A fun little fic to make you smile. 10 year old Sherlock mid bee experiment, and a grumpy 17-year-old Mycroft with allergies. What's not to love?! 🤣 (Contains my OC character, Eva — middle Holmes sibling. I've removed the AI generated picture, as it has led people to assume that the story is also. It is not. I put a lot of love and work into my writing and love these characters 💔)
Conversation stopped as they entered the kitchen. Triumphantly poised atop a kitchen chair, ten-year-old Sherlock's face held the unmistakable glow of a scientist on the verge of a tremendous discovery
In one hand he clutched a tablespoon. Holding it aloft, he used this to meticulously smear something over the kitchen lightbulb. A glutinous substance oozed down the handle, dripping slowly onto the kitchen floor.
Eva stared, slack-jawed, attempting to assign reason to the scene unfolding before her. Finding none, she gave a small helpless shake of her head and turned – wordlessly – to Mycroft.
Mycroft was edging nearer to Sherlock, eyes fixed on the spoon, an expression of dawning comprehension on his face – unshared by his sister.
Eva watched her elder brother’s eyes widen in realisation – his shoulders tensed. All of a sudden, he ducked – eyes frantically scanning the room as though expecting imminent fire.
Then she heard it. A faint, gentle humming – growing gradually louder.
Her eyes slid sideward towards the open window.
“Sherlock...” She began.
His face was alight with excitement.
“It's working!” He cried excitedly. “Listen! They're coming!!”
The horrified realisation grew in Eva like a slowly spreading heat.
“Sherlock – have you let bees into the house??”
He waved the spoon in the air enthusiastically, like a conductors baton.
“Not let – ” he corrected, “invited!”
Feet frozen in place, Eva's eyes found Mycroft’s. Simultaneously, their eyes travelled towards the open window and back to each other. Understanding shot between them –the unspoken question clear.
Is there time to shut the window?
Even as the question formed, the first few bees drifted lazily through the window pane.
Eva just had time to state the obvious — but none the less key point.
“Sherlock, Mycroft is allergic to bee stings!”
Before an ominous, buzzing cloud raced into the sunlit kitchen, causing Mycroft to back against the far wall, in soundless horror.
Sherlock let out a triumphant whoop, clapping his hands together delightedly, his eyes wide with excitement.
Automatically, Eva moved sideways, positioning herself slightly in front of Mycroft. Snatching a tea- towel from its hook, she brandished it like a whip in front of her. Mycroft’s hand — buried in his pocket — clutched tightly around his epi-pen.
“Don't worry,” Sherlock told them — entirely unconcerned. “They will only sting if you provoke them. Besides,” he added, with a brief nod towards Mycroft, “he has an epi-pen.”
The look Mycroft bestowed on him was equal in its incredulity and exasperation.
“That does not mean I've made my peace with anaphylaxis, Sherlock! It simply means that — despite your best efforts to the contrary — I am marginally less likely to die!!”
“Oh don't be so dramatic,” he responded, dispassionately.
At any other time, Eva might have been tempted to point out that neither she nor Mycroft were currently standing on a chair exuberantly conducting a swarm of bees with a honey-covered spoon... but there seemed more pressing matters to attend to.
The bees — no doubt disoriented by their new kitchen residence — were behaving increasingly erratically. The swarm — reasonably small in size, Sherlock assured them, consisting of only around 10,000 bees — bounced unpredictably off of walls, cupboards and kitchen surfaces.
“If I die here Sherlock —” Mycroft vowed murderously, cautiously edging his way along the wall, “I will haunt you. I swear to you, I will find a way!”
Sherlock ignored him. A number of bees had landed upon the honey-coated lightbulb, which immediately drew his attention away from his brother’s threats and onto more important matters.
“See!” He exclaimed, enthusiastically, “I was right! They’re responding to food and light source.”
Peering intently at the two-dozen or so bees that had settled there, he —inexplicably — began circling his hips in a figure-of-eight pattern, pausing only to wiggle side to side.
Eva — rendered temporarily speechless — watched him through the swarm of bees, wondering how this had become her life.
“It's called a waggle dance,” Sherlock answered, in response to her quizzical gaze. “Bees use it to communicate when they've found a food source —”
“You're not a bee, Sherlock!” Eva shouted — her tolerance hanging by a thread — “You’re a LUNATIC!”
Mycroft, meanwhile, was busy scanning the exit points like a general assessing a battle scene. Seeing both doors and the window still covered in bees, he sank slightly down the wall.
“Sherlock,” he began, “know this. If I survive this, I am going. To. Kill. You.”
Still waggling, Sherlock tilted his head fractionally.
“Statistically,” he replied, “my odds of surviving this outnumber yours.”
Mycroft’s reply was not meant for 10 year old ears, though — mercifully — the sheer volume of the buzzing bees meant he didn't catch all of it.
The bees, it transpired, were beginning to adjust to their kitchen environment — their flight patterns less unpredictable, more and more were starting to settle on the lightbulb. Sherlock, of course, was delighted.
