Title: A Bee for Sherlock
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Rating: Teen
Length: 900
Content Notes/Warnings: Horror; dark fic; Major Character Deaths; Purposefully Vague Creepiness; this is not your Hobbit's Retirementlock; bees.
Summary: "A Rose for Emily" by William Faulkner retold with Holmes as Emily.
Author's Note: for my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
1_million_words bingo square: The Corpse.
When Mister Sherlock Holmes died, the entire town went to his funeral. The men through a sort of respectful admiration for the public figure he had once been and the women mostly out of curiosity. He’d had no dealings the townspeople save an old housekeeper in at least ten years.
His was a small cottage on the southern slope of the downs sheltered as much for the bee-keeper as the bees kept. It commanded a great view of the Channel or so said those who had frequented the place before Mister Sherlock took up residence there. It was a quiet, secluded house in a quiet, secluded part of the world. Mister Sherlock might have been buried in Westminster, some said, for all the service he done for Queen and Country, but, no, in the end, he was laid to rest in our quiet cemetery, alongside retired schoolmasters and vicars’ wives and mothers’ babies.
Alive, Mister Sherlock had been a legend. And like most legends he was viewed at a distance, with awe, with fear, and with speculation run amok. He extended no invitations of a social nature and he accepted none. He did not answer the door, front or rear, so most tradespersons were obliged to have their dealings with the housekeeper. The few that crossed the threshold said it was a quiet house, except for the buzzing of the bees.
He had but one visitor. We all knew Doctor Watson from his tales in The Strand, of course. He was a kind man, quick to smile and lend a hand in matters small and large. He listened, he chatted, he inquired as to our health and guffawed at our little town jokes. His were only the occasional weekend visits, but it wasn’t long before he knew everyone.
One weekend, he and Mister Sherlock stopped by the chemist’s. And in the flap of a pair of gossamer wings, news had circled the town that Mister Sherlock had gone and bought himself some arsenic. The boldest of us asked Doctor Watson about it, and he just laughed and said it was for the bees when they got waspish.
It was a dark morning when Doctor Watson arrived with a large suitcase and a trunk. We all agreed he’d come to stay, and there was unanimous delight at this addition to our paltry numbers. We had little time to gossip, however, because that was the day of the big storm. By afternoon, the sky was thick with black and foreboding clouds. They let loose torrents of rain, cracks of dagger-sharp lightning, and winds that howled like a mythical beast dying on a hero’s sword.
Mister Sherlock’s cottage was boarded up, but this was not out of the ordinary—every home and business in town had taken such precautions. But his stayed shut like a tomb long after the rest of us were nigh finished sweeping up debris and hauling away fallen limbs.
We were just about to send a brave soul to his door when the boards on the windows began to come down. It was mostly the housekeeper’s work, Mister Sherlock himself was rarely seen. And it was only the rear windows that were revealed. The front and sides remained in their storm-ready state.
A few more days passed, and the buzzing resumed. The bees, it seemed, had weathered the storm just fine.
But we never saw Doctor Watson again.
Summers and winters passed, and Mister Sherlock and his bees kept themselves to themselves. The housekeeper’s grey hair turned white, and she went from being a half-blind, half-deaf, half-dumb creature to a hunched, slow-moving idiot of the first degree who did her shopping by way of grunts of varying intonations and index-finger pointing.
She never said a word, not even that last morning when the milkman on his rounds saw her leave out the front door, with the door itself wide open, never to return.
And it just goes to show how much of a legend Mister Sherlock was that the door stayed open without a soul darkening the threshold for three whole days.
But then there was a smell.
So we formed a committee and marched ourselves down to the little cottage on the southern slope and knocked on an open door.
“Mister Sherlock?” they called.
The light from the open door and the few uncovered windows was not enough. One of us lit a candle and led the way.
The sitting room was furnished in the style of our grandfathers. Before a cold fireplace, there were two handsome armchairs.
And in the armchairs were the men themselves.
Mister Sherlock was dressed in a fine suit. At first glance, he seemed to be only sleeping, but even candlelight could not warm his grey pallor, and upon closer inspection, the body in the chair resembled nothing so much as a plant just beginning to take root in the soil around it.
Doctor Watson looked as if he’d just sat down from a brisk walk and was about to see to his pipe and a long yarn before supper.
And pinned to each man’s lapel, in place of a buttonhole flower, was one single, solitary bee.
We stood, silent and rooted, between the two of them as the buzzing outside grew louder and louder until it became a cacophonous roar.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Rating: Teen
Length: 900
Content Notes/Warnings: Horror; dark fic; Major Character Deaths; Purposefully Vague Creepiness; this is not your Hobbit's Retirementlock; bees.
Summary: "A Rose for Emily" by William Faulkner retold with Holmes as Emily.
Author's Note: for my
1_million_words bingo square: The Corpse.When Mister Sherlock Holmes died, the entire town went to his funeral. The men through a sort of respectful admiration for the public figure he had once been and the women mostly out of curiosity. He’d had no dealings the townspeople save an old housekeeper in at least ten years.
