Sherlock Holmes and His Inability to Keep Bees
“We could acclimatise the flat!”
“Sherlock, we are not turning our house into sting central for the sake of you and your weird obsession with bees!” I said firmly.
“But Daddy, bumblebees are so cute!” Rosie squealed.
“Yes, love. I know, but still, I’m not- Mrs Hudson would never let her property be-” I was cut short as she ran angrily into her bedroom.
“I know, I know, John. It’s ridiculous.” Sherlock sighed as he finally, after half an hour of petty squabbling, realised that we just couldn’t keep bees in our first-floor London flat.
“But Daddy, look!” Cried Rosie as she returned, “Daddy, in here!”
I followed as she led me by the hand. Sherlock followed me, intrigued by what Rosie had to present. Once we’d found our way into Rosie’s tulip-yellow room, we were told to be seated on her low bed while she sorted ‘something’ out. I fingered through the satin fabric draped from the ceiling over the outskirts of her bed. Sherlock had hand crafted this beautiful bed for her on her third birthday; adorning the room with bright marzipan coloured flowers and painting the wall a canary hue. I was starting to guess what it had all been inspired by.
“Daddy and Dad. I po-porp-pree…” She considered her tongue’s position in her mouth, “Propose,”
Sherlock gleamed with pure pride at his daughter’s scintillating intelligence,
“An idea.” She smirked. She turned gently to her desk, opened her drawer and threw something sizeable at me. My eyebrows raised in shock, but before it had time to hit my face, Sherlock extended his scarred arm and caught it. I laughed softly in awe and turned to him, but he didn’t turn to face me.
“It’s… a plush bee. I bought this for you.”
“I looked after her, Dad.”
I chuckled. “I see what’s going on.” Sherlock glanced at me quizzically. “She’s trying to prove that we can keep bees in here.”
“Very clever, Rosie.” Sherlock smiled weakly. “But your father is right. Real bees are far too difficult to care for.” Rosie plodded over and sat on his lap. “Tant pis.” He mocked in his ridiculous French accent, as he returned the bug. “Too bad.” He translated.
“This place is already like a hive,” I consoled, “Hectic all the time. People coming and going. I guess you’ll just have to settle for living in two-two-one… bee!”
“Daddy!” Rosie retorted at my bad pun. I leaned forward and circled my finger as though it were indeed a bumblebee, until it landed on her little nose. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like my jokes, honey?”
“She is right John, do bee-hive yourself.”
I erupted into a fit of childish laughter, Sherlock’s slight chortles accompanied my guffaws, creating audible melodic joy. Rosie tittered with us. I wiped the tear from my eye and smiled. This was the life.
“Sherlock, I wanted to wait until you’d bought my engagement ring before I gave you yours, y’know, so we could do it together, but I just can’t help myself.”
I pulled a miniature ivory box from my pocket, and opened it facing him. His eyes lit up, illuminated by a sparkling gold ring constructed of a circle of tiny hexagons. Every other shape had a hollowed-out heart inside of it, and atop the whole thing was a delicate honeybee- its two black stripes contrasting the ring’s sunlight shade.
He exhaled passionately, “It’s incredible.” He lifted Rosie gently aside and took my hand, lifting me to my feet. He put one arm around my waist and the other around my neck. He used this to tow my head forward. He didn’t bend, and so his kiss found itself on my forehead. Not the most racy of kisses, but perhaps the most intimate.
“Let me in!” Rosie squeezed in-between us and turned her head up to see us. Her warm grin was the epitome of yellow happiness.
“I always knew you liked bees.”
I pulled away from his embrace, “Because I’ve never known a man plant so many flowers in such a small windowbox! You hate pollen, so why else?”
He gleamed with pure pride at his husband’s scintillating intelligence. Or at least, smiled with acknowledgement at the fact that I wasn’t quite as slow as I was often perceived.
“Rosie,” Sherlock called sweetly, “Can I see your bee friend?”
“Okay Dad, her name is Squishy.”
“…Squishy? Hmm. Squishy. You know,” I chortled, “I kind of like it!”
“Yes, John. The name is delightfully amusing, but have you seen Squishy’s antenna?”
I looked as Rosie passed me the unfortunately named insect,
“A ring? An… engagement ring. Oh, you bloody smart-arse, you.”
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