Prompt: Bees, from zanganito
Mycroft Holmes arrived at his office one December morning in 1910 to find a small, wrapped parcel on his otherwise immaculate desk. If he had not known better, he would have thought one of his new aides had been foolish enough to get him a Christmas gift, but the scrawl on the packaging identified the sender as his brother before he even noticed the return address of Sussex Downs. By the size of the package, the item within was a book, and Mycroft opened it, wondering all the while why his infernally unpredictable little brother had chosen now to begin the tradition of Christmas gifts.
The book, when Mycroft had removed the wrapping, was titled Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. So Sherlock had finished the book which he was terming his magnum opus, though why the foremost criminal investigator of the past fifty years should want his legacy to be a slim volume on beekeeping was beyond Mycroft's understanding. He had heard little from his brother in the years since the latter's retirement, as Sherlock refused to take the time to write and send a letter, and Mycroft found telegrams to be annoying inconvenient - one could never say what one wanted and they moved altogether too fast. He looked at the telephone seated on his desk, then up at the clock. Barely nine o'clock in the morning, and entirely too early for Sherlock to be awake. Mycroft smiled and picked up the receiver.
"I see you have received my Christmas present," Sherlock said immediately upon answering. "For heaven's sake, Mycroft, must you call so early?"
"It is after nine o'clock. You've become entirely too lazy in your retirement, brother mine," Mycroft said.
"I have?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "Have you spent your afternoons anywhere other than the Diogenes Club in the past forty years? But never mind that, what do you think? I have finished my greatest work, Mycroft, after much effort on my part."
"Yes, I see. Thank you," Mycroft said, flipping through the pages. "I have to ask, though, weren't you going to spend your retirement writing a treatise on detection? Surely that should have more practical applications than a study of beekeeping."
Sherlock's exasperated sigh caused Mycroft a smile. "What possible use would a treatise on detection be if no one is to read it? You know Scotland Yard has never listened to me on the subject; what makes you think they would be more likely to read a book about it? Besides, such a thing would only become a manual for those enterprising criminals searching for a way around the law. No, Mycroft, it is best that my methods are laid to rest with me."
For all his new focus on beekeeping, Sherlock's logic was still thankfully sound. "Well argued, Sherlock. I do hope you aren't expecting a return gift," Mycroft said.
"Certainly not," Sherlock said. "I merely thought you would enjoy reading it. Perhaps it has some practical applications for the nation. You do know how integral bees are to food production."
Sherlock went on in this vein for several minutes, discussing pollination rates and the average number of bees hatched in an average hive, to which Mycroft had only to interject an occasional "Yes," or "Interesting," to keep the conversation going. He considered himself a patient man with wide interests, traits which had helped him enormously in the unique position he held in government, and was long used to listening to discourses on whatever subject had caught his brother's fancy. This one, however, had lasted rather longer than most of his other fleeting interests, and Mycroft admitted that it was surely a trial. He wondered if it was some long buried instinct for husbandry from their father's landowning ancestors that had shown itself only in Sherlock's retirement. If it was, the trait had surely passed Mycroft himself over. He detested the country, finding its lack of suitable clubs and the daily sameness of country food appalling. There was, after all, a reason why he had sold off their family estate as soon as he could after he came into it.
"The bees of England, Mycroft, do as much for the nation as any soldier or civil servant," Sherlock finished with a flourish. "A most industrious insect."
"I do hope you haven't told Dr. Watson his importance as a soldier is equal to that of a bumblebee," Mycroft said. Heaven help him, Sherlock had never learned the value of tact.
"Oh, Watson is used to me," Sherlock said. "He has become quite an expert on bees himself. You know, I think he quite enjoys helping me with the hives during his visits."
If I have admirable patience, then Dr. Watson surely has the patience of a saint, Mycroft thought, not for the first time. He doubted highly the good doctor was interested at all in the keeping of bees, but was merely humoring his friend. It was testament to how well the two knew each other than Dr. Watson was evidently now capable of fooling Sherlock Holmes into believing he visited Sussex with the intent of helping with those blasted beehives that were taking over Sherlock's property. "He would have to become an expert, it would seem, simply to hold a conversation with you these past few years," Mycroft said. Sherlock was so devilishly single-minded in his interests, so that all around him simply found themselves becoming near experts in all sorts of esoteric subjects simply to be able to get a word in on occasion. Not that Mycroft was entirely innocent; no, his grasp of the vaguest subjects was undoubtedly greater than his brother's, but then he did not insist on discoursing about them at all hours to those few he considered close to him.
"That is unfair, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Watson has said that he finds my temper and moods extraordinarily improved these recent years."
