A/N: This story is in no way meant as a tour guide of London. Started during a snowstorm. Still not British, a writer, or a Londoner for that matter. -csf

I.

TW9 3PS

-SH

TW9 3PS. Could be a code or a cypher, given that the sender is a textbook overachiever, permanently compelled to overcomplicate even a simple text message. Yet, as any other Brit would do, I decided to first investigate the alphanumerical key as the postcode that any other UK resident would see it for.

I'm quite straightforward, really. None of this cloak and dagger business from me.

In texting me only this (supposed) postcode, Sherlock Holmes was summoning me. He knew, better than anyone, that I can never resist a bit of a mystery. I got instantly hooked, line and sinker.

Luckily, the destination was easily reachable. Knowing my mad friend, a summon could have just as easily taken me to Belgium or Belize. He wouldn't have batted an eyelid, and he would have demanded me there as soon as the message was marked as read.

He's quite impatient, really. He's a madman and I'm forever mesmerised.

.

The Victoria line of the Underground service took me to Kew Gardens Station, and afforded me plenty of time for a quick think. Kensington Station reminded me of that royal invoice still outstanding, And Stamford Brooke Station gave me mixed feelings, by reminding me of reconnecting with old friends in the new year and of old enemies. Finally arriving, I had yet to extract more information from Sherlock's laconic text.

My detective friend has this firm belief (or delusion) that I'm somehow absorbing his incredible mental abilities and learning to keep up with his fast-paced reasonings and deductions.

The morning is chilly as I stretch my legs, crossing the station by the overpass and steps, coming down to a charming square. Lining the square are squatted brick houses comprised of large shop fronts and private housing above. There's a grocery store selling unusual pumpkin varieties and healthy vegetable smoothies, a darkly lit bakery emanating a wafting scent of yeast rising, and an independent bookstore where someone is rearranging the displays. Post office at a corner, solicitors or a funeral home, and even a tiny little store specialised in "naturally flavoured honeys of the world".

Where does one find Sherlock Holmes when one needs him?

Don't ask me. Sherlock mystifies me as much as anyone else. He loves it.

He could be anywhere, trust me. He could be standing in line to the post office, or watching me from a parked van. And so I find myself turning 360 on the spot, looking all around me. There's an itch to the hairs on my nape, as they stand up. My fingers buzz, demanding action to cut through the impasse. All I see is a peaceful community going about their day, and a few tourists looking for the botanical gardens down the road.

10: 23 Where are you, mate?

10: 23 Is this a wild goose chase?

10: 24 I'm leaving in 60

10: 24 Minutes? -SH

10:24 Seconds

10:24 Seriously? -SH

10:25 I can see you -SH

10:25 Okay, nearby. Another clue?

He doesn't text back. I can imagine his outraged huffs. He's got way too much faith in me sometimes.

Phone pocketed; I look around me again. Sherlock could be wearing a disguise. None of the transient street occupiers is Sherlock's approximate height and my friend can hardly change that. I squint at an old lady in a wheelchair, but… nah.

I start focusing again on the buildings and… I find it.

I cross the street and enter a shop.

'Honeys of the World? Seriously?'

Sherlock seems fleetingly embarrassed, but I quickly attribute that to a trick of the light. It's morning and the sunlight streams through the high and wide front windows, iron framed. Inside, floor-to-ceiling shelves pack perfectly lined up honey jars, hundreds of them, immaculate and not a speck of dust on them – which screams high-end products better than its elective titles, such as Elderberry Honey and Eryngium Blue Honey.

Has he been training bees, or what?

Seeing my attention return to him, Sherlock quickly elaborates, in that awkward way of when he's caught out telling a truth: 'I had little time, I had to come up with something I was familiar with. Never mind.'

I stare on in utter disbelief. Does he seriously keep all this honey and bees' knowledge deep down in some Mind Palace vaults?

He notes, tentatively: 'You appear speechless, John.'

'I am, Sherlock.'

'Well, that's the end of that.' He shrugs and starts walking off just as a customer enters the store, causing silver bells to ring pleasantly from over the front door. A couple of tourists, cameras out first.

'Go away, not open,' the detective rudely shoos them away. He's got as much business sense in a shop as he ever had in his private consulting business – next to none.

The customers leave disgruntled.

'You have got to make a sale at some point, mate.'

'Or else?'

I look around pointedly. 'Else you have much to consume.'

