Chapter 5
"Chapter 1, in which we are introduced to Winnie the Pooh and some bees, and the stories begin." Angel's voice was low and enjoyable. It immediately created an atmosphere of stories, beyond the reality. Clearly, she had read out many times before.
"Here is Edward Bear coming - "
"Who the hell is Edward?" Sherlock interrupted. "I thought it was about Winnie the Pooh!"
"They'll explain it later on, my dear idiot," Angel said and glanced at Sherlock, who had now turned his head to her. "Just listen." She cleared her throat and started again:
"Here is Edward Bear - "
"You said that already."
"Well, I can't start reading in the middle of the sentence!"
"Why not?"
"Because it sounds stupid and also cuts the sense of wonder."
"Does it? What sense of wonder?"
"If you'd just let the story begin, properly, even you could probably notice some sense somewhere, with your miserable travesty of a brain."
"No need to be rude. John is listening."
"Shut up then, you blockhead."
Sherlock turned his gaze to the ceiling, sighing.
" - coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump on the back of his head -"
"What, that didn't make any sense!" Sherlock cried and turned his head again.
"I told you it wouldn't work if I started in the middle!"
"Why did you do so, then?"
"Because I already read it twice!"
"Third time's a cha-a-arm," Sherlock said in a sing-song voice.
"Dear God. Maybe this wasn't so great idea, after all," Angel said and slammed the book shut.
"No, don't stop yet!" Sherlock cried. "I want to know why he came downstairs on the back of his head!"
John bursted out giggling in the kitchen. Angel glared at Sherlock.
"I promise I'll be quiet, okay?" Sherlock said.
"You better be, or I'll force this book down your throat, to do the job."
"You obviously have something against my throat," Sherlock said.
"Yes, I do. It obviously makes too much noise for my taste."
"I - "
"And it's also so gorgeous and beautiful that I don't want to harm it in any way, so you just better keep it quiet," Angel cut him off.
For once Sherlock Holmes was lost for words. He blushed, slightly, and turned his face away, trying to hide his embarrassment. Angel opened the book again, eyebrows furrowed, but a victorious smirk on her lips. She cleared her throat and started for the third time:
"Here is Edward Bear coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it - "
"That sounds like Anderson," Sherlock said suddenly, smiling broadly.
"You said you wouldn't interrupt," Angel reminded him, her voice already softened and a light, inscrutable smile rippling on her lips.
"Right, sorry."
"And then he feels that perhaps there isn't. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh."
"Hang on," Sherlock said. "If his name was originally Edward, how can they call him Winnie? That female given name is of Welsh origin, if you didn't know, meaning 'fair and smooth'."
"Yes, how utterly sharp of you. And it seems to me, that this story matches your IQ perfectly."
"What do you mean?"
"The next sentence is: When I first heard his name, I said, just as you are going to say, "But I thought he was a boy?" Angel looked up at Sherlock a mischievous smile on her face. Sherlock snorted. John made a funny noise in the kitchen.
"Shall I go on?"
"Whatever."
Angel kept on reading.
"So did I," said Christopher Robin.
"Then you can't call him Winnie?"
"I don't."
"But you said-"
"He's Winnie-ther-Pooh. Don't you know what 'ther' means?"
"Ah, yes, now I do," I said quickly; and I hope you do too, because it is all the explanation you are going to get."
"What? He can't possibly do that!" Sherlock cried.
"Do what? Who?" Angel asked. Her patience was wearing thin.
"The writer! He didn't tell what that "ther" means. Is it because he didn't know or because he was just too lazy to write it down? And how does it make the bear into a boy, anyway, if he has girl's name? That doesn't make any sense. What a stupid book!"
"Look, I think we should just pass the introduction and get to the bee story, right away." Angel said and sighed. "If you still want to hear about bees?"
"I'm desperately looking forward to it."
"Thank you for your over-flowing enthusiasm. It makes the reading most enjoyable."
"Anytime."
Angel turned the page. John began to set the table, as Angel kept on reading:
"Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday, Winnie-the-Pooh lived in a forest all by himself under the name of Sanders.
Sherlock suddenly sat up on the sofa.
"Did it really say Sanders? Oh, I knew it! This is great! Go on!"
And Angel did.
"What does 'under the name' mean?" asked Christopher Robin. "It means he had the name over the door in gold letters, and lived under it."
"Brilliant!" Sherlock said, happily. "I might call him Sanders'-son-the-Pooh from now on. Or, shortly, Anderson-the-Pooh. I'm sure he'll love it!"
John gave a laugh.
"Definitely, and what about Sergeant Donovan? Is she Pigglet, then?" he asked and smirked.
"Oh, yes! Sally the Pigglet." Sherlock clapped his hands joyfully together and laid down again, smiling. And the story continued:
"One day when he was out walking, he came to an open place in the middle of the forest, and in the middle of this place was a large oak-tree, and, from the top of the tree, there came a loud buzzing-noise. Winnie-the-Pooh sat down at the foot of the tree, put his head between his paws and began to think -"
"Would you mind calling him Anderson-the-Pooh, instead?" Sherlock asked and looked at Angel, hopefully.
"I would. This is about Winnie and Winnie it will be."
"Pity."
"First of all he said to himself: "That buzzing-noise means something. You don't get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there's a buzzing-noise, somebody's making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you're a bee. Then he thought another long time, and said: "And the only reason for being a bee that I know of is making honey."
Sherlock gave an amused snort and delightedly pointed out:
"That level of reasoning matches Anderson precicly, doesn't it!"
Angel and John looked at him and then at each other. They smiled and John shook his head. He was so happy that Angel had shown up to save the evening. He waved at the table.
