Chapter 1: To the Hum of Bees

oOo ( the Garden ) oOo

It's a calm scene. Tranquil. I'm led into the back courtyard, a lovely garden, with a table set up in the grass with a tea set and some simple refreshments. The flowers are in full bloom all around; but what is even more enveloping than the mass shrubbery all around is the hum of bees. Not overwhelming, but surrounding. I look around and see several wooden hives set up in a corner, and some of the insects are drifting from flower to flower. They don't near the table. There must be some sort of spray set up.

Lieutenant Doctor John Watson comes out in the backyard moments after I have made these observations. Silver-haired, with just the shadows of scruff along his lower face; blue eyes, and line along his mouth that might have once been for laughing, but now seem more for grimacing. He offers me a polite nod, and a brief smile that soon fades as he moves over to the table. He gestures for me to sit, and I do, after ensuring I wouldn't be sitting on any bees.

"Don't worry about the bees," says Mr. Watson. "They won't venture over here."

"Are they yours?" I ask him, settling myself down and accepting the cup of steaming tea Mr. Watson offers me. He shakes his head in reply. "No, no, no… Certainly not mine. The bees… that's Sherlock's hobby."

"Sherlock Holmes?"

A nod. "Yes. Yes, that's the one." Mr. Watson pours himself his own tea and holds the cup in both hands, calloused hands; but he does not move to sip it. To this observing eye it almost appears almost as if he's trying to absorb the warmth into his own pale body, which I would dare say looks as if it will forever be locked in an eternal shiver.

Please note that these are still the rough and personal notes of the writing journalist, and shall for sure be edited later.

"Is Mr. Holmes home?" I ask him next, looking around as if the well-known former consultant might slink out of the shadows as if on cue. "Perhaps he would like to join us…?"

"No," is the rushed reply. Mr. Watson shakes his head rapidly at that, setting his cup down. "I mean yes, Sherlock is home, but… No. I don't think he'll be joining us today." It's obvious he doesn't mean to be rude, but the point is made. I decide to venture away from the topic of Mr. Holmes for now. "Mr. Watson," I say. "You know why I'm here yes?"

"Yes." Another nod. Mr. Watson's speech is filled with small fidgets such as a nod, a scratching of his nose, a drumming of his fingers along the arm of his wheelchair, or even a pause where he looks out into the distance. "You're, um…" He sniffs, and makes a finger gesture as he attempts to remember exactly. "…you're a journalist. Looking for a story."

"You're story," I correct him. "You and a select other few from all different countries have been chosen to tell your stories to the world. For what purpose? To learn from. Gain hope from. Heal from. Grasp courage from. Anything you can get from a true story of heroism we wish to get from these…"

At that Mr. Watson holds up a hand, a breath of a chuckle passing his lips; cynical. "No, no, um… what you've asked me to tell you about, that's um…" He runs his fingers over his lips. "…it's not a story of heroism, you see. We need to be clear on that, it's not… it's not an adventure story. It's not a thriller on the telly, its um, its…"

"I understand," I say a bit quickly; I'm afraid I may have cut Mr. Watson off, but I do not wish to upset him. "I hope I did not offend you."

Mr. Watson shakes his head. "You didn't, you… you didn't. I'm just…" One of those second long, nervous chuckles comes again, and Mr. Watson sips his tea. "…well I suppose I'm just rambling. We should begin, shouldn't we?" He clears his throat.

I nod, and turn over my notepad for a fresh page. Blank and ready for filling. While I'm at it, I set my pen aside, and fish another new one out of my breast jacket pocket. "Whenever you are ready, Mr. Watson."

"John," Mr. Watson replies, in almost a murmur. "Call me John."

"John." I accept the offer. "Whenever you are ready. Go as slow as you need – time is all we seem to have now in the world, isn't it?"

"Yes," he whispers in response. "Yes it is."

There is a few seconds pause, filled with nothing but those drumming, calloused fingers, and the hum of bees all around.

"So," Mr. Watson exhales lightly after a few minutes, as he picks up a biscuit from a nearby tray. The pause seems to have given him a chance to regain his composure and rejuvenate his determination to speak. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"Wherever you'd like," I reassure him. "Wherever you think you're story truly starts."

He finds something amusing in that, for a half-smile twitches to his features and he chuckles a bit. "Well that would be the moment I first met Sherlock," he says. "And that's a much longer story."

"Perhaps one I would be grateful to hear one day," I invite with my own offered smile.

"Yes," Mr. Watson answers. "But that's not the one you're after, now is it? No, no… let's get on with it, shall we?" He takes yet another sip of his tea, and offers to refill my cup. I kindly decline, and he nods. "Where does the story begin…. Well. I suppose it begins in New York."

"Yes. You were in the States when… when they first appeared, correct?"

"That is correct." He scratches the back of his neck. "All of us. The whole… team. Mycroft had to do quite a job on Sherlock to get him to go but he did go. That's what matters. We all did."

"Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's…"

"Brother." Mr. Watson nods his head. "He himself didn't go; but um, the rest of us did. Sherlock, myself – the forensic team that was used to working with Sherlock, of course. Molly Hooper. Greg LeStrade…"

I label all the names on a different paper, and remind myself to try and find the names of those on the forensic team.

"…all packed up and heading overseas to America. It was a new experience… interesting."

"Were you fond of it? The States?"

He considers that question. "Well if you leave out Sherlock's rather critical remarks on everything, why, I suppose so," he jokes. I cannot deny it takes me by surprise, the joke; it seems to take Mr. Watson off guard too, for he pauses for a moment. To me, it just shows how he was getting lost in the past, the memories, of times before… before everything, really.

Soon enough, he continues. "It was Sunday when we landed in New York itself. Caught the cabs sent for us, to takes us into the city and to the hotel sent for us. The real investigating would come in the morning, so we had the night to settle in. Prepare."

"How long was it until things began to go amiss for you?" I ask, a bit slowly this time.

Mr. Watson, however, seems completely able to answer any question, now, as he refills his tea and leans back in his seat, clasping his hands before him. "Well. It… it actually wasn't when they first appeared. Or when we first heard the news. It was shocking, of course. Rocking. Unfathomable, what was happening; course, that's what it was like for the whole world." Mr. Watson's gaze flickers to meet my eyes directly. "You're asking… when it all started to really fall apart, aren't you?"

I am unsure of how to answer this question; however, I do not get the chance to answer at all, because soon Mr. Watson continues. "That's alright. I know. We all did."

Mr. Watson inhales slowly, and exhales even slower.

"It's when we lost Molly."

There is another pause, and this one is heavier; as if a gate had been opened and can never be shut until all it held behind its locked doors has been spilled. I let Mr. Watson collect his thoughts, and my gaze wanders around the garden. To the decent house nearby, with the large Victorian windows at the very top. That's when I see him for the first time, surrounded by blooming flowers, the silent John Watson, and the hum of bees.

He's standing with his back to one of the smaller windows, with a headful of unruly ebony hair, wrapped in a dark navy robe (these are all observations from ground level, through the bright reflection of the sun on the window). I do not see his face, but I know who he is by the physical features I can see, his tall height, and the violin in his arms.

Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: *first Sherlock fanfiction and quietly trying not to panic*

so... weird format? don't worry, it will be switching between this format (the notes of the journalist) and a normal 3rd person POV, with the latter being more often. a zombie Sherlock story! yay! i am only on season 2 of the fandom so please be patient, i am certainly going to make mistakes and such but this is fanfiction and an au so no flames. reviews are appreciated!