This story is a little homage to Laurie R. King's The Beekeeper's Apprentice. For those of you who have read her wonderful book, you'll recognize a few borrowed lines here or there, particularly the note left by Holmes. If you haven't read Beekeeper's I highly suggest you do. I've read plenty of non-canon Sherlock Holmes stories, and I feel that Lauire King is the only author to have successfully captured the true nature of Holmes, as set out by Doyle.
I'm currently working on a longer Elementary story, but while writing it this popped into my head and I had to get it down. Enjoy!
For her cool-down, Joan walked briskly back to the brownstone, her breathing slowly getting back to its normal rate. It was a particularly beautiful spring morning, cool but refreshing, and Joan felt light-hearted and carefree. She relished her morning runs rain or shine, for she thinks it's the perfect start to any day. Joan paused at the steps to do a few stretches, then walked up to the front door, only to find a note pinned to the wood at the level of her face:
W,
Find me.
H
Joan took the note, and let herself in. She took one look around the ground floor and strained her ears. Sherlock wasn't inside the house. Of this she was sure. She knew it was useless calling him, but she whipped out her phone and did so anyway, just in case.
She let the tone ring seven times in her ear before she disconnected the call. Almost the moment she did, she got a text from Sherlock: N chtg. No cheating.
Joan sighed and collected her thoughts. Okay, Joanie. Think.
She back-tracked into the hall before the front door. Sherlock's coat was missing, but all his shoes were there. His keys where also laying haphazardly on the side-table, in the exact same position they were in the night before where he tossed them after their return from the police station.
Joan held up the note to her face. There was a small smudge of something in the corner of the paper. She sniffed it, but all she could smell was the outside air. Using her fingernail, she scratched at the stain, noticing that it was slightly sticky. She held the paper to her nose again, and this time she got the faint hint of something sweet; something very familiar.
She thought she knew where to find him, but she wanted to check one more thing before she acted. Joan walked over to the couch, got down on her knees, and looked under. His carpet slippers were gone.
Joan got up with a smile and headed straight to the roof.
Sherlock Holmes was there, coat over t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, bare feet tucked into old slippers, tending to his buzzing hive. He wasn't wearing any protective gear, but he didn't need to, his bees knowing and accepting him. At Joan's arrival, he looked up and their eyes met.
"Good morning," she said.
"Be careful. You're wearing quite a bit of black*. Don't step any closer." He looked down and continued his work. "Did you guess?" he asked.
"No, are you kidding? I know how you feel about 'guessing'."
Sherlock smiled. "Good." He neatly placed the lid back onto the hive and gently brushed off the bees crawling on his arms. Her turned to her, his eyes sparkling, and clapped his hands. "So, Watson. How are your talents in the art of acting and disguise?"
Joan blinked. "Uh…"
"Today, I think, we'll work on accents, focusing on the various and colourful New York intonations…"
*I once had a beekeeper tell me that around the hive, bees hate the colour black. They, for some reason, associate it with aggressiveness and danger, and will attack when they see it. You can't even wear sunglasses. Isn't that interesting? I think so :)
Thank you for reading.