"I take it beekeeping is a hobby?

Most native bee species are solitary, males and females meeting to mate before going their separate ways, the males to die and the females to lay a few single eggs in nests provisioned with pollen and nectar. Some species cooperate to build and guard communal nests in which each individual goes its solitary way.

These bees are important pollinators, visiting many plants in the process of setting up each nest. It's not possible for humans to harness their work for the production of honey and wax, and there are no colonies or hives we can collect, organize, and mobilize the way we do with the social bee species to cart them across agricultural regions to pollinate different crops. Although solitary bees appear to be more resilient to the constellation of threats that has resulted in colony collapse disorder for social bees, they are at risk from habitat loss. We are at risk from their loss.

A week after replying to the email from Mr. Holmes about moving his hives indoors, I still hadn't heard back from him. Since my reply was essentially "It depends," I expected him to suggest we get together to talk about it or at least ask for clarification with more questions. It's tricky, sometimes, finding the line between helpful availability and obnoxious desperation when following up with clients. It wasn't winter yet, so I decided to give him another week before emailing him again.

I saw Miss Watson at the farmers' market that weekend. It was early, around 8am, when it's still easy to walk past the stalls without a crush of people clogging the aisles. By 9:30, it's impassable with shoppers and strollers and dogs (and sometimes toddlers) on leashes tangling up everywhere. I wondered if she'd moved yet; if so, it must have been nearby, or she'd be at some other market this morning.

I walked over to the vegetable stand where she was looking at some winter squash.

"Hi, Miss Watson," I said.

"Hi Ed — please, it's Joan. How are you? How's the bee business this time of year?" She passed three squashes over to be weighed and was waiting to pay for them. She picked the delicata, pale yellow oblongs with dark green stripes. My favorite variety, actually.

"Oh, it's a quieter time for beekeeping outdoors. But there's honey and wax processing, to sell. And repairs, still, at the co-op. And some winterizing for hives staying outside."

When she finished paying for the squash she turned back to me, and I blurted out, "Did you move?"

She looked at me with some surprise, and I continued, feeling a little embarrassed, "Mr. Holmes emailed me last week to ask about moving his bees indoors and mentioned using your room once you had left. But I haven't heard back since I replied..."

"Oh." She breathed in sharply and turned away for a minute, looking out across the tables and tents of the market, which was getting steadily more crowded and noisy. With her face turned away I could barely hear her. "I didn't know he was serious about that. He's always saying things. And you never quite know which might turn out to be hypothetical scenarios and which are actual plans."

If I knew her better — longer than six weeks, anyway — if we were friends, I would have asked her what was wrong. Instead, I just waited and said nothing.

She let out another breath and looked back at me, no sign of concern or strain on her face. Well, maybe a little strain; her eyes looked tired. "I was planning to move last week, but my plans changed, so I'll be there a while longer yet. And I guess the bees won't be joining me." Another pause as she adjusted the handles of the canvas bag on her shoulder now heavy with squash.

"Wait, that's not a problem is it? Do the bees need to be moved indoors to survive?" She was concerned now, even upset.

"No," I said quickly. "They did all right up there last winter; he said he didn't bring them in then."

"Oh good. He'd hate to lose the bees."

She looked like she was going to say more, and I imagined she added "too", like "he'd hate to lose the bees, too," but she didn't say that. I don't know what else he had to lose. I don't know why I imagined that's what she was going to say.

"Some will die, but that's normal," I said when she didn't continue. "We can insulate the hives. Most people in the city don't have the option to bring them indoors, and it's not usually cold enough here to kill the whole colony," I said. "In his message, he said it would be an experiment for his book."

"Ah. Okay. He's been sick this week. I don't know if he's thought about the bees since— That must be why he didn't get back to you."

"He does usually respond right away, so I thought maybe he didn't get my reply. I've heard the flu is bad this year; I'm sorry to hear he's sick. There's no rush to decide about the bees; either way, he should probably do something in the next couple of weeks."

"I hope I'll know what I'm doing by then," she said.

