(Notes: I have taken some liberties with the plant collections of Chelsea Physic Garden, for the sake of the story. Call it a bit of artistic license, if you will.)
"So, Sherlock, where are we off to now?" Tessa was fairly certain if he were to give an answer, it would be cryptic at best. And indeed, his response was a sly smile and a tilt of his head, before he moved forward to share with the cabbie their destination. He kept his voice low to maintain the mystery a while longer; Tessa did her best to hear the exchange between the two men, and caught the words "botanical gardens". Royal Botanical Gardens? Now that held some promise. She smiled to think of the treat in store—acres and acres of lush, verdant, grounds; bountiful color and delicate fragrances; a feast for the senses. Despite the inclement weather, Tessa knew there were spots sheltered from the rain and hothouses where thrived more exotic plants, and where the two might wait out showers that would otherwise dampen their day.
She knew, as well, that there were shaded, secluded little spots designed for visitors to rest and to enjoy the gardens and ornamental buildings, with wood or stone benches to take their ease upon. Sherlock was rarely one for public displays of affection, but Tessa imagined at least a few of those settings might be private enough to entice him to pitch a bit of woo. Where, protected from the gloomy elements, the botanical gardens might just make for a pleasant way to pass the afternoon. Tessa sighed with happy anticipation.
It shouldn't be too far, she thought, consulting her mental map of London. Richmond on Thames, she concluded, very close by. Yet she realized the cab was heading in the opposite direction. Sherlock was staring out of the window, apparently wrapped in thought. Tessa placed her hand upon his to get his attention. "I thought I heard you say we were headed to the botanical gardens," she said perplexed, "Shouldn't we be going the other way?"
Sherlock patted her hand, telling her forebearingly, "No, my dear," giving her the crooked smile she adored, "these gardens are in Chelsea. Every bit as lovely as Kew Gardens, but with a much more interesting history."
Leave it to Sherlock to opt for the less travelled path, she thought fondly. Tessa only hoped these gardens offered the same sort of benefits as Kew- and some protection from the rain, the steady beat of the taxi's wiper blades reminding her of what waited outside their windows. She leaned against Sherlock without a further word, patient to see what was in store.
They were travelling eastward, on streets that ran a steady parallel to the river. Business districts gave way to living space, green with small parks and well-kept lawns. Tessa, taking in the passing sights, commented with wonder, "This area seems like an ideal location for a public garden."
"Precisely," he instructed her, "The Chelsea Physic Garden, in fact. Some consider it one of London's best kept secrets."
Tessa had a vague recollection—she'd heard of this understated gem, predating the more spectacular Kew Gardens, but had never had the occasion to visit.
As the cab neared the area, Sherlock went on to tell her more. "It's one of the oldest public gardens in London, and not at all typical of what one would usually find. It was founded in 1673, as the Apothecaries' Garden, intended for the training of apprentices in identification and use of medicinal plants."
Tessa was listening raptly, not only to his explanation, but to the very sound of his voice. Sherlock was happy—holding forth, sharing a secret knowledge of sorts, with someone who appreciated what he was offering. She had to restrain herself from the temptation of nestling her hand against his chest, longing just to feel the deep vibrations of his voice; his remarkable voice, which under certain conditions, could melt her like butter on a hotplate.
"…filled with thousands of species of plants and trees from around the world, some of them quite rare. Edible plants, healing plants…" Sherlock paused dramatically, lowering his voice to disclose his favorite part of the secret, "…and the poisonous."
Tessa, relishing his clear enjoyment of sharing this fact with her, had to ask, "Really? And just why on earth would poisonous plants be included?"
Pleased she had followed his lead, Sherlock answered, "Well, some have medicinal qualities if extracted properly, or in very small quantities. And, considering the time period in which the garden was founded of course, one can't rule out their use for potential nefarious purposes."
Tessa smiled knowingly. There it is, she thought; that's the real reason you've brought me here. It wasn't the first time Sherlock thought he'd disguised his true motivation. And it certainly wouldn't be the last. She found this trait endearing, just one of the many that made him entirely irresistible to her.
The taxi delivered them to the inconspicuous front entrance, surrounded by high brick walls that gave no indication of what lay inside. The rain had lightened to sprinkles as they alighted from the cab, and it looked as though the sun was trying to break through the clouds. However, the air had cooled considerably since the bistro, so Tessa buttoned her coat, cinching the belt tighter to keep warmth close. She took Sherlock's proffered arm, to begin what he intended to be a private tour.