His was a small cottage on the southern slope of the downs sheltered as much for the bee-keeper as the bees kept. It commanded a great view of the Channel or so said those who had frequented the place before Mister Sherlock took up residence there. It was a quiet, secluded house in a quiet, secluded part of the world. Mister Sherlock might have been buried in Westminster, some said, for all the service he done for Queen and Country, but, no, in the end, he was laid to rest in our quiet cemetery, alongside retired schoolmasters and vicars’ wives and mothers’ babies.
Alive, Mister Sherlock had been a legend. And like most legends he was viewed at a distance, with awe, with fear, and with speculation run amok. He extended no invitations of a social nature and he accepted none. He did not answer the door, front or rear, so most tradespersons were obliged to have their dealings with the housekeeper. The few that crossed the threshold said it was a quiet house, except for the buzzing of the bees.
He had but one visitor. We all knew Doctor Watson from his tales in The Strand, of course. He was a kind man, quick to smile and lend a hand in matters small and large. He listened, he chatted, he inquired as to our health and guffawed at our little town jokes. His were only the occasional weekend visits, but it wasn’t long before he knew everyone.
One weekend, he and Mister Sherlock stopped by the chemist’s. And in the flap of a pair of gossamer wings, news had circled the town that Mister Sherlock had gone and bought himself some arsenic. The boldest of us asked Doctor Watson about it, and he just laughed and said it was for the bees when they got waspish.
It was a dark morning when Doctor Watson arrived with a large suitcase and a trunk. We all agreed he’d come to stay, and there was unanimous delight at this addition to our paltry numbers. We had little time to gossip, however, because that was the day of the big storm. By afternoon, the sky was thick with black and foreboding clouds. They let loose torrents of rain, cracks of dagger-sharp lightning, and winds that howled like a mythical beast dying on a hero’s sword.
Mister Sherlock’s cottage was boarded up, but this was not out of the ordinary—every home and business in town had taken such precautions. But his stayed shut like a tomb long after the rest of us were nigh finished sweeping up debris and hauling away fallen limbs.
We were just about to send a brave soul to his door when the boards on the windows began to come down. It was mostly the housekeeper’s work, Mister Sherlock himself was rarely seen. And it was only the rear windows that were revealed. The front and sides remained in their storm-ready state.
A few more days passed, and the buzzing resumed. The bees, it seemed, had weathered the storm just fine.
But we never saw Doctor Watson again.
Summers and winters passed, and Mister Sherlock and his bees kept themselves to themselves. The housekeeper’s grey hair turned white, and she went from being a half-blind, half-deaf, half-dumb creature to a hunched, slow-moving idiot of the first degree who did her shopping by way of grunts of varying intonations and index-finger pointing.
She never said a word, not even that last morning when the milkman on his rounds saw her leave out the front door, with the door itself wide open, never to return.
And it just goes to show how much of a legend Mister Sherlock was that the door stayed open without a soul darkening the threshold for three whole days.
But then there was a smell.
So we formed a committee and marched ourselves down to the little cottage on the southern slope and knocked on an open door.
“Mister Sherlock?” they called.
The light from the open door and the few uncovered windows was not enough. One of us lit a candle and led the way.
The sitting room was furnished in the style of our grandfathers. Before a cold fireplace, there were two handsome armchairs.
And in the armchairs were the men themselves.
Mister Sherlock was dressed in a fine suit. At first glance, he seemed to be only sleeping, but even candlelight could not warm his grey pallor, and upon closer inspection, the body in the chair resembled nothing so much as a plant just beginning to take root in the soil around it.
Doctor Watson looked as if he’d just sat down from a brisk walk and was about to see to his pipe and a long yarn before supper.
And pinned to each man’s lapel, in place of a buttonhole flower, was one single, solitary bee.
We stood, silent and rooted, between the two of them as the buzzing outside grew louder and louder until it became a cacophonous roar.
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chasethestars
chasethestars
Comments
The book meme made me start thinking about all the books that influenced me early on and Faulkner and the Southern gothic genre is a huge part of that.
That is creepily atmospheric - and the fact we don't really know what's happened just adds to the revulsion and horror. Also, the fact the story is in first person plural is oddly unsettling.
And like most legends he was viewed at a distance... I think that detachment allows the reader to cope with the horror. In this fic, Holmes and Watson are strangers to us.
Thank you. I don't know if you know A Rose for Emily, but creepily atmospheric is definitely the name of the game. And there's an interesting switch--just once--from we to they when they break down the door to her upstairs room and discover her secret.
And you're right. It is a shift. As a fanfic writer we're always inside, no? Never outside looking in.
I looked up Victorian embalming and was happy to learn they used arsenic. So Holmes definitely embalmed Watson whether he killed him or not is left purposefully unstated. But he definitely lived with the corpse for years, what he did with it exactly is also left unstated.
Anyway, thanks for reading. My attempt at Southern Gothic.
It's reminding me of _Chalice_ by Robin McKinley (which also has a bit of creepy in a good way and some rather lively bees).
I don't know that book, but I may look it up at the library.