As I wandered around the market after we parted, I wondered about what she'd said. That he'd been sick. I wondered if that's all it was. I couldn't help but speculate, with the shadow of Hemdale in the background. If Uncle Ed hadn't referred me to Mr. Holmes, there was nothing in my experience with him that would have led me to imagine drugs. Maybe that wasn't even what it was, why he was there. It shouldn't be the first thing I thought of; that wasn't fair to him.

Miss Watson — Joan, I pushed myself to think, trying it out — seemed so on edge this morning. Almost fragile, although thinking back, there was only a moment or two I could pinpoint where she didn't seem as she had the other times, friendly and calm and self-assured. But working with bees, I've come to develop some confidence in my ability to read non-verbal communication. There's nothing else to go by, with them. I'm usually right about the emotional states of folks around me. Joan was unhappy about something, and Mr. Holmes having the flu didn't fit as a reason. Whatever it was, I hoped they'd both be all right.

I've always been close to Uncle Ed. He and I seemed to be the only introverts for three generations: my mom (his sister) and their parents; their brother and his family; my brother and his. Even Thomas, Uncle Ed's partner. We're also the only ones who don't have kids. I've been meeting Uncle Ed for lunch on saturdays for years. We're both comfortable sitting and eating in silence, although we usually find things to talk about. Sometimes antics of other family members (and with all those extroverts, there are plenty of antics), sometimes beekeeping. He was really supportive of me starting my business.

I saw him the saturday after I talked with Miss Watson at the NYCAS lecture.

"Hey, I met someone who knows you," I said after we'd sat down.

"Hmm?" He was reading the menu, like it wasn't something he'd looked at a thousand times before. He always did that.

"Miss Watson. Joan Watson."

He looked up at me, obviously not placing the name.

"She knows Mr. Holmes? Said she met you last week and asked me to thank you for talking to her."

"Oh." He looked at me like he wasn't sure if I had done something I wasn't supposed to do. "Yes, I remember her. Didn't recall her name when you said it. How did all this come up?"

"She lives at Mr. Holmes's house—"

His eyebrows went up in surprise. "She what? They live together?"

"No, not like that. At least, I don't think so. Didn't seem like it. The first time I went over there after he, um, got back from out of town?" He frowned at me but didn't comment. "That's what you told me. Anyway, she was living there then, and he introduced her as his tenant. Then the next week, they both were at the NYCAS lecture. She didn't know anybody else there and was talking to me at the break and asked how I started beekeeping. So then I mentioned you and she figured out she'd met you the week before."

"How did she figure that out? What did you say?"

"It was the beekeeping and the name. Not too many Eds, these days, I guess."

"Did she say what we talked about?"

"No. Just that she asked you about bees because Mr. Holmes had some. Why? What did you talk about?"

"And she came to the lecture. With him."

"Yes, they came together, that's what she said. And I saw them leave together too." I didn't get why he was stuck on this.

He'd been holding his menu up this whole time, and he folded it shut and set it down on the table. "Okay then. How was the lecture?"

"Uncle Ed!"

"Little Ed!" he said, mimicking my tone. Which, I admit, was rather whiny.

"Don't call me that. How do you know Miss Watson?"

"She told you: she saw me working the smoker on a wild hive and came over to ask about it."

"And that's it, or that's all you're going to tell me?" I knew what his answer was going to be as soon as I said that. Infuriating.

"Yes," he said. I rolled my eyes and he shrugged.

He wasn't going to budge. And then the waitress came to get our order and I dropped the subject.

Since that conversation with my uncle, I've thought about Mr. Holmes and Miss Watson and what it means to "live together." They did seem close, to me, but not as a romantic couple. Why was hard to pinpoint. I knew she hadn't been living in the house before he got back; no one lived there during those six months I visited to care for the hives. If I had to guess, I would say they'd known each other a long time, but maybe this was the first time they were living in the same place.

Uncle Ed and Thomas have been together — living together — for over twenty years now. But it took me a long time to see that the series of roommates and friends who also shared their lives were something other than the roommates and friends I've had. I had figured it out by the time Dan left, and if I hadn't, the intensity of their anger and sadness over his drug problems might have clued me in. I am grateful to have had the chance to learn when I was young that love doesn't always fit neatly into the paired-off pink and blue "happily ever after" boxes we're so strongly encouraged to seek. Considering how different people are from each other, it only makes sense to expect a lot of different ways of relating and connecting and caring.