"Come on, you idiots. Eat up."
"No, I want to hear this story first," Sherlock said.
"You can hear it afterwards."
"I can read it while you two eat," Angel said. "I've eaten already. Properly," she added, seeing a sceptical expression on John's face.
"You were suppose to have tea here," he said.
"The best tea-times always include story-telling. That's my part of this tea."
"I don't think it's going to work," John said. "But whatever. C'mon Sherlock."
Angel stared at Sherlock and, when he realised she wasn't going to read until he was at the table, he pushed himself up and took a chair. Angel continued and everything was fine (except John's quiet giggling and Sherlock's low chuckle, every now and then, and a few bitter comments about Anderson) until she got to the balloons:
"It's like this," Winnie-the-Pooh said. "When you go after honey with a balloon, the great thing is not to let the bees know you're coming. Now, if you have a green balloon, they might think you were only part of the tree, and not notice you, and if you have a blue balloon, they might think you were only part of the sky, and not notice you, and the question is: Which is most likely?"
"Wouldn't they notice you underneath the balloon?" you asked.
"They might or they might not," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "You never can tell with bees." He thought for a moment and said: "I shall try to look like a small black cloud. That will deceive them."
Sherlock made an odd, gurgling noice and burst into a loud guffaw, spatting the tea all over the table.
"This is... the most ridicilous... story...I have ever heard!" he gasped, through his laughter, and held his stomach. He made funny noises trying to hold the laughter back, but it took quite a while. The expression on his face was something between a wide smirk and a painful grimace, when he finally pulled himself together.
"My stomach is hurting," he moaned.
"Maybe I'll read it later on, then" Angel offered.
"No, don't! I... I can handle this."
"Just please, don't take any more tea," John asked. "My cup is full of your DNA already."
So they went on, up to the point where Winnie the Pooh was in the air, hanging from the balloon:
"There was no wind to blow him nearer to the tree, so there he stayed. He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn't quite reach the honey.
After a little while he called down to you.
"Christopher Robin!" he said in a loud whisper.
"Hallo!"
"I think the bees suspect something!"
"What sort of thing?"
"I don't know. But something tells me that they're suspicious!"
"Perhaps they think that you're after their honey?"
"It may be that. You never can tell with bees."
There was another little silence, and then he called down to you again.
"Christopher Robin!"
"Yes?"
"Have you an umbrella in your house?"
"I think so."
"I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.' I think, if you did that, it would help the deception which we are practising on these bees."
At this point, Sherlock was laughing almost hysterically. It was that silent laughter, when you really can't control it anymore but it just keeps coming and coming. His face had gone pink and he had bent over, holding his stomach. John was giggling and moaning, too, but Angel wasn't. She was far too experienced a reader for that, but her voice was shaking, badly, as she read, so she stopped for a while.
She looked at the other two, a broad smile on her face. She was really happy to see how much they enjoyed a simple story. Of course, it was mostly because of having Anderson in their minds. But that had rather been the point, to be fair. She had known Sherlock would spot the connection between Sanders and Anderson. And, after all, Winnie the Pooh's honey-hunting was a good story. If anyone could read it without even a grin on his face, he had to be extremely dull.
They managed to get through the story. It wasn't a long story, after all, but it took quite a long time to read, because Angel didn't want anyone to die for lack of oxygen. And, once it was finished, Angel decided it was enough for one evening. She closed the book and put it in her bag. It was still raining hard but she took her coat, still wet, and wrapped it around herself.
"You could still stay, it's not that late," John said.
"Thanks, John, but I have some other things to do. I'm not sure if this bedtime-story was the best one to calm you boys down and make you ready for bed, but at least you liked it." She smiled, almost tenderly, and looked at Sherlock, who was sitting at the table, looking at her, still smiling, more colour in his pale cheeks than usual.
"Did you like the story of the bees, Mr. Holmes?" Angel asked.
For a while Sherlock remained silent. Then he answered, truthfully.
"I did."
Angel smiled and nodded. She turned around and in a flurry of black, hooded coat, she was gone.
And it became obvious, that Sherlock was so fond of the story, that he even composed a tune for the "Cloud Song", which Winnie the Pooh was singing when hanging from the balloon. And he hummed it every now and then at the crime scene, if Anderson was around.
How sweet to be a Cloud
Floating in the Blue!
Every little cloud
Always sings aloud.
Of course, it drove Anderson crazy, as did the nickname Anderson-the-Pooh. And, as long as that man was stupid enough to go crazy about it, Sherlock continued teasing him. Unfortunately, he was rather stupid, so the show went on for days and it didn't get any better when Sherlock started to call Donovan Sally-the-Pigglet. He didn't stop even when Lestrade threatened to kick him out of the Yard and never, ever call him again. Because Sherlock knew he couldn't keep that promise.
So there was no way out and, sometimes, John thought that Angel had gone a little bit too far, by putting that glorious idea into Sherlock's head. When he reminded Angel of that, she only smiled her mischievous smile.
"I might be responsible for Anderson-the-Pooh, but it was you who made up Sally-the-Pigglet."
John tought about that for a while, then he smiled, warmly.
"It's true, innit? But she isn't a very nice woman."
"No. No, she isn't, is she?
"Frankly, a bloody awful sergeant."
"That's true. She is a bad sergeant. And you should have seen her nostrils when she heard that nickname for the first time."
They both burst out giggling, silently, like two young schoolmates who had a shared, dirty secret.
"Stop! We can't giggle. It's a serious business! Stop it," John said.
"You're the one who invented her, not me," Angel smiled, still sniggering.
