Play Amongst the Bees, And You're Going to Get Stung

She had been out here for a little over a month now, in her big fat corner of the Sussex Downs. She had since concluded that retirement was, in a word, different. It was a stark contrast to the polluted gleam of the City and the inherent cut-throat bitchiness that came with a career in the media. It was also, in another word, boring. The cottage itself was massive in a quaint, gingerbread house sort of way. There were too many rooms and a swimming pool which she would never use. The grounds were extensive and the nearest village was at least twelve miles away. There was no-one else around to launch a scathing critique of; even for her own amusement. In truth, the only thing she liked about the place was the ridiculous price tag; something that she could flash around on the rare occasion that she saw her friends. Besides, the witch in the gingerbread house always got burned.

And then there were the bloody bees. Even now, meandering among the hives as an excuse for something to do, Janine hated the little bastards. No matter how hard she tried, they would not take the hint and leave. It was like they were winning. She'd sealed them in; they'd found a new hole. She had been "careless" with the garden hose; they had formed a swarm. Smoke had just led to them snuggling down into their honeycombs, and like hell was she going to put any part of her body in there. However, poised as she currently was with a spray can of pesticide, she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Janine didn't want them there, just as they probably didn't want her, but she wasn't completely heartless.

Speaking of heartless, her ex-boss had turned up dead a few weeks earlier. It was all over the news, although it had only made the front page in the publications which he had owned. Magnussen's editors had each published a delightfully biased four page eulogy, probably in fear of his rising from the grave to use anything they said against them. Apparently he had committed suicide in that insane tribute to modern art which he had called a house; yeah, right. Magnussen had been no more likely to fall on his own sword than Janine was to open a strip joint. She hoped that someone had finally done the sensible thing and offed the man. He had never had anything completely concrete on her, just rumours and whispers, but it was reassuring to know that Magnussen was gone all the same. Janine wasn't exactly going to miss the appraising stare which had burnt into her every morning.

Huffing and feeling thoroughly annoyed at the complete lack of her own resolve, she allowed the bee killer to fall to the floor with a disheartened thump. Janine genuinely didn't know what she was going to do with this cottage. Keep it, obviously; as her biggest ever impulse buy she'd be damn stupid to give it up, but it wasn't home in the same way her small and IKEA-riddled Westminster flat was. Plus she had worked her way through so many pairs of wellies since putting down the deposit. Janine contemplated this as she subconsciously leaned against one of the hives, her naked fingers splayed over the entrance. She still had a bit of money left over from that interview with the BBC, so maybe it was time to go shopping for another house? She'd always fancied one of those weird, futuristic properties, or perhaps a – her train of thought was broken by a sharp, stabbing sensation in the region of her index finger. Apparently a bee hadn't agreed with her casual pawing of its front door. Janine yanked the stinger out and sucked insistently upon her finger while she watched the furry little arsehole die. One down; several thousand to go.

'You know, you really should be wearing protection for this sort of thing. It's much harder to conceal the evidence when anaphylaxis takes its toll.' A deep voice purred at her from behind, quiet yet commanding.

'Jesus!' Startled, Janine spun around to meet the iridescent eyes of Sherlock Holmes, her injured digit still curled loosely around her bottom lip.

'Not quite.' His mouth had the nerve to quirk into a brief smile. 'Hello, Janine.'

'Sherlock.' She breathed impatiently; attempting to dissuade her pulse from doing possibly the noisiest tap-dance in Christendom. 'How'd you find me?'

'You told me. I do believe that someone of your nature should still possess a smidgen of memory retention.' He was winding through the insect houses now, his coat flapping lazily around him as the collar straddled the impossible balance between ridiculous and cool.

'I thought you weren't paying attention – you did seem a little out of it. Anyway, I didn't exactly give you the address.'

'You turned off my morphine and then expressed an interest in the Sussex Downs; it was all I needed to know. Hardly a difficult deduction.'

'Care to tell me how?' Janine scorned, wary of the fact that he was fast closing the gap between them. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about this. 'Go on, Sherl. Impress a girl.'

His expression was akin to cold amusement. Like most of the Western World, Janine knew that Mr Holmes physically could not deny himself the pleasure of showing off. A stray thought escaped from the most curious corner of her mind, wondering if he actually got off on it. Given that their time together could basically be reduced to play-acting and chastity, Janine didn't know what he got off on. And that was a dirty thought. By the time she had clawed her way back to the present; Sherlock had sped through his usual rant over the general populace's lack of observational skills and was in full swing.

'….You once stated that you have family in Brighton; though you never said whom, this person is female and I suspect maybe an aunt. Given the amount of time you spent wittering on about them, it is clear that you would prefer to be close by. This narrowed things down to a fifty mile radius and from there it was easy. Given that we essentially spent a month living inside each other's pockets it was obvious that I just had to locate the most expensive, gauchely whimsical house within that area. Satisfied?'

'Satisfied.' She was begrudgingly impressed, but it did occur to her that she had more or less told him to piss off the last time they had spoken. And now they had merely a beehive between them. 'Why are you here, Sherl? You lied to me. Painkillers or not, I thought I made my intentions quite clear.'

