Stings of Love
Chapter One
John woke up stretching leisurely, the blankets tumbled softly down and exposed his pale pecks, his puckered nipples and continued rolling so that the thin spear of light peeking in from the window kissed his abdomen. He stepped out of bed, hesitantly and flung the blinds open.
The day was glorious. The sun had not yet quite completed its assent into the sky. the green fields seemed to stretch on forever. The trees, tall and splendid cast intricate shadows on the wild grass. This had once been a farm. It was a scene from a picture book. He could almost forget what happened. Almost.
He stepped back, closed the blinds and inhaled deeply. He got dressed; he pulled on his red pants, pulled on his jumper and stared into the mirror. His grandfather had owned this farm. It had once been an orchard but they had been blighted and the trees were all gone now. All that was left were the bees. John liked the bees. They were for the most part, self-sufficient. He didn't have to do much.
He headed out for breakfast in the kitchen. He made himself some tea and jammy toast, before he suited up and headed out to world outside. His damn limp had returned. At one time he thought it was gone completely, and though dismayed, he wasn't surprised when it returned after what happened. It took John longer than he had originally estimated it would to reach the cream coloured bee boxes. Before tending to the bees, he decided to sit on a fallen log and watch the bees merrily go about their way, running errands to neighboring gardens and buzzing about. Oh! What a sight it was!
John closed his eyes and inhaled the surgery aroma of clovers and honey sickles, and oddly it reminded him of an old friend. An acute tickling of his left ear snapped him out or his star-sweet daydream. A bee must have gotten through the veil of his bee suit.
Clever little devil, John smirked but faltered as he remembered his day dream and sighed sharply. A pain raced up his leg making John jolt involuntarily. A Well you bugger, better get you out of my bonnet. Then bitterly in a mental whisper he added before I get stung.
John felt a tickling sensation on his cheek. Reflexively, the scrunched up his nose, dislodging the bee. It landed on the mesh of his bee bonnet right at eye level.
"Shit." John gasped.
Slack-jawed, he stared at the creature clinging to his veil. It was a bee, but not a bee. Deformed but perfectly in proportion. A—there are no other words to describe it—a fairy stared him down.
John whipped his veil off in a panic. Spun around looking for the creature. He heard it buzzing in his ear but when he turned, it had flown away. He bent down to pick up his veil only to find the fairy hovering in front of his nose.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the creature asked bluntly.
"I-"John stared, slack jawed. "What?"
"Which one?"
"Afghanistan." John answered, in a daze. "What… what are you?"
"Oh good, it's you then. I was afraid it might not be, these aren't exactly the best eyes. It's taken some getting used to.
John didn't move, couldn't breathe. His chest tightened. he knew. He knew but he couldn't believe it. The thing he had tried to forget. All this time he had regretted wasting. Cursing his damn indecision. A rushing sound seemed to fill the bright green day and his mind enveloped itself in a dark cloud and he fell into memories. Memories of pain, memories of grief.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock dead. Sherlock dead. Dead. Dead.
he awoke. The sky framed the tiny face perfectly. A deep, cloudless, shocking blue. It couldn't be.
"Sherlock?"
The fairy reached out one arm against his cheek. "Yes John, it's me."
"Sherlock?"
"John," buzzed the stripped fairy, a bit annoyed. How could this man not deduce such a simple fact?
"Sherlock?" John's voiced dribbled out it a hoarse whisper.
Well, perhaps this was not as simple of a fact Sherlock believed, as John had not rebirthed as a milky white larva in a cramped honeycomb nor had to eat his way out. Truly fascinating!
"John, it's me. You can ask any question you like to prove it."
"It's not that! It's that you're alive and a-a-a-a" John histrionically lowered his voice "A-a Fairy."
"Bee," Sherlock corrected.
"Right. A bee…Why a bee?"
"Why not?"
Sherlock landed on John's pointed finger, showing off his wings. He brushed some pollen off his brown and yellow coat.
"Do be careful of the stinger, John." he said.
"Sherlock—" John choked out. "What should I do? You can't live as a bee forever, we have to fix you!"
"You could start by fixing me some food. I've never been hungrier in my life." He lifted off John's finger and flew towards the house.
"Who knew that the metamorphosis between larvae and bee could take up so much energy! It's fascinating, John, really."
Later, John sat at his kitchen table watching Sherlock lick jam off of a spoon with his startlingly long proboscis.
He finished it off surprisingly quickly, smacked his lips, then looked up at john.
"I'm going to need the whole jar."
John got up listlessly and got the jar then set it in front of the tiny Sherlock who seemed to be a tiny bit larger…
To Be Continued…..