Case over, crime solved, criminal incarcerated. All that was left to do was the file cleanup. Sherlock sat at the computer printing out photos and screen shots for documentation purposes. Joan, in the adjoining room, had the physical file sprawled out on the floor in front of her, placing reports and analysis in chronological order. He had been watching her out of the corner of his eye as he was wont to do.

"Watson, what say we take a break and have a cup?" He boomed in her direction.

Joan looked across the room at him. This was Sherlock's way of saying "Watson, how about you make tea?" Her lips pursed as she considered the proper retort to lob in his direction. Luckily for him, she was distracted by the chime of her phone. A text from Sean. Her stomach did a little flip. "Tree in 10?" was all it said, all it really needed to say. Turning her body to avoid Sherlock's gaze, she smiled warmly at the phone and texted back, "YES!"

"I'm going to pass on the tea," Joan composed herself and stood carefully so as not to upset her work. "Just remembered an errand I have to run." She didn't wait for his response but headed nonchalantly towards the coat rack.

Sherlock called after her with his own barely concealed smile, "Bundle up, it's a bit nippy out there." Joan was soon out the door and headed for the park. These rendezvous had started in the spring.

.-.-.-

Several months earlier ...

A paltry dribble of cases over the past few weeks upset the domestic balance of the brownstone. Joan and Sherlock were spending too much time in close proximity with no work to buffer them from each other. Sherlock was moodier and more sullen than usual, to the point of Joan avoiding any nonessential contact with him. The bickering and the outright fighting, alternated by dark silences, got progressively worse.

On that particular morning, Joan wondered why she even stayed, why she lived with him. She wondered out loud and caught Sherlock off guard. Even through the general unpleasantness they were currently experiencing, he held firm to the belief that their living arrangement was a permanent one. The thought of her threatening to leave, let alone actually leaving him, stunned him. Shocked into defensiveness and in true Holmes' style, he rudely responded by telling her it was her decision, she could stay or go, he didn't care one whit what she did. Stone-faced, Joan stared him down until he felt uncomfortable enough to turn and walk away.

An angry, bitterly disappointed Joan took a breath and tried to calm herself. He didn't care. He just said so himself. She needed to make some long term decisions for herself. She would not cry, not here at least. Overwhelmed with the need to get away immediately from him, from the house, from everything, she went upstairs and dressed for a run. The physical activity would help clear her mind and put distance between them.

Joan's cold eyes as she silently passed him on the stairs frightened Sherlock. He could see her mentally planning her escape as she put her earbuds in place and exited their home without a word, slamming the front door behind her to punctuate the moment. How to explain to her that it was his growing fondness for her that caused him to act so boorishly. "Fondness" thats the word he had chosen to describe the growing feeling of need he had every time she walked into a room. He was an idiot - he pushed her away because he was on the verge of showing her at any given moment just how much she meant to him, how much he needed her, how much he cared. And that just could not happen.

Joan's favorite route provided the comfort of running without having to make decisions, allowing her to concentrate on churning all the venom and bitterness she was feeling into physical energy. With each footfall she took away from the brownstone, the anger mutated to sadness. Alone, she allowed the tears to flow. Deep down Joan knew Sherlock cared about her on some level, but she was tired of mining for even the smallest sign of affection. She knew her feelings for him had grown ever stronger as of late but he remained indifferent. Living together just exacerbated her feelings of rejection. But the thought of leaving him and their shared life pained her even more than staying.

She turned towards the park, keeping on her favored path. Her mood had turned from anger to disappointment to self pity and the tears had not stopped. Joan picked up her head and tried focusing on her surroundings. Spring was around the corner but the trees still stood dark and relatively bare, the ground mostly barren. Up ahead on the path, someone stood under the large oak. Her vision was blurry with tears, but she immediately recognized the outline of his body, the way he held himself, the stillness of his form.

Her heart beat faster, unsure of whether to stop or run on past him. As she got closer, Joan saw the look on Sherlock's face and slowed down. His facade was down and she could see the wide eyed vulnerability of a man trying to process emotions he did not understand. She stopped running, discreetly wiped the tears from her cheeks and made her way over to where he stood beneath the tree.

Sherlock's stance was awkward and stiff. He too wiped his face down as she approached. She stopped and he moved forward the rest of the way so they were face to face. She noticed his lashes were wet, his eyes shimmered slightly. Joan stood before him unsure of what was to come.

Sherlock parted his lips as if to speak but no words came. The speech, the explanation and apology he had rehearsed on his way to find her evaporated at the sight of her. His words had hurt her, he saw the traces of the pain he inflicted on her face. How could he find the right words now. All he could do was search her face for forgiveness and hate himself. Their eyes engaged and held as they tried to communicate. Seeing the pain in his eyes, the confusion, Joan began to understand.

The words rushed out of him suddenly, "I'm sorry." Sherlock looked down and nervously shifted his weight. He cleared his throat and made eye contact once more. "I ... I do ... care ... very much." He nodded at her trying to reinforce what he was saying and looked down once more, afraid of what he might find in her eyes. Joan was breathing deeply, trying to control her own feelings. She knew how difficult even the barest admission of caring for anyone was for Sherlock. Without thinking, Joan moved forward and placed her hands around his waist, drawing herself to him, gently placing her head on his chest. She could hear the thunder of his heart beats through his coat. Slowly at first, his arms came around her, gripping her to him as he became comfortable with the touch. He laid his head on top of hers and whispered, " ... Please... Don't leave ..."

She held on to him tighter in response, lifting her head so she could feel the warmth of his neck, the sweet smell of him, a heady mixture of wool and tea and honey. He held the back of her head, closed his eyes and took in the sensation of holding her, the silk of her hair, the strength of shoulders, the curve of her abdomen as it crushed in to his. They swayed as they stood, drunk with the warmth of the tender proximity they had never allowed each other before this moment.