"Sherlock, you were previously prone to shooting up your own walls, driving your neighbors out of their homes with the smell of chemicals, and poisoning yourself with cocaine," Mycroft said. "You must consider the comparison when he talks of improvement."
Sherlock said nothing, save for a brief mumble about how he did still insist on staying in practice with firearms should it be needed, which Mycroft could only take as an admission that he was now shooting up the walls of his Sussex Downs cottage. Good heavens, Dr. Watson could have him and be glad about it. "What is it about bees, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked suddenly.
"Have I not just told you how important their function is? Were you not listening to me?" Sherlock asked in exasperation.
"Certainly not, I tuned you out almost immediately," Mycroft said. "You cannot fool me, Sherlock."
Sherlock sighed. "You know, Mycroft, the study of crime is really a study of society. Its ills, its problems. In a perfect society, crime would not exist at all, yet it does. In my estimation, the criminal investigator must also become an student of all of humanity to truly count himself an expert."
Mycroft was beginning to regret he had ever asked the question, sure that he should be on the 'phone until lunch. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "What on earth does this have to do with bees?" he asked. The telephone was an extraordinary invention, he thought idly, but it did make conversations longer. If he could see his brother, Mycroft would surely have been able to deduce much of this without either of them saying a word and get back to important business. Instead they were forced to go through the tedious steps of explaining everything aloud. Dreadfully slow business.
"I am getting to that!" Sherlock said. "You see, bees all work together for the harmony and benefit of the hive. Each drone in the hive performs their function and goes about their business efficiently and without any fuss. So unlike our own society, wouldn't you say, Mycroft, where each individual strives for his own benefit more than anyone else's?"
"Well, yes, that is obvious," Mycroft said.
"And yet, I have found bees are also strikingly similar to humanity. Nowhere else in the animal kingdom is there such an organization as is seen in the humble beehive. Each worker has their function, whether it be gathering pollen, caring for the eggs, maintaining the hive's structure, protecting the hive from threats, etc. I have found it to be the most extraordinary mirror of the structure of our own society, Mycroft. Do you not agree? Farmers, builders, caretakers, soldiers, all ordered about by a clear hierarchy leading back to one ruler? It is quite fascinating to observe, for if humanity were only as industrious as the bees, we should indeed have a perfect world."
Mycroft had not thought Sherlock had the remotest idea how society functioned, beyond being aware of whoever the reigning monarch happened to be, and indeed had never thought his brother had any respect for the mores of society. Now he thought everyone should simply fill their own assigned role to ensure a harmonious society? "It is not a bad analogy," Mycroft allowed. "Though I daresay it is an impossible one for humanity to emulate."
"I know that, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "I merely meant that those who study humanity would do well to study bees as well, for it gives one an extraordinary insight into how our own society works."
"Well, I may agree with you that the organization is similar," Mycroft said. "We did have a queen, until recently, and the King fulfills much of the same function. I suppose it is analogous to the role of the queen of the hive." How had he found himself having this conversation? It seemed that whenever his brother called, he was drawn into the most ridiculous matters, which served only to take his attention away from what was truly important. The situation in Germany was sinking by the day, and Mycroft began searching for a way to be done with the phone.
Sherlock surprised him by laughing aloud. "Oh, Mycroft, I can count on one hand the times you have been wrong, but I believe today I must add a second hand."
"Whatever are you talking about?" Mycroft asked.
"You cannot truly believe the King, or even Her Late Majesty, hold the role most analogous to the queen bee?" Sherlock said.
This conversation was getting entirely out of hand. "Then who is, Sherlock? You know, I really am very busy."
"Why, you are, brother mine," Sherlock said, as if it was obvious.
"Oh," Mycroft said, realizing at once that he was correct. "Well, I concede the point, little brother. I shall send you a bottle of claret as your prize." He had always done so on those occasions he had been wrong and his brother correct, though the last time had been nearly twenty-five years previously.
"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Watson shall appreciate it when he visits. Incidentally, I shall take up no more of your time, Mycroft. He should have received his copy as well and I am anxious to know what he thinks of it."
"Yes, for heaven's sake, go bother Dr. Watson about your bees instead," Mycroft said. "Oh, and Sherlock? Merry Christmas. Do try to get yourself up to London sometime before I retire."
"You could always come down to Sussex, Mycroft," Sherlock said before hanging up. Mycroft shook his head, sent his secretary out in search of a bottle of claret, and went back to his daily reports, which had only the effect of making him wish he were still talking to his brother about beehives.
If things continued as they were on the Continent, he very much believed his brother's services should be required before his retirement.