The little park smelled of warm rain and roses. John and Sherlock were alone, tourists and Londoners alike having been scattered by an earlier storm. They strolled the perimeter of their small haven, hand in hand, and laughed as big drops of water fell on their faces from the weighty blooms above their heads. Tiny birds which looked like boiled sweets sang in the quiet. Into the wind a tree wept petals from its heavyblossomed boughs.

It had been a difficult and dangerous week; this gated sanctuary was part of their remedy. They always visited whilst the weather was bad so that the only sounds would be the birds and their solitude; Sherlock carried with him a padlock in his pocket and locked the gates after them, just for a little while. Nothing could get them in here.

They walked slowly, easing muscles stiff from running and soothing hearts tired from worry. When they could be still Sherlock laid out his long coat over a wet wooden bench and they sat, leaning against one another.

...

They'll know it's time to go home when the grip each has on the hand of the other becomes loose, when muscles finally unwind and the gnawing fear subsides. Once all is again peaceful, the words I love you will sink deep into quiet bones.