There was a continuous buzzing in John's ears. It used to come from the drone of guns and feet hammering across muddy terrain, or the thriving of London, but nowadays it just came from the bees working on their honeycombs.
John liked to tend to them; not because he liked beekeeping, but because Sherlock would like him to, he was sure. He was not tending to them that day though, but rather walking past all the bustling hives, heading for a little grassy incline on the property he and Sherlock had bought after retiring from solving cases and moving to the countryside.
Sherlock wasn't much of a fan of the countryside. There were too many childhood memories with Mycroft, and it was hard to know the land like it was the back of his hand when a lot of the features looked very much the same, with hedges and ponds where stop signs and traffic lights should be. But Sherlock had always been fascinated by bees, so where better to have them than in the heart of the country?
John struggled a bit heading up the incline. He supposed he should have been more agile, even at his age, what with all the chases he and Sherlock had went on. Alas, the embedded wrinkles in his brow and creaky bones in his body were inescapable, not that he minded much. Sure, it hurt when he was bending over backwards to tend to bees, but he didn't need to run around London anymore, did he?
London. John found himself missing it sometimes. 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, St. Bart's, Molly, the Yard, Lestrade – it had all rubbed off on him, and he recounted memories of those places and names often. But, more than anything, John missed the man who brought colour and excitement to London and made him see and observe it in a whole new light.
He caught a few breaths at the top of the little hill, and looked onwards, at the apple tree he had planted there. The Tree of Knowledge, which, he found, suited Sherlock, whose grave sat below it.
He didn't much mourn for Sherlock, when he was forced to be stood before the grave of the man he loved. Perhaps he had run out of tears since the last time, or perhaps he found nothing to be sad about since, this time, Sherlock and he had exchanged proper goodbyes, and Sherlock's reputation wasn't slandered, and John could be content with that.
He approached the grave, looking up at the tree as he did, admiring the juicy crimson apples nestled amongst the sturdy branches covered with fresh green leaves, which allowed sunlight to filter through them and cast a light upon the black marble tablet below, engraved in silver with the name John had and always would admire and associate with a brilliant mind and an insufferable git of a man.
Sherlock Holmes
Nothing else was written. Then again, nothing more needed to be said. No great words or phrases were required to describe the man, for the name in itself was great and memorable, and those friends and family who had stood at the foot of the grave, their hands clasped at their front, or stood before the marble and brushed their fingertips over the silver etching, had all agreed that nought more needed to be said, for the dictionary could not describe the good, great man Sherlock Holmes was, and would always be remembered as.
John had nothing much to say to the grave before him, apart from to assure Sherlock that he had cared for the bees, and although he wasn't as fascinated by them as the consulting detective had been, he still managed to appreciate them, or rather, the honey they produced.
He also added that he had had a dream last night, or was it a memory, of running through endless streets under the lights of London, following a flowing black coat with a turned-up collar, and a mop of dark curly hair – the figure of a man he could trust, and believe in, and even manage to love despite his many faults that John was tired of going through all the time, and Sherlock knew them all by that point anyway.
Oh, and John had decided to try and pick up on the violin – he had missed hearing it. He had been composing lately. Well, he actually just hastily crashed bow against string till it seemed he wanted to slaughter the violin instead of play it, but wasn't that what Sherlock had called composing anyway?
John then gazed wordlessly at the grave and the flecks of sun kissing the marble, and had a moment to remember the man with the familiar, defined cheekbones, and those cupid-bow lips that would only curve upwards into a smile for an interesting case, or a triumph, or a joke John had made, and the all-seeing, all-observing eyes, so clear that sometimes they seemed almost transparent.
Afterwards, when he felt that he had paid enough of a visit, John ambled forwards, knelt down slightly, and deposited a single red rose, much like the red of their carpet in 221B Baker street, and of the paper Molly had wrapped her Christmas present for Sherlock in, and of the lipstick The woman had worn, and of the pattern in one of John's many jumpers.
And, with that, he rose, and he turned, and he left, humming along to the bees.
Author's Notes: This story was inspired by a campfire song my dear friend pie1313 told me about. She hoped that it would suit a couple somewhere, somehow, and so I decided to dedicate it to Sherlock and John. I did so because apples are the fruit of knowledge, and Sherlock is quite knowledgeable, and because roses are the flower of romance, and there is quite a lot of love evident between Sherlock and John.
Here are the lyrics to the song:
If you love me, if you love, love, love me,
Plant a rose for me.
And if you think you'll love me for a long, long time,
Plant an apple tree.
The sun will shine, the wind will blow,
The rain will fall and the tree will grow,
And whether you comes, or whether you goes,
I'll have an apple, and I'll have a rose,
Lovely to bite, and nice to my nose.
And every juicy nibble will be
A sweet reminder of the time you loved me
And planted a rose for me,
And an apple tree.
Disclaimer: 'BBC Sherlock' does not belong to me, but, as the title suggests, to the BBC. The song 'If You Love Me' does not belong to me either, but to Malvina Reynolds.