Gregson gave them a ride in a cop car. He led a small convoy to the city church not far from where the car holding the teenage lovers had been found.

"No need for flashing blues," observed Sherlock. "The deed is done and our killer is both remorseful and dead."

He turned up his collar. The grey sky had turned cold.

Black cars hudddled in the small parking lot to the side of the church. There was a smell of snow in the air.

Joan lifted off her scarf and laid it round Sherlock's neck.

He accepted it with a nod and offered her his arm. Followed by Gregson and Bell, they entered the narrow stone church.

It was packed, and sounds of sobbing came from all sides. At

the front, smothered in flowers, were two light oak coffins.

Joan swallowed, realising whose funeral this was. All around, bereft relatives, team mates and school friends wept and comforted each other.

At the front stood the priest, pale and distraught, reading a passage in a quiet but steady tone.

Sherlock and Joan slid into a pew at the back. "Look at the second row," he whispered, close to her ear. He gestured at the left side of the church, in line with the smaller coffin with its pink and apricot bouquets.

"That's not her parents," Joan said. "They're in the frontrow."

"No. See the balding man who can't stop weeping? That's the girl's uncle, who generously loaned her his car for a date: the property developer. That murder was meant for him."

They watched him. His shoulders shook, and people around him gave hugs and pats as the service continued.

"This is awful," said Joan.

"I think I'll allow Gregson the unhappy task of explaining the reasons for the deaths of these unfortunate children. He has more...humanity about him in these situations." Sherlock glanced at her questioningly. "More of a regular guy all round, I'm sure you'll concur."

"Yeah..." Joan dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. "Sherlock - I don't want to be here."

He looked fully at her, saw tears in her eyes, nodded. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, they rose, and hurried from the church.

xxxx

In the cab home, Joan wiped her eyes with a tissue and tried to regain her dignity. "They should have been getting married," she said. "It's so sad." She wiped her cheeks again. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock patted her hand, then held and squeezed it.

The cab travelled. They looked out of the front, past the myriad stickers on the glass between them and the cabbie.

Outside, sleet pelted the streets.

"I was wrong," Sherlock said. He twisted round and gripped both Joan's hands. She stared at him. "You most definitely are a woman, and a woman whose mind, body, whose whole person I find incredibly appealing. I was wrong when I spoke before and I'm sorry."

He let go of her and dropped back in his seat.

Joan sat bolt upright. "That's it?" she exclaimed. "You insult my very existence, say you're sorry and that is just it?"

Sherlock turned back to her with a dangerous spark in his eyes. "No," he said slowly, "that is not it." Before she could speak he leaned in and kissed her.

The cabbie glanced in his mirror as they entwined in the back seat. He rolled his eyes. Why did couples find cabs so irresistible?

xxxx

Back at the brownstone, the door slammed and Joan and Sherlock were in out of the cold. His arms were still firmly around her and her hands held the bare nape of his neck.

He broke for a moment to speak.

"Is this going to be one of those things where we both stagger backwards under the weight of our passion, until I collapse neatly on top of you in the sink?"

"Oh God." Joan pushed him away. "No. No! This is such a bad idea."

"Yes, isn't it, let's stop."

Sherlock kissed her again, but delicately, and she shivered. "Thought not," he murmured.

Joan tilted back her head and spoke to the ceiling as

Sherlock covered her throat with kisses. "Oh, this is bad."

"On the contrary Joan, it is very, very good."

Joan poured green juice into a tall glass and went into the front room. The notes from that old case were in here somewhere and she wanted to take another look at the autopsy record. Her surgeon's mind had kicked into life these last few weeks, as if the years of knowledge were raring to be let off the leash she'd kept them on.

Sherlock knew a great many things, but he couldn't match her on that.

Sherlock...

She smiled, then composed herself. There was work ahead - real work, at last.

Sherlock sauntered in, rubbing a towel over damp hair. "What case file is that?"

"The swimming pool fire."

"Ah yes - a dozen victims, twice as many suspects, nothing was ever proved."

"I just wanted a closer look at the medical history of the third victim."

Sherlock flung the towel at a chair. "I need coffee. -The third victim?"

"Yes. -I put coffee on already."

"Right."

He turned towards the kitchen, then spun back on tiptoes, took one stride towards her, and kissed the top of her head. Then he was gone.

Joan glanced after him, hid a smile, and turned back to the case.

The End