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Watson does not understand bees. He appreciates them, certainly; they are pleasant little creatures, their busy humming lending a delicate music to the air in summertime, and their honey gracing the breakfast table so he can stir a delicious spoonful into his tea during cold season. Still, the deeper intricacies of bee-life elude him.
At least Holmes understands them, and Watson understands Holmes, so it balances out that way instead.
He dutifully stands aside and watches his tall friend bend low over the little wooden hive, inspecting the interior. A wide-brimmed hat and its diaphanous netting hide his face, but Watson fancies he can imagine the blissful smile brightening his features.
"Watson." Holmes beckons him over. "Come, look here."
Watson drops the veil of his own hat down to cover his face and approaches the hive. It is the first time he has ever done so - they have had the bees for a while, and Holmes has invited him out to see them in the garden a number of times, but the doctor has always been content to simply watch his dear friend work. A little hesitant, he crosses the grass slowly and peers inside the thrumming white box. The interior buzzes and writhes with the many tiny bodies of thousands of bees, an apian orchestra flooding his ears with their song. A strange mixture of fear and fascination fills him. It's quite thrilling to watch.
"Do you see her?" Holmes is right next to him, speaking as closely into his ear as he can. He points inside the hive with a hand that still manages to be elegant in spite of the thick gloves he's wearing.
"What am I looking at?" Watson asks. Everything appears the same to him, though doubtless Holmes can see each and every individual aspect of the setting, as is his wont.
Holmes puts his other hand on his shoulder and pushes him to bend forward, so they are both leaning over the hive. "The queen, Watson," he whispers gleefully. "Isn't she beautiful?"
Watson stares inside the hive for a long moment, and slowly his eyes begin to make sense of what he's seeing, picking out details he couldn't quite recognise before. There is indeed a singular bee much larger than the rest, nearly double the size. She has a delicate furred head and a long fat body with glossy brown and black stripes. A ring of smaller bees surrounds her, the queen's loyal subjects. They dance with her, shifting their antennae as they speak a language Watson cannot comprehend. "However did you spot her?" he asks, entranced.
"I have learned her shape," Holmes says, sotto voce. He has already calmed the bees with the smoker which now sits on the grass by his feet, but he is keeping his voice low and his movements gentle just in case they become agitated. Watson instinctively does the same. "Other keepers may apply a dot of coloured paint to her back, so as to pick her out more easily, but I find that a most unbecoming way to treat royalty in this case."
"Indeed." Watson smiles under his veiled hat.
"Now," says Holmes, "you are new to this, Watson, so we must introduce you accordingly. It would not do to enter her majesty's realm as a stranger."
"What would you have me do, Holmes?" Watson straightens up. "I am at your service."
Holmes chuckles. "That you are, my good Watson. As reliable and stalwart as ever. Today we aim to remove some of the comb from this hive and card away the honey, which you will agree is something of an intrusion, so we must be delicate towards our gracious hosts. Our relationship is built on hard-won trust, you see, and such trust must be maintained lest her majesty lead her subjects elsewhere."
He's enjoying this, Watson can tell. There's something of a theatrical air to the proceedings, which is only emphasised when Holmes clears his throat and begins to speak in a low, melodious tone, as if delivering a solemn monologue.
"My friends," he proclaims, "allow me to present to you my dearest companion, the eminent John Watson."
"Holmes." It feels ridiculous to blush at being introduced to a hive full of bees, and yet he is. "Really, now."
His friend ignores him. "A man of singular character and endless patience," he continues. "I have trusted him with my life on many occasions, my voice on several more, and my reputation each time he puts pen to paper to immortalise me for the masses. If you welcome him into your realm, your majesty, as you have done for me, I offer you my every assurance that he will treat you with the utmost respect for your station."
"Stop that, you ridiculous man," says Watson, nudging him with his elbow. He is trying very hard to remain straight-faced.
Holmes stands upright for a moment and looks at him, close enough that Watson can see the glimmer of delight in his silver-grey eyes, even through the netting. "What?" he asks innocently. "Do you not consider yourself worthy of such an introduction?"
