
Once out of the cab Dr. Watson took his cane and made his painful way across the well tended lawn to the narrow path leading around the side of the house. The wounds he had received in Afghanistan had become arthritic and pained him even in the warm months these past several years. This caused him to limp terribly and to be cautious as he tread the uneven stones of the walk. He knew there was one that would snag his toe if he let it. He knew this path fairly well as he had visited as often as he felt was polite. He would have come more frequently but he did not want to be a nuisance. His friend always seemed busy with one thing or another. In the Spring, though, Holmes had always invited him to see the first flights of the bees. There were only four hives but his friend had been ever so pleased with them. The sound of the hives was there as soon as he stepped through the little garden gate.
"Nonsense," Watson grumble coming to a stop a half dozen paces from the apiary and the little stone basin Holmes had styled on those he had seen in Tibet all those many years ago.
It was mid-afternoon and the sun was still high. The day was warmer than the previous one but nowhere near as warm as it would get a month from now. Watson looked at the hives and frowned. He leaned on his cane pondering the situation and the strange request. He was tempted to simply turn back for his cab and leave this behind but he couldn't. The note crinkled in his fingers as he brought it up close to his eyes to read the strong hand of his old friend once more before thrusting the paper deep into his pocket. He squared his shoulders and took two steps closer to the buzzing bees. Some swooped by him and one even landed on his lapel for an instant to inspect the small rose he wore there. Watson did not shoo them away. Holmes had warned him of that.
"Uhum..." he said as if trying to get the attention of the gathered colonies. "I truly do feel quite the fool. I... I don't know if you will remember me. My name is Watson, Dr. John Watson. I am a friend of your keeper. I'm afraid I have some very sad news. Mr. Sherlock Holmes has died."
Watson went quiet with these last words. He looked at the bees but they seemed not to have taken note of him. He felt he should be somewhat better at doing this sort of thing. He had given such news to the families of his patients many times. And as for finding the right words, was he not an author of some little note? He should really be doing a better job. It was for Holmes, after all.
"He left me a note," Watson continued, pulling the paper from his pocket and holding it up so the bees could see. "He left it with his official papers, you understand. His solicitor gave it to me yesterday when I arrived in the village. Holmes was always so thorough about everything that mattered to him. Meticulous in every detail. You should have seen him with his chemical experiments. Foul smelling things they were most of the time but there were only a few explosions. Those were expected, by the way. He always knew when one was going to pop or bang. Never told me, did he? Jumped half out of my skin once. Thought the place was under artillery for a moment."
Watson smiled and had a chuckle about that. Mrs. Hudson had come charging up the stairs with the errand boy. What was his name? No matter. She'd had a bucket of water and the boy a pitcher. Holmes naturally had reacted with his calm incredulity at the notion one of his experiments had got the better of him.
"He asked me to come here and tell you he had died," Watson went on, the smile fading away. "He had asked me a few years ago and I had agreed. He wanted to be sure you would be taken care of. He has a man coming to tend to things. To see to your needs, whatever they may be. Holmes was very insistent that I should be the one to come and do this, though. He warned me that you would be in some danger if I did not. Strange really. You know he once told me, 'This agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.' And now I find he seriously believed in this silliness."
Watson scratched his chin remembering so many cases and so many evenings by the fireplace in the old rooms at Backer Street. So many strange visitors. So, so many close calls for them both. It had been sheerest luck that Holmes had lived long enough to retire. And an anticlimax. Holmes had enjoyed his time out here and yet Watson had known the truth. Holmes missed the danger and the challenges.
"He found you so very interesting, you know," Watson said to the bees. "He really tried to do the very best he could in maintaining your hives and being sure you were getting enough sun and water. I would never have thought of doing half the things he did. He died just inside there." Watson pointed to the back door of the cottage. "He was by the fireside. An old copy of the Strand in his lap. He'd been reading one of my accounts of our cases. I didn't know he even had any copies left."
Watson took the spectacles from his face and blotted at his eye with his handkerchief.
"Always said I made them too this or too that. Wanted me to focus more on the technical points. As if anyone would have read them had I done so." Half angry with himself Watson shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket. "I think the public was fascinated with his method but the stories are what sold the magazines. Holmes would have had me write a textbook. Who would have read that?"
Suddenly agitated with his old friend Watson began to pace.
"He was always so sure of himself. The best reasoner, no doubt, but he had not the slightest notion of the gentler side of man. Or perhaps I should say he understood only so far as it helped in his cases. Do you know he actually believed the human mind could only hold so much information. That was nonsense but he was convinced of it. He didn't want his mind cluttered up like a lumber room. I was the one who told him the Earth revolved around the Sun. And he told me he would try to forget that piece of knowledge as soon as he could. I wonder if he ever did."
As suddenly as he had begun Watson stopped pacing. A change came over his features. No longer agitated, he looked sad.
"I think I hurt him once," Watson said very softly. "You see, I met a girl. It was during one of our cases. I couldn't help myself. I fell in love. We married. I don't think Holmes ever said so out loud, even to himself, but I felt, perhaps, he had been hurt when I left him. He had no other close friends, you see. He had many associates but no real friends. No one to confide in. Just me. And then he pretended to be dead for those three years and I lost Mary. That's when I knew how he must have felt when I packed up the last of my things and moved out of our rooms. There had been no one there for me and there had been no one there for Holmes. Who could he have told? I suppose it was not quite so bad for him because he could still come see me. And he had his clients to distract him. Still, I think I hurt him. I regret that."
Watson wiped at his eyes again.
"You know," he said to the bees. "Until I actually saw his... Until I actually saw him there on that table I thought he might have done it all again. Pretended to have died, I mean. I thought one of his enemies from the old days or some new one I knew nothing about had been threatening him and he needed to get away. I hoped that was what it was but I knew otherwise. And now who am I to tell, eh? Just you bees."
In his sorrow Dr. John Watson, surgeon, veteran of the Afghan War and long time companion of the world's greatest detective began to weep. It was not supposed to be like this! He should have died before Holmes. After all, he'd never completely recovered from his injuries and Holmes had always been so vital. So filled with life and energy. Holmes had been indestructible. In the end, though, Holmes was only human. And then it struck him. Watson wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at the bees. They continued to mill about their hives and to buzz through the air on their many errands. He suddenly understood why Holmes had made this last request. Given him this last mission to perform. It was because there was no one else for Watson to tell.
Watson composed himself once more. He straightened his shoulders and took a firmer grasp on his cane. Looking at the bees he smiled wanly and said, "Thank you for listening."
As he crossed through the little gate he discovered an old gentleman leaning against the wall of the cottage. The man looked out from under his threadbare soft cap and stood up straight. He reached into his breast pocket and came out with a small flask. Unscrewing the cap he offered it to Watson. Watson almost shook his head but reached out and took the flask. He swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey feeling it burn pleasantly on the way down and then handed the flask back to the old man.
"You done it right, sir," said the old man. "Most wouldn't have said so much as you. The bees will understand now. I'll come for 'em when the time is right. Till then I'll tend 'em here. No worries, sir."
Watson glanced over his shoulder at the hives then looked at the old gentleman, nodded and went to his waiting cab. Holmes could rest easy now. The bees had been told.
A/N: I was struck with this idea when reading The Case of the Dead Detective by Westron Wynde. It's an exceptionally well written fan fic with a grand mystery, an excellent plot and some very warm moments. I recommend it highly.