About the Author: Greg Maughan lives and works in the North East of England. He writes, and over the last few years has had a number of stories, articles and various other bits & bobs published in myriad places. His interests and areas of focus include New Wave Sci-Fi, Pulp & Genre Fiction, Experimental Writing, Archive & Genre Film & Television and Weird Stuff. A select bibliography and links to where work can be read can be found at noonereadthis.wordpress.com.
As the years passed by, my adventures with the great Sherlock Holmes inevitably became less frequent. Following his ostensible retirement, Holmes left Baker Street, the seat of his greatest adventures, and retreated to the countryside. My continuing responsibilities at the practice kept me in London and my responsibilities to my family kept me occupied such that it was a rare occasion indeed to be able to venture out into the country and see my former companion. Though I doubt he would appreciate being described as such.
Holmes was not one for bonhomie. Though I would be happy to pass the hours with a brandy in my hand reminiscing in front of an open fire, he would inevitably bore of this and wish to share his current thoughts. Though these largely pertained to bees, it was still a wonder to see that great mind at work.
“You see, Watson, the ebb and flow of the hive can be predicted in just the same way as human behavior, if only we observe instead of merely look.”
His hair was grey with the years and his face a map of lines and wrinkles, much as mine was now I dare say. But when he looked upon his hive Holmes’s eyes would light up, still displaying the sharpness of thought that had propelled him through so many mysteries over the years.
“I just don’t see it, I’m afraid.” I shrugged, peering at the Observation Hive. “For the life of me, I’ve never been able to fathom how you could go from the lights of the city to this.”