What is it about bees which fascinate me so? Watson, as I recall was quite taken aback when he learnt that I had decided, above all things on this earth, to take up bee-keeping.
Perhaps it is because they are so eerily like humans. They all work together to produce only enough for themselves, and double that for the Queen. Once the queen is gone, the bees continue to work. Yet one can always sense the absence of her. The queen, head of authority, must fight to keep her position. If another Queen comes, they must fight. She is either exiled, killed or recovers her position.
A particular hive lost its Queen today. And in the aforementioned manner. Competition over authority is an important thing; but is it really something to die for?
I suppose the only reason these things come into my mind is because this is how brother Mycroft died. Well, not in the same manner, but rather close. He was shot down by an enemy government. No one has yet to be blamed, but I have one particular dictator in mind who would have been most benefited by the lack of Mycroft's strategic prowess. They did not even put Mycroft's name in the obituary. I can understand why; the death of England's pinnacled government operative was already a shock to the country's state of being, and to make it public would only cost us more hope. I do miss Mycroft terribly. Despite the years it has been since his assassination.
Amongst other things, I have been pondering the human mind. I no longer think of it as a plumpish gray matter between our ears and inside our cranium, but as a long, forever-winding chain. Once a particular thought (or link if you will) is struck, it winds into more thoughts, and suddenly a chain of thoughts are coursing through this metaphorical winding and un-winding into a thousand little threads. In this case, the beginning link was bees, it linked to Mycroft, then to Watson.
Watson, I am reluctantly happier to say, had a heart attack some 20 years ago. Have I said that already? I really couldn't tell. I digress. He endured a far quicker death than brother Mycroft, who died of slow blood loss in his office at Whitechapel. He was married, to his third (fourth?) wife, and had two (three?) children. His going was simple, and easy and quick. I often get depressed by Watson's passing. Sometimes I awake to think he is there, standing beside me like the good old days. I often ask myself questions that Watson might ask at times to attempt to stimulate life into this battered old brain; and at times I think he has actually been there, has actually asked or answered my question. But every time I realize Watson can never ask me another question again. Johnson has been without his Boswell for twenty years.
I am too fatigued to continue with this. My heart feels far too heavy. I shall continue in my scribbling tomorrow.
S. Holmes