"I...you..." Watson takes a moment to wrangle his tongue. "You need not go to such lengths. They are bees, Holmes."
"They are my dear friends, as are you." Holmes smiles, his lips pressed together in amusement. "It is not my intention to embarrass you, Watson; I would simply like it very much if you all got along with each other."
Oh, how can he deny him that? Watson rolls his eyes fondly. "Very well. I believe we can now consider ourselves acquainted. Put me where you need me."
Holmes nods, satisfied. "Your gloves are secure, I take it?"
"They are."
"Then allow me." Holmes moves behind him, and he is such a gangling creature that his arms are able to fully encompass Watson's body and proceed to guide his hands into the hive. They move as one, carefully lifting a frame of honeycomb out of the box. The bees are curious, crawling over Watson's gloves and zipping around his head, but they do him no harm and he makes sure to do none in return.
There's something wonderfully methodical about the whole process. He watches Holmes scrape the honey from the comb with smooth, practised motions, letting thick golden globules fall into the prepared jars. When he attempts it himself, Holmes directs him, delivering careful instructions and gentle praise, never patronising. It feels like a privilege to be included in the work, as it does with any work at Holmes's side. His friend is dedicated to the health and happiness of these tiny creatures; no longer actively striving to have justice be done for those with nowhere else to turn, these days he works to ensure these bees are cared for in a world which could easily harm them.
Later, when the hive is closed up again and they have divested themselves of protective clothing, they picnic on the grass. There is fresh bread Watson purchased from the village bakery that morning, cheese, the earliest strawberries from the garden, and some of the new honey. Watson sits on the blanket from the back of the settee with his legs out in front of him and tilts his face up to the sun. It is a splendid day.
"Holmes?"
"Watson." His friend is lying on his back with his cap over his eyes, dozing in the sunshine like a cat, his jacket folded into a pillow beneath his head.
"I want to thank you."
Holmes smiles sleepily. "What for, dear boy?"
Watson shrugs one shoulder. "For including me today. I would have been happy to simply observe. Doing this with you, having you introduce me to the bees you have worked with for so long..." He trails off, thinking over his next words as he pops a small, sweet strawberry into his mouth. "I do not share the same degree of fascination with it, you understand, but I am grateful for the opportunity to partake in what you enjoy. When something cheers you, my dear, there is nothing in the world to which I am luckier to bear witness."
Holmes lifts his cap from his face and rolls onto his side. “You are very welcome, Watson. Though I fear I must confess something to you.”
Watson swallows another strawberry and frowns at him. “Go on.”
"The bees already knew of your existence, and your relationship to me." He slides one hand across the picnic blanket until he reaches the doctor's fingers. He squeezes them tight. "It is customary, of course, to tell them of significant things in one's life. I informed them as soon as I could."
"When was this?" Watson asks, tracing his thumb over the back of Holmes’s hand.
"When they first arrived. It seemed an exceedingly important task at the time." His friend is smiling again, warm and peaceful, his eyes crinkling at the corners. There is a wisp of hair curling over his forehead, shot through with silver. "The announcement today was merely a formality."
The doctor shakes his head. "For the sake of her majesty?"
"Of course," Holmes replies. He lifts their joined hands to kiss Watson's knuckles. "We must be proper about such things, my dear. It would not do to offend royalty."
"Unless they have earned it."
Holmes thinks for a second. "Quite so, doctor. Well said." He sits up and reaches into the picnic basket for another piece of bread. This he dips into the open jar of honey before taking a large bite, closing his eyes as he chews. "Mmm. Delightful. The addition of a steady surgeon's hand in the harvesting has added a certain something, I believe."
Watson snorts with laughter. "Be reasonable, Holmes. There is no scientific evidence that the flavour of honey may change based on who handles it."
"Ah, you are right, of course, my good doctor." Having finished the bread, Holmes licks a few drops of honey from his sticky fingers. "This will require further experimentation. You must come out here with me again."
Basking in the afternoon sun, listening to the hum of the bees, and watching his dearest friend eat of his own accord for once in his life, Watson is inclined to agree.