As Joan found her voice, she whispered, "I don't think I could ever leave you ... you infuriating man." She looked up into his face, "We are stuck with each other, you know." Sherlock snorted a laugh in relief, "Not the kindest of acknowledgments of affection, but I will take it." Together, they remained clenched in each others arms, physically reassuring themselves of the permanence of their bond.

He pulled away first, wiping his eyes. With the back of her hand she did the same, smiling at him, as he bent his head and brushed back some wayward strands of her hair from her face, "Okay?" he asked. She nodded her affirmation. Awkwardly he turned and started his walk home. Joan watched him disappear into the distance. They had barely exchanged five sentences but somehow they had understood each other. She put her earbuds back in and continued on her run.

Joan returned to the brownstone unsure of the repercussions, if any, from their encounter. A note was stuck to her bedroom door from Sherlock with the address of a homicide, and a request she join him as soon as possible. From that moment on, a sudden upsurge in the need for their talents kept them busy enough to not have time to refer to the events of the day. Work always came first. The bickering and fighting dropped down to the usual levels and aside from furtive glances and slightly awkward moments of standing a bit too close, life resumed its usual color at the brownstone for the next couple of weeks.

.-.-.-

Approximately two weeks later ...

The trees were beginning to sprout little yellow green leaves and the frozen ground was yielding to the sun's attentions, producing grassy patches here and there. Joan was on her morning run. She was coming up to their tree, as she referred to it now, allowing herself to once more revisit the memory of their time beneath its branches. As she approached, Joan noticed a large white envelope, pinned into position against the trunk by a rock. On closer examination, she saw a large "W" inscribed on the front, and went in to investigate.

The note inside read: "It would give me great pleasure if you would be so kind as to meet me here at 3:00 today.*" The note was signed "Sean." The corner of her mouth lifted just a tiny bit. The footnote marked by the asterisk further confirmed her suspicions: "*Barring any calls to investigate murders, bombings and the like, of course." Conveniently, a pen had been left for her response. "I shall be here promptly at 3:00, unless my flatmate detains me in some manner." She signed her name, "Gianna." The mom of her best friend in elementary school always called her Gianna. Joan used to wish, way back when, that she had been born Italian. She put the envelope back in its place and with renewed energy continued her run.

Sherlock was as nervous as a 13 year old boy on his first date. He carefully spread out the blue plaid blanket under their tree, patting down the edges, putting out cups and saucers, aligning the spoons with the napkins. His intent was to have afternoon tea outside with Watson. That is all we are going to have, he reminded himself, just tea and conversation, like friends are supposed to do, or at least he thought that's what friends did. His experience in that area was rather limited.

Joan managed to sneak up on Sherlock Holmes. Before he knew it two feet in ridiculously high ankle boots were at the edge of his picnic blanket. He looked up with such a wondrously surprised look on his face that her heart skip a beat.

He beamed. "Ah, there you are, come, sit." He tried to compose himself, "I thought we could have our afternoon tea al fresco." She smiled and sat next to him. He relaxed. They spent the next hour or so talking about everything except their life at the brownstone or their work. It was an easy and companionable conversation, comfortable and relaxing for both. As the last of the tea was finished, Joan looked at Sherlock sitting cross-legged in front of her, "Do you think we could do this every so often? ... Just meet here and just ... you know ... keep this part of our lives completely separate from the rest?"

Sherlock studied her for a second or two considering her request, "Hmmm ... provide ourselves a bit of a safe haven?" He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, staring off for a beat before he returned his attention to her. "So that ... what we say or ... do ... under the umbrage of this old oak remains separate from our life out there ..." He vaguely motioned in the direction of the brownstone.

She nodded, "It isn't realistic or truly possible, I suppose but ..." Her voice trailed off. The intensity of his gaze made her self-conscious. Joan looked down and shook her head with a sudden sense of embarrassment. "It's silly. Adolescent really ... Never-mind." She moved to get up.

He reached his hand over and stopped her, "I think its worth a try ..." His hand was warm and gentle on hers, his thumb stroking the top of her hand. "... This stays solely between us here ..." Sherlock's fingers moved carefully to her wrist, his hand gently exploring the smoothness of her skin as each fingertip took its turn caressing her, playing with the tiny knob of her wrist bone. Joan's lips parted slightly, his touch and the openness of his eyes as he gazed at her, making it hard for her to catch her breath. They stared in silence at each other considering the possibilities.

The quiet was suddenly pierced by the shrill squawks and twitterings of a group of birds engaged in a territorial fight overhead, and shattering the connection Joan and Sherlock had just so tentatively forged. Startled and slightly embarrassed, Joan checked her watch and alleviated the situation by teasing him, "Damn, it's almost five. My cranky housemate is expecting me back."

He sighed and quickly released his disappointment at the too soon ending of their touch. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and grimaced in her direction. He tapped at her booted foot, and seriously intoned, "Don't you say an unkind word about that man! I've heard he is a joy to live with." Joan burst out laughing. Sherlock deadpanned, "It's not that funny." Her laughter continued. He shook his head in mock displeasure, " ...this arrangement may not work." He couldn't help but smile at her laughter. He had never seen her this relaxed and open.

Joan leaned forward and squeezed his arm, "Thank you."

He put on his most dour face, "Hmmm... You'd best be off. I'll cleanup here. I'll see if I can get my irresponsible flatmate to help me with the dishes when I get home." She feigned anger at his comments as she stood up. Sherlock watched Joan walk away until he could no longer see her.