1.

Sherlock bought the flowers the first time he accompanied her to the cemetery. Lilies, not carnations, and Joan knew the scent would cling to her clothes much longer. He was quieter than usual on the drive over, and he didn't argue with her over her choice of music on the radio.

He stood next to her, quiet and still, after she placed the flowers on the grave, but she could feel a bit of tension radiating from him. Or maybe that was just her own tension, at having him with her. She felt self-conscious, hyperaware of herself standing there, of the breeze against her skin, of the sound of the birds and traffic passing by. She wanted to say something - at least "Thank you for coming," but her throat was tight and she wasn't sure she could get any words out at all. She was used to being her alone, doing this alone, dealing with this alone, and having him there was...different.

He made a soft "Hmm," noise, and she glanced over at him. He was watching her, his face calm but with concern in his eyes, and something else. He moved a little closer to her, and she looked away, afraid of what he might see in her.

She stiffened in surprise when she felt him take her hand, and she glanced back at him, curious. He looked wary, but he remained still, none of his usual twitching or bouncing. She laced her fingers through his and gave his hand a squeeze as she felt some of the tension drain out of her shoulders.

"Thank you, Watson," he said softly.

She couldn't answer, but she squeezed his hand.

2.
She stepped through the doors, hands raised, bruised and battered, but alive. "He's in the boiler room!" she shouted at the police, as they stormed past her into the warehouse. She stumbled, dazzled by the sunlight, and Sherlock was there to catch her, his arms tight around her.

"Watson," he breathed, as he lowered her to the ground. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head, digging her fingers into his arms. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I picked the lock on the handcuffs-"

"That's my girl," he said.

"...and locked him to the boiler."

"Well done, well done," he said, releasing her so the paramedics could examine her. He stayed with her, his gaze locked on hers. "I knew you could do it."

She nodded. "All the same, next time we stick together."

"Yes, of course. Agreed," he said softly. He kept his arm around her as they walked to the car.

3.

Joan surveyed the dingy motel room. "Well, at least it's mostly clean."

"Hmm," he agreed, as he drew the curtains and pushed the chair under the door knob. "Just in case," he said, as she raised an eyebrow at him. "Not much of a safe house, but…"

"It'll do," she said. She flopped back onto the bed. "I'm exhausted but I might be too wired to sleep."

"You take the bed," he said. "I won't sleep anyway."

"No, you need to sleep too." She lifted her head to look at him. "Plenty of room, don't be ridiculous."

He tapped his fingers against his thighs in a rough staccato.

"We've been up for 24 hours. No arguments. Take off your shoes and get into bed," she said, standing up so she could do the same. She hesitated, then shimmied out of her jeans, leaving her in her t-shirt and underwear. She heard him breathe in, sharply, then the sound of him removing his shoes. She smiled to herself, careful to hide it from him, and climbed into bed. She felt the bed shift and settle as he climbed in and turned out the light.

"No warnings not to touch you on pain of death?" he asked, his voice a little strained.

"Nope," she replied, as she turned onto her side and fell almost instantly asleep.

She woke at dawn to find him pressed up against her back, one arm thrown over her possessively, his breathing slow and regular. She had never really been a cuddler, but she found herself enjoying the warmth of him against her. Not that she would tell him that. She remained still, dozing until he awoke and disentangled himself from her gently. She hoped he didn't notice her elevated heart rate, and she pushed away any regret that this might be the only time they shared a bed.

4.
She was there when they found the car and opened the trunk to find Sherlock inside, bound and gagged but mercifully alive. Gregson and Bell quickly freed him from the restraints, and as soon as she could get to him she threw her arms around him, heedless of everyone watching, wanting only to feel that he was alive and okay.

"Sherlock-" was all she could say, and he put his arms around her, bending to press his cheek to hers..

"My dear Watson," he whispered, his voice rough. "I knew I could depend on you to find me."

She shook her head against him, his stubble rough against her cheek.

"Don't ever do that again," she whispered.

His arms tightened around her and he shook his head. They stood like that, pressed against each other, only separating when the paramedics arrived.

5.
They were wrapped around each other, hands and lips insistent on each other's skin, the sofa arm digging into her back. The movie in the background had been long forgotten, lost to the new wonder they were finding in exploring each other.

"Can I touch you?" he whispered as he lifted her t-shirt to explore the smooth skin underneath.

"Yes," she breathed. "Always, yes."