Molly sighed as she poured hot water into her teacup. It was the six-month milestone. After their final outing, she and Sherlock would go back to their old routine. There would be no more excursions to the country, no more adventures with bees, no more trips to the museum, no more dinners, no more late-night chats. They would just go back to the way things were before. She would go back to being his lab assistant. Suddenly, she was struck by a horrifying thought. What if Sherlock didn't even want to go back to the status quo? What if Sherlock felt they could no longer continue their professional relationship either?

Molly refused to let herself fall deeper into that rabbit hole of thought. Why would it matter if that's what the detective chose to do? She had been doing just fine before he waltzed into her life, and she would do just fine if he chose to waltz right out of it. Rather than worrying about things she had no control over, the pathologist decided to focus on planning a night she and Sherlock could enjoy together. A night that, should they never see each other again, would be enough for her to think of their time together fondly and without regret.

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff as he paced about his flat. Why was he feeling this way? He and Molly had agreed that it was best that they not have any further contact outside of the professional confines of the lab. He should be happy with that arrangement. It was what he always wanted: a professional relationship with one of the most brilliant minds in the pathology field, no messy personal feelings involved. However, if this was such a perfect arrangement, why was he filled with dread at the thought?

Molly had always been a fine assistant in the lab, but, recently, they have been getting closer. So close, that Sherlock was beginning to realize that there was so much more to her. Her value was far more than what she offered him in the lab. Yes, she was one of the smartest people he knew, but she was also kind and compassionate and feisty. She was his perfect foil, keeping him in line when he needed. Going back to the status quo would simply not do. How could he change that?

Sherlock was a bit surprised that Molly had asked that they meet in the lab at St. Bart's for their last meeting. Why would she want to spend their last day together in the only place they would see each other when this was all over? Still, he made sure he arrived at the lab early and waited anxiously at the lab bench. He was fiddling with a beaker of blue liquid when Molly entered. The detective carefully placed the beaker on the counter, ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking with the anticipation.

He cleared his throat. "Running a bit late today, Dr. Hooper."

"It's not even five minutes past our agreed upon time," she retorted after hastily glancing at her watch. "But I'm sure you are just in a hurry to get this over with so we can move on with our lives."

"What do you have planned for us today?" Sherlock asked, pushing down the hurt he felt at her words.

He looked over at the pathologist and saw her pull a few file folders from her bag and carefully arrange them face down on their workstation. She had a look of concentration on her face which he had grown accustomed to, maybe even grown to appreciate. He thought it rather amusing the way her brows would furrow and her nose would scrunch and her lips would curl down ever so slightly while she worked methodically to complete the task at hand. Realizing the direction his thoughts were going, Sherlock shook his head, as if to shake those thoughts from his head. Molly looked up at him after arranging all the paperwork.

"Well, first, you need to choose one of these files," she encouraged, pointing at her handiwork.

He looked at her quizzically, eyebrow raised. The detective reached to turn one of the folders, but the pathologist quickly put her hand out. For the briefest moment, her hand grazed his, and Sherlock felt a jolt run through him. Far too quickly, she pulled away.

"Don't peek," she said quietly, a little hesitantly.

Sherlock surveyed the folders before him. Molly had taken a lot of care to arrange them so he had no way to see their contents. There were five in total lined neatly in a row each with varying amounts of paperwork. What could she possibly have in store for their last day together? He tentatively ran his fingers across each before deciding on the one that in the center of the line.

"Do I have permission to look now?" he said in a tone that seemed somehow deeper than his normal timbre.

"Take a look," she said with a nod.

Molly looked excitedly at Sherlock as he opened the folder and flipped through the pages. His face was unreadable. She suddenly felt uneasy. What if he didn't like what she had planned? What if he thought she was silly and childish for thinking this was a good way to spend their last date together? She reached to grab the folder out of his hand.

"Dr. Hooper, I may be a genius, but even I can't read that quickly," he said with a smirk.

His weak attempt at a joke put Molly a little bit at ease. It seemed like Sherlock was in a good mood, which boded very well for the day ahead of them. She wanted to enjoy what could be the last time they would ever see each other.

"So, what do you think?" the pathologist asked in a measured voice.

