A Memory of Bees
They are everything he isn't.
He's as thin as a water reed. They're fat as striped beach balls.
His tall frame moves through the world with elegance and grace. They are ungainly little things that shouldn't be able to rise, much less fly.
He often works best alone—or with one other. They thrive in thrumming, busy hives, tens of thousands strong.
They are everything he isn't, and yet he fell in love with them long ago and loves them still, possibly the only thing he's ever cared for without doubt or reservation.
They are more alike than you know.
Both have rare gifts. For one, it's a brain that moves as fast as fire, flashing from one possibility to another in the blink of an eye. For the other it's a gift of sticky sweetness, created with great and painstaking care.
Each creature will sting when threatened, and may hurt even those that love them. Both stings are deadly, to some.
Finally, both man and beast can be tamed, their barbs made harmless, their danger blunted—but only by a skilled and caring hand.
He dreams of being one sometimes, and these are the best dreams Sherlock's ever known. They have always been part of his memory, of his past and of his future, these little beasts, these magnificent bees.
My first 221B (221 words, the final word beginning with 'b'). This was a bit addictive. Not as addictive as writing porn, but still.