He smirks at that. 'I could be tempted. Anyway, they don't deserve my honey, as they are habitual consumers of maple syrup.'

'So, ever thought if selling maple syrup too?'

'It's not in the store's name,' he remarks, clipped, as if he's found a new archenemy in maple syrup.

'And marmalades?'

'Do I expect to cater for Paddington bear too?'

'And all sorts of jams.'

'Of course you'd say jams,' he further decries, crinkling his nose. 'I'm not here to make rent. I'm undercover, on a case. I thought that was clear.'

'Clear as honey,' I huff. He hands me a jar of nearly colourless and very clear honey.

'Sherlock, you cannot be undercover!' I say, trying to hand him back the jar. He dismisses at once:

'Keep that one, I have plenty more.'

'Sherlock, there cannot be anyone left in this world that doesn't know who you are!'

He blinks for a couple of seconds of processing.

'You seriously overestimate the reach of your blog's readership, John. Besides, it peaked in 2010-2012.'

'Yeah, that's because no one blogs anymore. The internet has moved on.'

'You keep telling yourself that, John. You are still my favourite blogger. Fancy Mrs H would like some lavender honey?' Infuriatingly, he turns away again.

'How do you even know where the bees have been anyway?' I challenge, temper lost.

His grin widens at that – jackpot. 'Sit down, and I will allay your suspicions.'

Not for the first time, I make a mental note that Sherlock really, really likes bees. His misplaced fondness for bees is oddly endearing too.

'And the undercover job?'

He shrugs. 'I can multitask.' He grabs a cast iron chair that goes with a small table for two by the window, the only seats in the store. Well, if we are doing this properly…

'Got a kettle and some teabags?'

He smiles, amused, at how easy it is for Captain Watson, former army veteran, to make himself at home anywhere. He's about to point me to the kettle when his muscles tense, gaze predatorially observing across the street. Takes all my willpower not to turn to look too; mustn't spook the suspect. Or victim. Or established criminal. Sherlock has taken me for a loop, and I have yet to ask him anything useful about the case. Our case.

'Try the Calendula honey, John.' He tells me without losing his focus. 'It's more you.'

I didn't know I had a honey profile.

I hold my breath. Again, it strikes me how serious he is being about his cover.

'If you would be so kind as to retrieve it, John.'

For all I know it might be the hiding place for a clue, or a self-defence weapon, so I get up at once. Weaponised honey – why not?

Selecting the correct jar – golden yellow, looking perfectly normal and edible – I turn back to my friend, which affords me a quick glance at the street. I see nothing unusual. But then again I am not the world's only consulting detective.

'Did you know you can use honey to cover an open wound as it is sterile?' I say, as someone needs to say something.

'Yes, doctor.'

I never know when he's mocking me or just shutting down all conversation. Mentally shrugging it off, I take a look at other jars with honeycombs inside. Amazingly luminous under the cool daylight.

'He's coming over, act naturally!' Sherlock hisses behind me. It takes a couple of deep breaths before I force my jaw to unclench. The potential enemy is situated behind me – do you really call yourself a soldier standing there, Watson? – and the steps are loud and clear in their approach. The doorbells chime. I look over my shoulder in studied indifference.

Sherlock acts as if I don't even exist in his known universe now, and the newcomer is a tall, thin, well-dressed man in a three piece suit and carrying a leather briefcase. I would feel jealous if I didn't know that Sherlock courts every case, is charmed by every clever criminal.

'Rhododendron honey?' Sherlock politely suggests.

Oh, a poisonous plant's honey. I don't suppose it would kill, but it is a valuable clue. This man is dangerous.

Funny how Sherlock and I waste time evading all the important conversations, and yet communicate so well in cryptic clues and fleeting hints. I mean, he could have told me all this, right?

The sound of a gun being cocked is unmistakable in the small store. 'You and your assistant are going to step to the back of the store, Holmes.'

The consulting honey specialist huffs. 'You read John's blog,' he deems with a headshake. My hand tightens around one of those honey jars; a weapon of convenience.

'Mr Holmes the eldest sent me. He asks that you stop playing shopkeeper when he has a military coup to keep an eye on.'

Sherlock stands impossibly straighter. Hurt.

'Has my meddling older brother sent me an alternative?'

'Of course. It's in the briefcase. Perhaps if Mr Watson could refrain from attacking me with a jar?'

'Sit down. We make no promises.'

.

TBC