FIC: Apiphobia

[wibblylever]

Title: Apiphobia
Author: moony
Rating: PG
Characters: John/Sherlock
Summary: John Watson fears nothing. Er, almost nothing.
A/N: From this prompt at the kinkmeme: I think I have one of the most irrational fears in the world. And it seems to be a theme around here where we prompt to have our boys share these fears. So I was thinking: what if a bunch of us posted little fills of one of them sharing an irrational fear of ours? I filled it there anonymously, this is me de-anoning.
Warnings: Bzzzzzzz.



--

John is half-asleep on the sofa when he first hears it.

His eyes snap open and he sits up, knocking his book to the floor. The buzzing is louder now that he's focused on it. It's coming from somewhere near the windows. John stares hard at the left one for a moment until a flicker of movement behind the curtain of the window on the right catches his attention. A shadow, small and round, drifting around lazily on the other side of the fabric. And all the while, buzzing.

John vaults off the sofa and creeps slowly across the sitting room, reaches for the curtain and carefully lifts it aside.

By the time Sherlock comes home, John has been sealed off inside his own bedroom for three hours. He's bursting for the toilet (though he's been eyeing the empty mug by his bed for a while), but he doesn't dare open that door. The bath is downstairs and through the kitchen and there's no way he's risking it. He stays put, sitting on his bed, scratching absently at his arms.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is just outside the door. "Are you in?"

"Yeah." John winces. His voice sounds weak and rough. "Just. Having a sleep, is all."

Sherlock shuffles his feet. John doesn't have to see him to know that Sherlock is A) frowning at the door and B) already deducing his way through John's lie. "Something frightened you," says Sherlock.

John falls back on the bed and stuffs a pillow over his face. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"It's four in the afternoon." Sherlock tries the doorknob and makes a disgusted noise. "You're hiding in your bedroom, the door is locked and you sound as though you've needed a wee for at least the last hour. Why won't you come out?"

"I don't want to," says John. "I'm quite all right in here. I've got a mug and everything."

Sherlock sighs. "John-"

"Go away, Sherlock." John doesn't mean to growl, but that's what comes out. "I'm not in the mood. Just leave me alone."

"Fine." Sherlock sounds miffed, but then there are footsteps going back down the stair and John lets out a sigh of relief. He knows he can't stay in his bedroom forever, but he'll stay in for as long as he can.

He can out-live the thing downstairs. Can't he?

--

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock returns. "John?" He taps on the bedroom door. "You can come out, now."

"No," says John. He's about to make use of the mug. Won't be the worst place, really. "No thanks."

"I've eliminated the threat," says Sherlock. "The enemy has been captured."

John stills. "...you, ah." He clears his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but there are the unmistakable sounds of a lock being picked. The door swings open and Sherlock steps in, pocketing his lockpick and holding a jar in his hand. John's eyes widen when he sees what's in the jar.

"Jesus," he says, stepping back and scratching the back of his neck, his arms. "It's bigger than it looked before."

Sherlock smiles. "You are Apiphobic," he says. "You're afraid of bees."

John snorts. "And that's why you're the genius," he mutters. "So, what of it? I can't help it."

"Are you allergic?" asks Sherlock as he sits on the edge of John's bed. He puts the bee-in-a-jar on the nightstand. John edges away from it and shakes his head.

"No," he says. "Not allergic. I've never even been stung. I just...don't like them." John shivers suddenly, violently. "The sound they make, their size..."

Sherlock looks like it's Christmas, his birthday and Anderson's funeral all at the same time. "Fascinating. You're a soldier, you've faced down the worst criminals London and Afghanistan have to offer, and you have an irrational fear of a small, flying insect."

"Rub it in, why don't you?" John looks down at his feet. "Just- don't tell anyone. Harry still takes the piss whenever she can. I used to run from bees when I was small - I once ran right into a motorway, because being hit by a car sounded better than being anywhere near a bee."

"Hm." Sherlock rises, straightens his jacket. "All right. We'll leave it be-" He pauses, smirking. John thinks about kicking him. "-for now. We've got time, anyway."

John frowns. "Time for what?"

"When I retire," says Sherlock, "I plan to move to Sussex and raise bees. So we've got to break you of this fear before then."

"Before- Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

John looks over at the bee-in-a-jar. He can hear the buzzing still as the thing tries to find a way out, and it still sends a cold feeling of dread all down his back. The urge to leave the room is nearly overpowering. And yet...

Cottage in Sussex, lazy summer afternoon, Sherlock in beekeeping gear while John reads in the garden. They're old and grey and tired, and content.

He has to admit it sounds rather lovely. Even with the bees.

"Nothing. Just- ring for takeaway, would you? Thai, if that's all right with you."

Sherlock smiles. "Anything else?"

John waves him off and makes a mental note to ring his therapist in the morning.

-end-