The longest time I ever spent with Mr Holmes and Joan was that afternoon I helped with the swarm. Their interactions then demonstrated a careful dance between formality and intimacy. There were no casual touches, no physical displays of affection in my presence. At the same time, there were moments of, I don't know, engagement? When one or the other would move into the other's personal space and it appeared comfortable, normal, for that moment. They frequently looked at each other but often separately, first one, then the other, not making eye contact. They reminded me of bees funneling in and out of the hive, each working independently while simultaneously fully participating in the shared activity, aware and coordinated in movement and response with very little direct acknowledgement.

Family. They behaved like family.

I did end up emailing Mr. Holmes to suggest we insulate the hives for the winter if he wasn't moving them indoors. This time he responded within minutes and apologized for not replying earlier, although he didn't offer any explanation. He said he'd taken care of the hives but suggested I stop by if it was convenient because "Watson has something for you."

When I got to the house, Joan answered the door and let me in.

"He's with the bees if you want to head up there," she said. "I'll be out in a bit."

Up on the roof it was cold and bright. Once my eyes adjusted after the dim light of the stairwell, I did a double-take when I saw the cut on Mr. Holmes's cheek and his fading black eye. I tried to pretend I wasn't staring but he waved me off.

"Had a little altercation on a case. Occupational hazard. Like bee stings."

It had never occurred to me that a consultant to the police might be interacting so, well, directly with cases. "Does this hazard come up often? I probably only get stung about ten times a year."

"That's about how often I've been stung, yes." I wasn't sure if he was talking about actual bee stings or not, but decided to leave it at that.

I went over to look at the hives. In winter in New York City, you want to reduce condensation inside the boxes and limit air flow to stabilize temperature while still allowing some ventilation. The glass sides on these hives make this something of a challenge, but they came with covers designed for that purpose, so I imagined they'd do well enough. "Looks good," I said. "I've never seen anything like it."

He came over and adjusted something on one side of the nearer box. After fussing with it for a minute, he turned to me. "I wanted to thank you for your help with the bees while I was away, and after," he said. "Please also tell your uncle that I'd like to thank him for referring you. I am in his debt."

"Oh. Of course." He sounded so serious and sincere, as if he worried I might not believe him. "Thank you for the opportunity. It's been great to see how these hives work; I didn't have experience with this design before." I paused, unsure whether to continue. Joan came out of the door then, so I did.

"Mr. Holmes was just thanking me," I said to her. "But I've really enjoyed working here. I'm glad I got to meet you both. And my uncle will be happy to know I didn't embarrass him."

Joan was looking at Mr. Holmes then, and he said, "I asked Miss Bere to pass on my thanks to Edson."

"Really," she said. "Good."

"Did you bring the coals to Newcastle?" he asked.

She smiled and handed him a small narrow package.

"They're not for me," he said, pushing her hand away. "Give it to Miss Bere."

She handed it to me, a little heavy for its size, wrapped in plain butcher paper. I knew exactly what it was and smiled back at them.

"I'm sure you must have them stacked in every cupboard," she said. "But Sherlock cleaned out the hives and got some wax and an ancient taper mold from god knows where. So we melted it up and made the candles."

"Thanks so much — I tend to work on the honey side of things. I've never actually made candles myself." I unwrapped the package carefully to look at them. Ten inches, a lovely golden color, with a simple vine pattern from the mold. They were beautiful. "This is lovely. What a wonderful design. You don't know where the mold came from?"

"It was in the box of beekeeping paraphernalia I brought here from England," Mr. Holmes said. "Who put what in there when, I can't say."

They were doing it again, each looking at the one who was speaking to me, perfectly in sync. They weren't at all like couples who make every other person feel like a third wheel. They weren't at all like a couple. And yet they were "they," not he and she.

I don't know how to describe it. Them. Not that it really matters what I think.

"Okay, Sherlock, it's freezing up here. Let's go inside. I'll make tea."

Mr. Holmes nodded to Joan and went ahead of her to open the door.

"After you, Watson." He held the door open for me as well and then followed us down the stairs. As we reached the second floor landing he asked, "Miss Bere, do you know anything about tortoises?"