John had only caught glimpses. A flash here, a glance there. But he had immediately recognized it. It was on his mug. And he knew precisely what it meant. John normally wasn't the curious type; not like Sherlock anyway. But this was something important. And Sherlock, being the idiot that he was, probably wasn't going to share it with John any time in the near future.

"So Sherlock," he began one day, "what's your bracelet for?"

"Well John, what are bracelets normally for?"

"I'd say they're for wearing, but I'd also point out that you are not one for normal."

Sherlock sniffed. "Good conclusion John. However, I believe that it is none of your business."

John fumed silently. None of his business. And this was from the man who had hacked into his therapist's files to see what 'pointless' methods (Sherlock's words, not his, although he couldn't disagree) she had been using on him.

Sherlock had obviously heard John thinking this, because he snickered. "That was entirely different. And besides, I had the means to do so. You, however, do not." Sherlock smirked. "Try and figure it out on your own," he called as he threw the magazine he was reading down on the couch and headed towards his bedroom. "And no cheating!"

It was so childish of Sherlock to make into a game something that was serious and potentially life threatening. Childish, and yet typical.

But what would be cheating? Calling in a hospital favour to read Sherlock's chart. Yes, that would be cheating. But calling Mycroft or Lestrade? Mycroft must know, but he would likely be evasive, as usual. Lestrade may or may not know, but if he did, would probably tell John that it was something that should be discussed between 'flatmates'. And how he used the word, John know he was referring to something more than just sharing the rent.

So neither of those would really be viable. Best solution? Waiting. Watching. Observing.

As Sherlock would say, dull, but really, the only way.

John knew Sherlock wasn't really worried about it, which meant one of two things. One: Sherlock was not worried about it because he was reckless and cared little about his 'transport'. Or two: Sherlock was not concerned about it because it wasn't something that he needed to be concerned about.

Although John couldn't fathom why Sherlock would wear a medic alert bracelet if the condition was not seriously life threatening and dangerous. After all, this was the man who cut his cast off two weeks before it was supposed to, because "it was interfering with my work" as Sherlock had informed John when he found him in the bathroom, halfway through sawing it off.

Today they were at a crime scene. It's finally starting to get warmer, and yet Sherlock refuses to wear anything but his coat and scarf. Because heaven forbid that any of his skin be touched by sunlight. John still hadn't entirely ruled out the possibility of vampires existing.

The body is in a patch of flowers beginning to bloom. John supposes the killer may have hoped the growing plants would conceal it, or perhaps the scent of the flowers would overpower the scent of the body, but neither was the case.

The bees that were hovering around flowers didn't seem too bothered by the scent of the body, but Sherlock seemed irked with their presence.

"Lestrade," he said loudly, "these little beasts are disturbing me. How am I expected to deduce anything from the body if I am constantly being assaulted by little fuzzy demons?" he complained. Lestrade seemed unimpressed with Sherlock's antics, and went back to talking to the police officer who was first on scene.

Sherlock huffed, and bent down next to the body, but only after ordering John to keep an eye out and shoo any bees away. A large pen fell out of Sherlock's pocket, and he hastily grabbed it and shoved it back in. No one else saw this except for John. Or at least, no one else acknowledged that they saw it. Perhaps they had seen it, but not known what it was.

But that didn't work for John, because he is a doctor. He was trained to see this things, to be observant, and spending so much time around Sherlock seemed to be rubbing off on him.

The pen. The clothes. The season. The bees... And he knew. He had figured it out. He was brilliant. This must be how Sherlock feels like all the time, John realized. He could see the pieces falling into place. No wonder Sherlock always shared his deductions in one giant flood of information. John felt practically ready to burst with this one small thing that he had figured out.

"Sherlock Holmes is allergic to bumblebees!" John announced proudly, in front of the entirety of Scotland Yard. He stood, waiting for Sherlock to congratulate him on being so dense that it took him this long to figure it out, but Sherlock only scowled. And before he could even finish his deductions, he skulked off without a word. John ran after him.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" He caught up to him as he was waving a cab down. "What's wrong? I got it right, didn't I?" he asked anxiously.

Sherlock whipped around to face him.

"Oh yes," he snarled, "good for you John. Oh and thank you for sharing that with half of bloody England!"

Sherlock gave up on hailing a cab and instead started walking down the sidewalk. John had to practically run to keep up with him.

"Um... sorry then. Why is it such a big deal?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and spun around. John was so unprepared for this that he almost ran into him.

"Why is it such a big deal?"Sherlock was fuming now, and John was unnerved by this. "The big deal is that you informed all of Scotland Yard, including Anderson and Donovan" he spat their names out with contempt, "that I am allergic to bees. Bees of all things!" he carried on. "Did you know that bees shouldn't even be able to fly?"

John shook his head blankly, unsure if he was supposed to say anything.

"So thank you for informing EVERYONE that the great Sherlock Holmes can be stopped by a fuzzy little insect that defies the laws of physics! It's completely and utterly humiliating!"

He stormed off, and this time, John didn't try to follow him. Instead, he just waved down a cab and headed home.

He had been sitting in his chair for many hours, hell, he wasn't even sure how many, when Sherlock finally arrived home.

He broke into one of his rants without even mentioning the events of this afternoon.

"And then Anderson had the nerve to even ask how I knew that. Ask. Me!"

And it went on, and on, and on. John had mastered the fine art of tuning out everything that was unimportant.

When he finally stopped for breath, John asked him "So, are we fine about this afternoon?"

"What? Oh, that," he waved his hands dismissively. "Of course. You did figure it out after all, and that lot isn't very bright, so who knows how many actually picked up on that."

"Although," he added, after a moment of John just silently nodding, "they may have known already. There may have been an incident two years ago..." he trailed off. John knew that look. It was a lost in thought look.

"Sherlock?"

"Oh, right. Yes, there may have been an incident where I was stung at a crime scene. I can't recall." He frowned. "I may have deleted it." He sat back and closed his eyes, in a pose John recognized as a common mind palace visit.

He waited until Sherlock opened his eyes again and told him.

"Yes. It was in the deleted room. I need to clean it out more often. But yes. Two years ago, at a crime scene. Anderson was the one who figured it out and saved me." He grumbled. "Now that was humiliating."