A/N: Wow, thank you all for the reviews! I should warn you all that I'm ill, and I'm not sure how much stuff I'll get done as I have class work to do as well.. I may not be posting again for a day or two. Sorry!

Two things about this chapter.

One: it is an emotional ride. But please trust in me as the storyteller. There are always bumps along the way that must be passed over.

Two: as I promised, there is a special surprise at the end. It's a sneak preview of an upcoming Sherlock/Molly crossover fic! Crossover with whom? Well, instead of me just telling you, ask yourself this.

What kind of man would it take to get Molly's attention away from Sherlock? What kind of man could rival him for intelligence, presence and the sexy? The answer may surprise you. Take a guess then read the sneak preview!

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They talked a bit during the ride to the restaurant: things of little consequence. Her eminent return to work, his thoughts on the case, the fact that John had a date that night as well. Molly seemed quite pleased for John, which Sherlock at first thought was odd: it wasn't as though her happiness depended on John's date. Then he remembered this was part of friendship: when you cared about someone, you wanted them to be happy. And while he had no use for such things, they did make John happy, so by extension he supposed he wanted their date to go well, too. Even if he thought it was all a mistake and a lot of rubbish.

John had wanted his date with Molly to go well, too. And Sherlock had a feeling that it wasn't just because he knew something was wrong. Sherlock almost sighed. He didn't have the luxury of choosing. His date with Molly had to go well. Or else.

For a fleeting second he considered telling her something was wrong, indirectly as he had John, but dismissed the idea as too dangerous. Molly was capable of keeping secrets and fooling people, but it had been a big strain on her to help fake his death, and he wasn't sure how well she'd do if she was the cause of all this. Not cause as in she was to blame: cause as in Moriarty was the originator working through her. And if Moriarty knew something was amiss… there was no telling the exact consequences.

And… he didn't want to hurt her.

He blinked. That was… well, not entirely unlike him, but damn near. He knew that once he'd stopped Moriarty this would be a horrible mess, that Molly would be, as Lestrade and John had basically said, devastated. He didn't know if their friendship would survive it, actually. But right here, right now, looking at her, how completely and utterly happy she was just to be beside him, remembering all the times he'd been unkind, taken advantage of her attraction to him, how he had drawn her into a complex scheme to save his life and asked her to watch John cry while she knew he was alive…

He just… couldn't.

And he was sorry. Genuinely sorry. Just for a moment. Looking at her, for just one moment he wished that he could fall in love with her, give her what she wanted, make her happy and let her make him happy in return. Not ordinary, exactly, but, well… their own version of happiness. Working side by side in the lab, discussing autopsy results and murder motives over coffee in Bart's canteen, her no longer stuttering and blurting the wrong thing at the wrong time, their fingers brushing when they both reached for the same Petri dish…

"Sherlock?"

He jerked startled eyes to Molly's face, shocked at the turn his thoughts had taken. For that moment, that one moment, his thoughts about Molly had been his own and he'd thought about what?

No. This was Moriarty's fault. Those damn movies, this entire insidious plot… he'd never had thoughts like this before. Moriarty knew his mind, knew how it worked, and the vines were creeping a little closer to squeezing him. That was all.

"Sorry," he said, managing a weak smile.

"Are you OK?"

"Yes, fine."

"If you… have you…" Molly trailed off.

"Have I what?"

"Changed your mind."

He frowned. "What? About this? No. Why on earth would you think that?"

"You... for a minute you looked… sad. Lost."

"Lost," he echoed.

"Yeah. Like you didn't know why you were here or what to do."

She was staring at him with that probing, concerned look she'd had that day at Bart's. "Are you OK? And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

He drew a deep breath. "I… Molly… I've never done this before."

Her eyes widened. "What, you've never…"

"No," he said softly, flatly.

"Oh." She seemed to consider that for a few seconds. Then her face lit up and she smiled.

"So… I'm your first proper date. Any date."

"Yes."

She looked as though she was about to burst with joy. Easy to understand. It implied unmatched significance and importance. She'd read any awkwardness that ensued that night as him being nervous. It had been the perfect thing to say. And it happened to be the truth.

He didn't expect her to lean over and kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Just… for giving this a chance. For being you," she said with a smile.

The sincerity and happiness in her eyes made him feel tainted and ill.

That was when he knew, no matter what happened, he was going to make a sincere, honest attempt to give her a perfect night. Something that, when it was all over, he could swear on his life had been genuine. He couldn't give her much. But this one thing, this one small miracle he would do for Molly Hooper. Because she deserved it.

He returned her smile, finding it didn't hurt quite so much now that he'd made this decision. "Thank you, Molly," he said softly.

She titled her head a bit. "For what?"

He shook his head slightly, still smiling. "For being you."

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SNEAK PREVIEW TIME!

"Molly, I need to see Mr. Tillman's body."

Molly Hooper sighed. "And hello and good morning to you, too," she said, somewhat waspishly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was very unlike Molly. He sharpened his gaze on her. She didn't seem ill. Or tired, even. She seemed…

Oh. Pissed off.

She wanted niceties. Sometimes he forgot those. OK, most of the time. He knew he shouldn't, for their sake, not his. Well.

"Molly," he began, but she cut him off.

"You waltz in here like you own this damn place, demand I stop what I'm doing to help you and can't even remember to be the slightest bit nice half the time. For Chrissake, Sherlock, even after everything I've done for you…"

She looked angry still, but sad now, too.

He had the capacity and the grace to feel a bit of remorse. "Sorry?" he offered tentatively.

She nodded stiffly. "Thank you. But I can't let you see Mr. Tillman. Paperwork has gone through."

"Molly, this is me, remember?" he tried one of his winning smiles on her.

Today she frowned at him.

Oh, dear. This was worse than he'd thought.

"Look, Molly…"

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Dr. Hooper?"

The doors to the morgue had opened without either of them hearing and in the doorway was a man Molly had never seen before.

A drop-dead (no pun intended) gorgeous man. With an American accent.

Tall, short black hair, perfect body, piercing blue eyes that could rival Sherlock's, except his were dark. Impeccably dressed in a white button-down, black slacks and a gorgeous long blue-grey military cut jacket.

Molly stared. She couldn't help it.

Sherlock frowned at the man, irritated by the interruption. He glanced over at Molly, sure that she would be feeling the same way.

She wasn't.

Molly was staring at this man as though she'd never seen a man before in her life. What was wrong with her? She was staring at him the same way that…

She was staring at this man the same way she used to stare at him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Molly spoke up, knowing Sherlock was just a second away from a caustic comment. "I'm Dr. Hooper. And you are?"

The man smiled. "Lucky."

Molly's stomach did a little flip.

Sherlock's stomach did a little flip. But for very different reasons.

The man strode into the room, still wearing the dazzling smile. "Sorry. I saw you and kinda forgot my manners."

"Yes. How rude," Sherlock said acerbically.

Molly shot him a look that clearly said: You are one to talk and shut up.

The man's eyes flicked to Sherlock for all of a second, then flicked away.

Dismissively.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed into slits.

No one looked at him dismissively. Perplexedly, angrily, admiringly at times, even. But not dismissively.

He didn't like this man.

This man was trouble. He was interrupting his work and his friendship with Molly.

Molly, apparently, did not seem to mind one bit.

The man went to Molly and extended a hand. "Please, forgive me. It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hooper." He glanced at Sherlock again before looking into Molly's eyes and kicking the smile up another notch.

"Captain Jack Harkness."