Work Text:
Three months later, John sat alone in the Baker Street flat, surrounded by fading flowers, and thought of Hay-on-Wye.
It had felt like a beginning, like a golden summer morning abuzz with activity and sweetness. But it was nearly the end. Next would come Moriarty, letters sealed with scarlet wax, a phone call, a fall. Sherlock would never read his beekeeping books, never study their delicate engravings and hand-colored plates.
John swallowed hard, running a trembling finger along the spine of the volume he held. He raised his eyes as the swarm descended, filling his ears with only their thrum.