She found the grounds lovely, if less structured than expected. The areas were loosely organized, crisscrossed with gravel paths, creating a look and feel of casual grace. It seemed, in some places, that the plants were left to find their way as Nature intended, but Tessa also noted signs of low-key but loving maintenance. There were several horticulturists at work among the beds of plants, willing to answer questions from the visitors ambling about, and signs posted strategically, with names, descriptions and uses of most of the plants.
Sherlock, strolling beside her, pointed out the most interesting elements of the gardens, narrating a wealth of information. "The Swedish botanist Linnaeus-the inventor of the binomial scientific naming system we still use today-was a regular visitor in the 1730s. And it was from this garden that cotton was sent to the American Colonies in 1768."
He added, having just recalled this additional fact, "There's also the oldest man-made rockery in Europe, built from Icelandic lava stones in the late 18th century." It occurred to Tessa that his extensive knowledge and rich voice made him the sexiest tour guide she'd ever encountered, one whom she'd gladly follow in any weather.
There were dozens of tree species, many not native to England, but thriving still. Tessa recognized willow, alder, apple and ash; cedar, beech, elm and hawthorn, among many others. As they passed, Sherlock easily enlightened her as to their various medicinal purposes.
He pointed toward a small pool of water, flanked by stone benches, and teeming with water plants. "The ornamental ponds aren't just for decoration; there are several curative plants that flourish there as well."
Tessa paused to admire a plot of bright red poppies. The placard read "Papaver somniferum" –translated as Opium poppy. Tessa read on, already knowing the flowers were the source of codeine and morphine—and their destructive cousin, heroin. Yet they looked so harmless and pretty, even reminding her of the scene from The Wizard of Oz. She turned to mention this to Sherlock, to find him staring at them, his face somber. "Sherlock?" she called to him, curious as to where his mind had gone, "What is it, darling? What's wrong?"
Finally hearing her, Sherlock blinked a few times, then shook his head as he shook off whatever had held his attention. He gazed at Tessa, his eyes coming back into focus. "It's alright," his voice hoarse in answer, "I'm alright." Tessa could tell he was holding something back, but before she could ask again, he laid a hand on her shoulder, "Something you needn't be concerned about now." As she looked unconvinced, he added, "Believe me, Tessa, I'm fine. We can save this discussion for another day."
Tessa shrugged in resignation, respecting his request, but promising herself to revisit the topic some other time. She took his hand, trying to lighten the moment, "So, where are these poisonous plants? I know you've been longing to show me."
Sherlock nodded, smiling appreciatively, "And here I was thinking that you'd never ask." He stretched his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, "This way, my dear. I think you will find this quite fascinating."
Tessa wasn't surprised at all when Sherlock went on to tell her of a case he'd solved that involved a docent for these gardens, and poison concocted from the plants before them. An avid hobby had turned to murder, when the woman had decided she'd rather collect her inheritance sooner than later, tiring of waiting for her father to expire of natural causes. She'd done her research, finding poisons that, when combined, would mimic heart and respiratory failure, and were virtually impossible to trace…for the average detective, anyway. Sherlock, of course, had made quick work of it.
"Is that it, then?" Tessa asked, eyes on the sky now, as a steady, cold drizzle had crept upon them. "I think the sky is about to really open up…"
Sherlock first grimaced, then looked at her rather pleadingly, "There is one more thing, if you wouldn't mind. Won't take us more than a few minutes." Tessa knew that look—had employed it herself on occasion—so despite the chill that had insinuated itself into her bones, she gave him her hand. "Lead on, Sir…..but please do keep," she pointed heavenward, "this weather in mind."
She heard their destination before they'd reached it. A low but constant somnolent buzzing, coming from behind some low hedges. Rounding the corner, Sherlock still leading, Tessa saw an impressive looking beehive. There was little bee activity at the moment, which she assumed might have something to do with the weather.
"They have several hives scattered throughout the grounds. The bees are kept more for pollination than for honey collection, although I do believe what honey is harvested is sold raw, in the gift shop." Sherlock's voice was hushed as he told her of his interest in the habits and social hierarchy of honey bees. How he'd been mesmerized by their intricate dance of flight and how efficiently their hives operated, ever since finding one at the back of his mother's garden, when he had been eleven years old.
