"Ouch! Confound it, Holmes!"
"If you would just hold still, it wouldn't hurt as much. One more – hold still, Watson! There, you see?"
"No, I can hardly see a thing," I moaned, trying not to touch the swollen area round my eye.
"This should help," Holmes said, his eyes worried despite his cavalier manner.
He took a small jar of some sticky white cream and dabbed it on the swollen area, patting my shoulder as I winced.
"There."
"What is that stuff, it smells awful."
"A concoction of my own making – you don't think I can spend my declining years without using those chemicals occasionally, do you?"
I glared at him out of my only usable eye, and his brows furrowed in concern.
"I'm sorry, Watson."
"You should be!"
"Well you shouldn't have gotten them so agitated!"
"I got them agitated!"
"Well you did!"
I moaned, slumping back on the couch, suppressing a hiss of pain as the inflamed area throbbed and burned.
"Isn't that cream helping at all?" Holmes asked, sitting beside me.
"Not much," I growled, rubbing carefully around the eye.
"I really am sorry," he said repentantly.
I sighed and rested my head on my arm, glancing over at his anxious face.
"Holmes. Out of all the retirement hobbies, why the devil did you have to choose bee-keeping?"