covered in bees

It's our last day here, and it's doing what it's been doing since the night I committed gross acts of bagpipery.  I feel it's some sort of judgement on me. Deb insists it's her grandfather weeping for joy at seeing (hearing) his son come home.

Mycroft is sulking in his room with Ovid, Homer, and Aeschylus (all in Greek, of course). Sherlock stuck it out with him for a while (he's learning the Greek alphabet; not sure whether to be pleased or concerned at the prospect of them sharing a common language I haven't a hope of understanding), but as ever there's only so long he can sit still.

We've been to see the bees.


I'm not phobic, all right? For the record, I don't think being a bit cautious around tiny buzzing flying things that can get caught in your hair and sting you anywhere they like is irrational.

We did not get stung. I suppose bees don't like the rain anymore than I do. We did get wet. I brought an umbrella and made Sherlock wear his raincoat, but there was so much waist-high (head-high in Sherlock's case) grass to wade through that it didn't matter much. By the time we got to the hives, I was just about covered in tiny furry grass seeds and soaked straight through the skin.

Sherlock, with the coat, was a bit better off, or I wouldn't have let us stay so long. Like Mycroft and his stars, he would've stayed longer if I let him. They weren't out and about much in the rain, but between showers he watched them venture out. They were big fat ones, and they made the flowers dip under their weight and spill rainwater off their petals.

He ran after them, followed from flower to flower, and looked not unlike a bee himself with the bright yellow coat and dark hair. (Mrs Hudson, don't suppose you'd care to veto the roof bees too? Lestrade? It's got to be against the law, right? I can just tell him no, but I feel bad doing it for no reason other than my perfectly rational dislike of the little bastards.)

We're back now. I've got tea and possibly the sniffles (to use the technical term). Sherlock has dry clothes and an irrepressible urge to jump on the bed.

"JOHN THE BAGPIPES YOU SAID I COULD PICK." Bounce, bounce.

"You saw Mrs Hudson's comment. No bagpipes."

"She wasn't signed in or anything, you could've wrote that yourself."

"But I didn't. Do you want to phone her and ask?"

"No, I want bagpipes. BAG. PIPES."

"Nope. Try again. I still recommend the clarinet."

"That's boring!"

"The violin's supposed to be really difficult." I say, temptingly.

"Harder than piano?" Mycroft's picked piano. How we're getting one in the flat I've no idea, but his mum says she'll work it out.

"Some people say so."

"...Maybe."

Progress.