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Disclaimer: I'm just playing around. Almost everything belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

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Polish.

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Sherlock and his bees have the rooftop, so when the six weeks had ended and Joan was supposed to leave and Sherlock had asked her not to, she'd claimed the walled garden at the back of the house.

It was smaller than her bedroom and hadn't been much more than a half dozen concrete pavers and a couple of dead weeds. But Dante had known a few guys with gardening experience, who'd done the work for $20 and a reference.

Joan had had them pave one half and sow a herb lawn on the other. They'd built raised garden beds against the walls and taken Joan plant shopping.

She'd put a hammock and an umbrella on the paved section and spent occasional lazy afternoons out there, catching up on her reading and listening to the bees buzz about the flowers.

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For her birthday Sherlock gets her a soft pink climbing rose.

"Most roses originally come from Asia," He explains, standing bare foot on the lawn, while Joan plants the rose between the rosemary and the irises, "This is a European rose, a briar or sweet rose. The Sleeping Beauty rose. It was Irene's favourite."

Joan doesn't know what to say to that.

"Rosemary, on the other hand," He snapped a piece off, running it under his nose to smell it, "Was buried over graves to keep the dead from rising."

"So…" Joan manages an deceptively casual tone, "I should plant some out the front in case of zombies?"

The look on his face is worth the sulk she'll have to put up with later.

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The end.

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