She awoke to the sound of icy rain pelting the windows of her bedroom. Joan squinted at the clock. 4:27 a.m. Good. She didn't have to leave this sanctuary for hours yet. She pulled the soft plush blankets closer. Below her she found her spot once more on his warm hairy chest. His arms adjusted themselves around her bare back and waist and secured her to the spot. She heard his heartbeat speed up slightly as she made herself comfortable on top of him.

"You okay?" Sherlock asked drowsily.

"Mm hmm," she replied and snuggled in closer to him. She was surprised how comfortable this felt, how natural it was. "You?" she asked him.

"Very much so," came his whispered answer. His hand came out from beneath the covers and came to rest gently on the back of her head. His bare legs shifted underneath to allow her to get closer.

She smiled into his chest as warmth enveloped her. Just twelve hours ago they had been neck deep in work, the day had been like one of many lately.

"Watson, take off your boots." His eyes never left the photos spread out on the precinct's conference room table.

She stood at the head of the table scouring the same material. "Why?" she asked as she proceeded to remove her boots.

"You are 5' 3" in bare feet are you not?" Sherlock didn't wait for an answer. "Our victim was approximately my height. Look at this." He pulled out a photo of the bruise marks left on the neck and jawline of the deceased. "If you were going to strangle me, how would you go about it?" He flexed his eyebrows at her. "I'm quite sure the impulse has struck you on occasion."

She stared at him. "Many occasions..." She took a breath, "Well, I would wait until you were seated and come at you from behind. But our victim was standing in a corridor, very intoxicated but we believe standing ... so ...hmm ..." Joan dropped the photo she had in her hand and Sherlock instinctively bent over to pick it up. In an instant Watson had him in a strangle hold and on his knees, with her knee firmly planted in his back.

"Good show, Watson!" the words came out strained but full of pride.

Gregson having chosen this moment to check on his consulting detectives, shook his head at them and took it all in stride. "I know you two have not been on the best of terms lately, Joan, but killing him in a police station is not the smartest move."

"Alright Watson, you may release me." Sherlock's hand came up to her arm to encourage her loosening the grip.

"Oh," Watson let her arm fall from his neck and removed her knee from his back.

"I believe we need to bring in Ms. Simmons for questioning, Captain." Sherlock stood and stretched out his neck and shoulders. He handed the photographs they had been studying to Gregson.

Joan explained, "The bruising indicates the perpetrator was pulling up on the victim's neck. And the bruise on his back coordinates with what I just ... uhm... did to Sherlock." A faintly satisfied look flickered across her face.

"I believe, we believe, the diminutive Ms. Simmons is the killer." A look of satisfaction now crossed his face as he looked from the Captain to Watson.

For several weeks the work had been non-stop. After some initial awkwardness, occasional hostility and much unspoken renegotiation, Sherlock and Watson were once again working as partners. They re-found their rhythm and tore through cases with exuberance.

Kitty had left weeks ago. Hidden agendas and secretive games, combined with not the keenest of intellects provided ample reasons for her departure to be met with relief by both Watson and Sherlock. As for Andrew, he had exited shortly after Kitty. He declared himself tired of playing second fiddle to her work. Frankly, both Andrew and Joan had known the relationship was nearing its end since before Sherlock returned to the city. The upsurge in caseload that coincided with Sherlock's return just put the final nail in their relationship coffin.

With this last case solved, Joan and Sherlock exited the station exhausted yet exhilarated. Daylight was fading fast aided by the grey clouds that were blowing in from the east. Weaving around the tourists and the crush of people trying to get home before the storm hit, they came up side by side at the intersection.

"What say we celebrate a case well solved, Watson?" he looked expectantly at Joan, waiting for a refusal.

She turned her head away from the traffic and gave him her attention, trying to read the look on his face. After a beat she spoke, "The usual?" Joan flashed him that shy side smile of hers that made his heart skip a beat.

"I was afraid you'd forgotten..."

He produced his whistle from a crevice in his coat and hailed a taxi.

The "usual" was a visit to a small Italian restaurant near the brownstone. This was the one place where they sat in the restaurant and shared a meal rather than dragging home takeout and rushing through it. The place was a cliché - small booths, soft concertina music, red and white checkered tablecloths, candles in wax-dripped chianti bottles - but the food was magnificent.

Mama Alma met them at the door. She too was a round maternal cliché but a very kind one. "Joan! Sir Luke! Welcome back! Long time, no?"

Sherlock scrunched his face in displeasure. He had corrected the old woman several times as to the proper pronunciation of his name, even spelling it for her, but it was no use. He was of the opinion she got some perverse pleasure from purposely mangling his name. Sherlock saw the look of glee in Joan's eyes and it made his pain a tad more tolerable.

Mama Alma chitchatted with them as she led them to their booth. She was of the opinion Joan and Sherlock were married; something else they could not disabuse her of thought Sherlock.

Food ordered, they sat and talked.

"Go ahead. Do it." Joan saw him eyeing the breadsticks.

"What?"

"Do it! You won't enjoy your meal until you get it out of the way."

Sherlock feigned ignorance. "I don't have a clue as to what you are referring." As he talked, he picked up a thin breadstick and snapped it in two equal parts. With a deadpan expression, he proceeded to do the old magician's trick of inserting one in his ear and pulling the other half out the other ear, as he continued talking to her. He then quickly made the breadstick pieces do a high-kick dance back across the table and rejoin their brethren.

Joan couldn't help herself, she rewarded his behavior with a huge smile and a shake of her head. For all his intelligence, he really was a child at times.

He looked sheepishly pleased at her. Sherlock had done this on their first visit here when she had been a bit down (she had never told him why). It had extracted a giggle from Watson, and thus became a ritual on each subsequent visit.

The food arrived: manicotti, lasagna, eggplant Parmesan, a side order of Mama's meatballs - they shared all the many plates. Together Joan and Sherlock sat, ate, rehashed the case, reminisced and let go of several weeks with of stress.

When they finally stepped out of the cocoon of candlelight and soft music into the neon and fluorescent lit street, they were greeted by a stinging blast of cold wind. Joan caught the flying strands of her hair and tucked them under her hat, "Storms moving in fast."

He nodded in agreement. Heads bent, hands in pockets, side by side they picked up their pace and made their way quickly to the brownstone.

The wind pushed them in through the outer door. Sherlock closed and locked both doors as she pulled off her hat and coat and placed them on the rack. She kept her sweater on. The brownstone felt chilly.

Joan called over her shoulder at him as she headed for the kitchen, "I'll start the tea, if you'll get a fire going."

"Alright." Sherlock watched her as she walked away, content that she was staying at least for a while.

She walked into the kitchen, turned on the stove and picked up the kettle to fill. Joan realized they were slipping back into old habits but beneath the routine, the paradigm had changed. Something in the mechanism of their relationship had shifted and clicked; an equality was in place that had not been there before. She was no longer his caretaker. In the time apart, she and Sherlock grew and learned they functioned quite well on their own but as partners they were better.