'And I believe that I made quite clear that the drugs had not started working at that point. Your choice of words was decidedly ambiguous; hence you didn't know what your own plans were. In fact, I would say that you are still uncertain.' Sherlock replied smoothly, tongue curling around every syllable. The mask of his analytical gaze briefly slipped as he allowed himself a small, sharp intake of breath. If Janine had chosen to blink, she would have missed it. 'I didn't lie altogether. As a, ah, friend of mine once said, disguise is always a self-portrait of the individual.'

'Meaning what exactly?' She was finding it very distracting that his breath was now periodically tickling her nose. When had this happened?

'That I don't do sentiment, Janine. Whilst what I did to you was in fact a ruse to serve a higher purpose, it wouldn't have been successful without some depth behind the lie. I am largely incapable of love; the notion contradicts my closest values. Yet during our time together, I discovered something more…..animalistic.'

'Oh.' Oh. If he was implying what she thought he was implying, well, it was unexpected to say the least. In spite of the light drizzle now clinging to the contours of her body, the temperature seemed to have gone up by at least ten degrees. Mary had once told her that he was the master of the unexpected, but Janine had always been cynical regarding men in general. Trust Sherlock Holmes to prove her wrong. 'Well as I'm talking to the man who not only strung me along solely to get into my boss's penthouse, but also famously spent two years playing possum, you'd forgive me for not believing that last bit. You could be lying to me right now.'

'Ah, but you worked in news, you recognise that only lies have detail. I think that you saw through my deception within the first week. Your refusal to acknowledge it was really quite charming. You would realise if I wasn't telling the truth now. Plus,' he made a small gesture as he brushed up against her, so close that she could smell him. Janine could feel a beckoning half-hard-on straining against the crisp fabric of his tight suit. She forcibly supressed a shudder as his tone lowered to a growling murmur. 'wouldn't you say that we have biological evidence to suggest otherwise?'

At this point Janine's veins were adamantly working overtime, their contents racing southwards and pooling between her legs. However, the small remainder of blood in her brain gave her the sense to push him away. She had wanted this, but she also had standards. Lust couldn't rule her head.

'I won't be your sex toy, Sherlock.' Janine put it as bluntly as she could, praying that he wouldn't notice the cataclysm of hormones parading around inside her at that moment.

'It's not about that.' He was still speaking in a whisper, all soft eyes and Byronic looks as he saw straight through her.

'Then what's it about?'

'Giving you your "just once".'

Before Janine had the chance to reply, Sherlock was kissing her in a way which could only be described as sinful. He gently nibbled at her bottom lip as he drew her impossibly closer; his arms snaking around her waist as an articulate tongue teased at her mouth. As unexpected things went, this was up there with the best. This wasn't the adolescent fumble of her daydreams; Sherlock was an expert. His unholy knowledge of anatomy was now something to be revered. It was like he had been studying her, and Janine knew full well that he probably had. The man was a genius and could tell just how much she needed him more than even she could. He deepened his kiss whilst her brain and her erogenous zones clawed at each other for dominance. Janine began kissing back, her mind caving within seconds. Her fingers were hooked around his waistband and she was rolling her hips into his, thoroughly enjoying the warm, wet sensation as their bodies ground together. She wasn't submissive; just yielding. Neither of them was very vocal, but Sherlock's arousal was clear from the ever-growing bulge in his trousers and Janine felt pretty much blown away. She was lost in the moment, fantasising over how she would leave him begging until the last second in some futile plan to regain dominance. This went on for what seemed like an eternity, and Janine found herself entirely disappointed with the fact that she had to break for air.

'Okay, handsome. You win.'

'I always do.' Sherlock purred back at her, not missing a beat. He took her pause for oxygen as an excuse to kiss his way down her exposed neck, sucking at that sweet spot whilst cradling her head in the palm of his hand.

Her breath hitched in her throat in response to the overwhelmingly erotic sensation. He could play her like that bloody violin. For some reason, this made Janine laugh. The noise was hardly sexy; more like a short bark. It was a bit unfortunate, given the situation, but she gently pushed him away and used it as an intermission to press her point home.

'Let me finish; if we are going to do this, then we do it on my terms. Firstly; it's not all about you. Secondly; I decide if you are any good or not. And finally; there's no way that my knickers are going anywhere in front of these bees. I'd rather not get stung in the arse, plus I really don't like the idea of letting the buggers watch.'

'Bees happen to be a prime example of a thriving hierarchy. I like them.'

'I know you do; and that's why I'm getting rid.' She snatched up Sherlock's hand and yanked him towards the direction of the house.

'And clearly you are doing a marvellous job of that.' His voice dripped with playful sarcasm; his hands ghosted over her hips.

Janine paused on the threshold to appraise the man in front of her, taking him in. The trench-coat had mysteriously been shed during their short dash for shelter, and the dewy suit clung to him like a damp glove. Janine grinned slyly back at him. She realised just how much she wanted the manipulative, back-stabbing bastard.

'Shut up, Sherl. Bedroom's upstairs.'

So, another series is over and I've found a new favourite pairing. At the request of MissMercury101, no bees were mentally scarred in the making of this fic! ;) There is a second part in the works, but whether it appears online depends entirely on the response I get from you guys. Seriously, reviews are adored. :) MC. xx