My sister requested a follow-up, so there might be more of this later on. I'm a little tempted to make this into a small series focused on Bee Allergic!Watson (with Holmes, of course).
Aside from my family and a few former school companions, not many of my acquaintances were privy to the knowledge of my apprehension towards bees and wasps. This unease was not born without provocation and can be accounted for with an incident from my late childhood. At the age of eleven, within minutes of being stung by a wasp, my arm was afflicted with welts that itched and burned and I experienced uncomfortable respiratory sensations that led to distress and an eventual faint. So great was my aversion after that day that I spent the subsequent weeks avoiding the outdoors.
My fear waned quite a bit over the course of time, but close proximity to the insects still stirred a notable degree of anxiety in me. Given my history and the still-present risk of suffering another severe reaction should I be stung once again, I ought to have felt justified in my trepidation, but I could not help but feel somewhat ashamed at the panic I experienced when spotting a bee or wasp hovering in a garden close by.
It was one summer's day that to my utter horror, while Holmes and I were sitting together on a bench, a bee landed on my bare hand.
It took a few moments for my body to process the sharp pang of alarm that raced through my mind and respond accordingly. I should have made a fool of myself, jolting in an outrageous fashion, but as my body started to shift, a sinewy hand gripped my shoulder.
"Do not move, Watson," my friend instructed, stilling me.
He leaned forward to examine the bee closely.
"A honeybee," he explained after a short pause, "It can be noted from the size of its eyes that it is of the male sex." And with that he blew a gentle stream of air in its direction and the bee lazily floated away.
I immediately released the breath I had been holding, slumping against the back of the bench.
I felt more than saw Holmes's eyebrow arch at this, and I promptly explained myself, already feeling embarrassed with my reaction.
He stared at me for a brief moment after I had recounted my childhood experience.
"I believe you shall be relieved to know that you were not in any danger," he said, finally. "Male bees do not have stingers, Watson. I must say that I am surprised that a man of your profession would not be aware of such a basic anatomical detail."
"Really, Holmes! I'm a doctor, not a beekeeper! Such knowledge would not be of use to a medical practitioner." The frown I fixed upon him was half-hearted, for I had caught the gentle teasing in his tone.
He slipped his arm through mine companionably, and there was a slight mischievous gleam in his eyes.
"Now that you have mentioned it, I have given some thought, Watson, to my fascination with apiculture and my eventual retirement—"
"Do not even jest about such a thing!"