“Look!” he exclaimed happily, pointing with his spoon and flicking honey everywhere. “They're establishing a flight path!”
Eva was done.
“Right!” she snapped, brandishing the tea towel, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and dragging him off the chair. “Enough! Get them out!”
Landing on his feet, like a cat, Sherlock looked up into Eva's face — his expression thoughtful.
He blinked.
Eva’s fingers flexed.
“Please tell me,” she said, in a voice of forced calm, “that somewhere in the planning stage you considered how you’re getting them to leave.”
He quite clearly had not.
Pressing his lips together, his brow furrowed for just a moment then his face suddenly glowed with inspiration and he bounded towards an opposite window. Flinging it open with a dramatic flourish, he pointed the spoon towards the gap, as though directing an army.
“Exit route established! Fly forth my sisters!”
Nothing happened.
“That's your grand plan??” Eva shrieked. “Open a window and bid them good-day?!”
A puzzled crease formed on Sherlock's brow. His arms extended slightly from his sides, palms up, in a gesture of mild bewilderment.
“They're highly intelligent creatures,” he replied, defensively. “I assumed that they would gather their data and leave.”
“They're not data analysts, Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted from his position against the wall. “They're bees!!”
“I think they're settling,” Eva cut in, her eyes on the ever increasing swarm jostling for position on the lightbulb. “My,” she looked to her brother, “I think we need to try and get you out.”
“Yes,” he agreed, faintly — his face rather white.
“Move slowly,” Sherlock advised, helpfully. “If you startle them you'll trigger their defensive response and the entire swarm will target you.”
“Yes, thank you, Sherlock!*” Mycroft responded bitingly. “Most helpful.”
The savage irony was lost on his brother, who gave the self-satisfied nod of someone who clearly felt he'd been supremely helpful.
Slowly, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes on the bees, Mycroft edged towards the back door. A few stray bees still flitted around the room; his fingers tightened around the epi-pen in his right hand. Eva hardly dared to breathe as — ever so cautiously — he reached for the handle, inching the door open. As soon as the gap was wide enough to permit a person exit, Mycroft fled as though propelled from the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Sherlock watched him in perplexed judgment.
“He's hugely overreacting. His own panic is statistically the greatest risk factor in the room.”
“And nothing to do with the 10,000 bees you invited for breakfast?!!” Came a incensed voice from outside.
Three hours later, the bee-keeper informed an incredibly disgruntled Mrs Holmes that her kitchen was now bee free.
Sherlock had been dragged off by their father for ‘words’ and Mycroft — who had set up camp on a garden chair outside — was flatly refusing re-entry of the building.
“I will take my chances in the insect-infested garden thank you very much,” he told his mother, whose initial sympathy and understanding was draining exponentially with each failed attempt to get him to return to the house.
With a huff of impatience, she returned to resume the removal of honey from the kitchen light and surfaces.
Mycroft watched her go, his face impassive, when there was a gentle nudge on his shoulder. He started slightly, fingers still clutching the pen, to see his sister standing there.
Eva gave a reassuring smile.
“Here —” she said, holding out a cup. “I've brought you tea. And — She continued, “biscuits.”
The corner of her mouth drew up slightly in a mischievous smile, a slight twinkle in her eyes as she slid him the pack of chocolate bourbons.
“Thought you'd need supplies of the essentials if you're out here for the long run.”
He gave her an arch stare over the rim of his cup, but accepted the biscuits nevertheless.
Pulling up a chair beside him, they sat without speaking, sipping their tea — Mycroft staring fixedly ahead of him, his right hand still clutching his epi-pen.
“Hey —” Eva’s voice was warm. She reached out a hand and placed it lightly over his clenched fist, her thumb lightly stroked his fingers, feeling the grip loosen fractionally.
“Relax,” she told him, kindly. “Operation Bee was a resounding failure and he's being so thoroughly berated in there that I think we have a while before he moves on to wasps.”
He shot her a significant stare, however — upon catching the gleam in her eyes — he felt his mouth twitch in spite of himself. He gave a small exhale of wry amusement and felt the tension in his shoulders disperse just a fraction.
“I was scared,” he admitted.
“10,000 bees and an allergy, My. You'd have been an idiot not to have been.”
A sound behind them caused them both to look around. Sherlock shuffled sheepishly towards them, stopping short when he caught their raised eyebrows — their identical stony expressions.
“Yes?” asked Mycroft, acidly.
Sherlock squirmed under the intensity of the gaze, looking at the ground and scuffing the toes of his shoes against the grass.
“Well —” he began, awkwardly, “If we're looking for a positive, I’ve learned a lot!” He looked up earnestly “If I were to try again —”
Eva threw a well-aimed biscuit at his head, to a nod of approval from Mycroft, who casually returned to his tea.
“One day, sister,” he told Eva later that day, as they watched the sun slowly sink below the horizon, “we may even laugh about this.”
He paused and took a slow sip of his drink.
“But not yet.”