(Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain and belongs to everyone, but Mary Russell is a creation of Laurie R. King, not mine. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, they say, and this is intended as such. I own nothing and make no profit, etc., etc.)

"Telling the Bees"

"When I first met my wife, Mary Russell, she was fifteen, a gangly and awkward young thing wandering the Sussex Downs, reading Virgil and dressed in men's clothing. At that time I was suffering a crisis of the spirit and contemplating dark thoughts that grew ever more grimly attractive each day, but meeting her made me take interest in living once more. From almost the very first, I loved her, though it took me over three years to realize the depth of my feelings for her. It was as if my first impression of her as a young man allowed me to ignore her femaleness until she had grown into a lovely young woman almost without my notice. I remember the first moment that it truly dawned on me that my Russell was an attractive woman. She had returned from her first semester at Oxford and was dressed in formal attire for a dinner in celebration of her eighteenth birthday at my cottage with myself, Mrs. Hudson, and Dr. Watson. The sight of her quite literally took my breath away, and Watson was obliged to loosen my collar and ply me with brandy in order to revive me from my state of shock.

"She was beautiful. I had never before that moment consciously thought of her as a woman. She was simply Russell, my protégé, my apprentice, my friend. But at that moment, something shifted within me, and suddenly everything had changed. I could no longer ignore, nor deny, my true feelings. What I felt for her, I had never before felt for any other human being in my entire life. Even my old companion and biographer Watson, who shall forever remain my truest and dearest friend, was not so dear to me as I discovered Russell was and long had been. And although I felt quite foolish, a man of my age, a man nearly old enough to be her grandfather, I knew then as I know now that Russell is far more than my friend and companion, far more even than my lover and my wife. She is a very part of me. I could no more be separated from her than I could be separated from a limb. Whatever our souls are made of…hers and mine are the same.

"If I had known Russell during my struggle with Moriarty, I could not have allowed her to believe I was dead at Reichenbach as I allowed my dear friend and the whole world to think. This might disturb me as a sign of strong emotion affecting my logic and rationality, if it were not for the fact that had she been there then I would not have had to lie to her. She would have been quite capable of convincing our friends and the wider world that she believed me to have perished, and also of slipping away after scrutiny on her from my enemies had faded to find me and join me in my escapades.

"She was, in every way, my match.

"I do not know now how I will bear her absence.

"I always believed that it would be she standing before our friends and family to deliver a tribute to me before committing my ashes to the air and the sea from the chalk cliffs of Sussex. I always believed it would be she who informed my bees that their keeper would not be returning. I never once considered, despite the obvious peril of our lifestyle, that I might outlive her.

"Yet here I am."

I turn to the photograph of my wife standing on an easel just a little behind me and to my left. It is recent, taken not long before she departed on the airplane to America. We were on the beach near our home with my son and granddaughter. The water was too cold for swimming, so we were enjoying the sun and I was showing Estelle the tide pools. For her last birthday her father gave her a camera, far too expensive and fragile a gift for most children her age, but Estelle is exceptional. She became fascinated with photography and took the camera everywhere with her, capturing all she could on film. The camera has caught Russell in a laugh at something I, out of view, said. I do not remember what it was. All I remember is the sound of her laughter, so delighted and alive. Her hat is slightly askew on her head, her bobbed blond hair blowing in the brisk sea breeze. Her arm is stretched out. She was inviting me into the picture with her.

Her airplane went down over the Atlantic, only a hundred miles or so off of the New England coast. For a time I had hope that perhaps there had been some mistake. Russell was resourceful. Perhaps she had survived the crash, managed to make her way somehow to dry land. Perhaps she was marooned somewhere, awaiting rescue.

But then her body was discovered by a fishing ship just off of the coast of Maine. She caught in their nets.

I kiss the tips of my fingers and touch them to her image. The thought surfaces that I will never again be able to make such a gesture to the living woman, and though I did not think it possible, my grief and pain rise to a new level of acuteness.

"My only regret is that I never told her any of this while she was alive. Never once in the eleven years I knew her nor the five years we were married did I even once let the words 'I love you' pass my lips. Although I hope she knew it, could feel it, she died never once hearing me say how truly and deeply I loved her.

"I have never believed in an afterlife, but I fervently hope now that there is one. And I hope that she is listening from there now as I say this: Mary Judith Russell Holmes, I love you. With all my heart and soul, I love you.

"Goodbye."

I am sitting now on the garden terrace under the moonlight, looking out at the Channel, as Russell and I often spent many an evening. The other mourners have long since left, and I am alone. Mrs. Hudson has been in a home for the elderly, in the grip of senile dementia, for the past two years, and my old friend Watson has been dead nearly as long. My brother Mycroft knows better than to attempt to lift my spirits by inflicting his presence upon me unwanted.

I am alone.

I sip at my glass of honey wine as I stare out over my orchard and hives to the glint of the ocean in the moonlight. Next to me, my wife's accustomed chair is empty, and in front of it is another glass of honey wine, untouched. When I have finished mine, I will pour hers out under the beech tree where we first drank my honey wine together all those years ago.

After that I will go inside and change into clothes suitable for walking the Downs. Then I will remove the small vial of clear liquid waiting in my desk drawer, and proceed to the very spot where I first met Russell. Once there, I intend to resume that course from which she diverted me. Eleven years is quite a lot longer than I intended to take, but I do not at all mind. They were good years.

The best years of my life, I think.

I do sincerely hope there is an afterlife. I find the thought of Russell truly and completely ceasing to exist to be…insupportable. And I hope she may understand and forgive me for my course of action. Life without her is frightfully tedious and dull, and she knows better than anyone how much I detest being bored.

You will find my will in the top drawer of my desk; there is also a copy on record with my solicitor and one in my personal safe. My wishes for the distribution of my and Russell's possessions as well as my instructions for the disposal of my earthly remains are clearly spelled out in that document.

To my son, Damian: I hope you are not too greatly disappointed in your old father. You know the weight of loss as few do. Please forgive me for being unable to face carrying this burden. And please tell Estelle that her grandpapa loves her, and that he is sorry.

To my friend, Glen Miranker: Please inform my bees.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes

Author's Note: This idea came to me from the references on pages 14 and 428 of Laurie R. King's The Language of Bees to the ancient custom of telling a beekeeper's charges of his or her death. Something about that stuck in my mind, like grit in an oyster. I don't know if it has created any pearl, but I thought it was worth sharing. Thanks for reading.

-FM