"Many were the afternoons," he reminisced, "I'd make my way to the garden, to observe them. Sometimes I'd just go when I needed a place for uninterrupted concentration. I found the hum of the bees at work in their hive very relaxing and conducive to quiet reflection." In that moment, Tessa saw an echo of the studious, serious boy he must've been, flicker across his features. To her heart, it was a treasure far above the lovely ones these gardens held.
Sherlock had moved to the far side of the hive, engrossed in study. "The wet and the chill in the air have made the bees sluggish" he observed, "They're apt to be a bit aggressive too, so be careful how you approach them."
At just that moment, Tessa felt a sharp stab on the side of her neck, "Oooowwww!...damn, that hurt!" She reached to the spot reflexively, and found a raised lump there. "Damn thing stung me."
Sherlock came to her, brushed back her hair and glanced at the swelling as it rose where her neck sloped into her shoulder. He nodded, confirming his suspicion, "Honey bee sting. You're not allergic, are you?" The note of concern in his voice matched his gentle touch. Tessa shook her head no, nearly pouting like a child, but pleased he was ministering to her. She would have been happy for him to kiss the pain away, but having established she was fine, Sherlock turned back to further observe the hive.
He seemed prepared to continue his lesson to her, but Tessa was not yet satisfied to follow along. "Why would it do that, Sherlock?" She tried to keep the hurt-that he had turned away so swiftly-from entering her voice.
He looked back to her, pondering his answer, straightening his back and clasping his hands behind him. "I suspect it was your perfume," he told her, as though she should have guessed the answer, it was so obvious, "The floral notes probably fooled him into thinking you were a new source of nectar. He was likely startled to discover you were not."
Tessa felt as though she was on a slow, steady burn, her voice on the edge of anger, "You say that as though it's my fault!"
"Hmmm," he responded, realizing the possibility as true, but missing Tessa's point altogether, "Well, in a way, it is, isn't it?" When her expression darkened, Sherlock understood what she'd actually meant; he rushed to correct his error, "Not intentional, of course. You..…you couldn't have anticipated such a thing occurring." He attempted a conciliatory smile, but it looked weak, forced.
Hurt had turned to anger, Tessa's voice harsh, "Perfume that was meant to attract you…not…" she sputtered a moment, failing to find the perfect word to contain her indignation, "…not…those!" roughly gesturing toward the hive.
Sherlock took a step in her direction, seeking to assuage, and told her calmly, "Tessa, you are being unnecessarily agitated. All is well, the damage isn't permanent. Your skin there is so thin; the bee didn't even leave the stinger behind, meaning it survived the encounter as well."
The throb of the bee sting left her feeling anything but well, but Tessa saw it would be useless to tell him so. On top of all else, the rain was falling harder, and the wind was picking up. She searched her pocketbook for her umbrella, shivering now, and realized with frustration that she had left it in the cab. Exasperated, feeling bedraggled, she snapped at Sherlock, "Can we go now, please?" Tessa hadn't intended to sound like a spoiled child, but the words tumbled out in a rush, surprising him with their vehemence, "I'm wet and cold and hungry, Sherlock. And I've lost my umbrella. I'd really like to leave before something worse than a bee sting happens." Tessa stopped herself from adding that the worse thing could very well be a mighty row with him. She was suddenly resenting the way he appeared to be ignoring her discomfort (and not just here, she reminded herself; he didn't even notice when the taxi had splashed her, back at the café, or the fact that she must be famished, from having barely eaten that horrible brunch). She was resenting the fact that he was warmly wrapped in a thick wool coat, and hadn't made a move toward sharing that warmth by holding her, or even giving it up altogether to drape around her shoulders.
Her ire seemed to Sherlock like a bolt out of the blue. He'd never seen this side of Tessa, and it shocked and disappointed him. He had planned a few more stops for the afternoon, but this mood of hers would surely carry over, and make the whole thing unpleasant for the both of them. "Come along, then," he told her, sounding cool and precise, "We needn't bother with anything more." He swept past her, heedless of the wind that had risen to whip the rainfall from every direction, his footfalls an angry crunch upon the gravel.
Tessa followed in his wake, already regretting her outburst—justified as it had been—and starting to wonder what to expect from an angry Sherlock. This was one new experience that she hadn't expected to encounter today, and she found herself wishing that she'd stayed snuggly in her flat instead of venturing out her door.
(to be continued)