She wished she could read what was going on in the detective's mind. His face was entirely inscrutable, and that drove her absolutely mad! If only she knew what that crease in his brow meant or that slight purse of his lips. They had gotten to know so much about one another in the last six months, yet there was still so much more to learn. Molly felt a pang in her heart as she realized it was likely that they didn't have much more time left to learn more.

"Well, it appears you have complied a very thorough case file of the murder of Robert Pakington. I am curious to see what exactly you have planned for today," Sherlock said, his eyes sparkling in a way that made Molly almost believe he was excited.

"I was thinking we could spend the day trying to solve the first ever murder committed by handgun in London," she explained.

"Dr. Hooper, it almost seems as though you chose this outing with me in mind," he said with a stupid smirk that reminded Molly why she found him so insufferable.

"Mr. Holmes, you seem to forget I also make a living solving crimes," she countered.

"Well, how do you suggest we solve a centuries old murder?" Sherlock was very interested to hear what kind of sleuthing the pathologist had planned for them.

"I figured we'd just poke around a historical site or two, maybe review some old documents," she replied with a shrug. "Nothing too crazy. What could possibly go wrong?"

Molly rounded the corner of the building and into darkened alley. Sherlock was hot on her heels. He was quite surprised at how quickly the petite pathologist could run. She was about to turn into another alley when Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her with him behind a stack of boxes that had been piled by the back door of the noisy pub they had just passed. He held her close to ensure their hiding spot would not be compromised. They strained to listen for the lumbering security guards that had been chasing them.

After a few minutes, they were satisfied that they had managed to evade capture. It was only then that Sherlock realized that he was holding Molly rather close to himself. He would never admit it, but he rather enjoyed the way he felt pressed up against him. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to catch her breath, the beating of her heart as it pounded from the adrenaline coursing through her, the warm of her embrace as he realized that she was holding to him rather tightly as well. Before Sherlock could admit to himself that he rather enjoyed the position in which they found themselves, Molly pulled away.

"Well, this certainly isn't going as planned," she whispered with a slight giggle.

"That seems to be the theme of all of these little dates," Sherlock agreed, a hint of humor in his voice.

Molly's heart fluttered just a bit at hearing him referring to their monthly outings as dates. She very quickly squashed that feeling deep down. She mustn't let herself get swept up and allow herself even a glimmer of hope that Sherlock might have actually enjoyed their time together and think of them as dates. It was simply a slip of the tongue brought on by excitement of their little excursion.

"Who would have thought our trying to solve a murder that happened almost 500 years ago would end up with us being chased out of the British Museum by some angry security guards," she panted, still winded from their sprint through London.

"Well, they are known for the theft of many priceless artifacts from other countries, so it's a bit of poetic justice that we stole a little trinket from them," Sherlock replied as he procured the alleged murder weapon from his coat.

It was a rudimentary firearm, large and unwieldy by today's standards. After turning it over a few times, it became rather obvious that any sort of evidence that may have been on this weapon had been long since lost. Why had he even suggested this outing? What did he think he was going to do with a centuries old weapon that had obviously not been cared for proper to retain any sort of evidence?

If he was being honest with himself, Sherlock had just wanted to extend the time they took on this case. It had been obvious to him within a few minutes that they would not be able to solve this case with the sparce information they had. Still, he had suggested that they visit the sites all over town that the victim may have visited on the day he was murdered to recreate his last day. He had recommended that they take a trip to several libraries and small bookstores to search through the archives for any clues as to who may have had motive to kill him. He insisted that they go to the museum to inspect the gun used in the murder to see what they could glean from it. When it seemed as though they were going to hit a dead end and their evening was drawing to a close, he had the bright idea to simply take the pistol for further examination at St. Bart's. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but now, after narrowly evading capture, it definitely seemed pretty stupid.

"Has the great detective made a discovery?" The sound of Molly's voice drew Sherlock from his musings.

She looked up at him with a gleam in her eyes that told him that she was teasing him. Suddenly, it dawned on him. Molly was a very smart woman, brilliant even. She must have known from the research she did when compiling the case notes that there was little to no chance that they would solve this murder, yet she had gone along with everything Sherlock had suggested. She had happily followed him around town all day trying to crack an impossible case. She had even helped him cause a distraction to allow him time to steal the pistol. Why would she do that? Was it possible that she was enjoying herself just as much as he was?

"Unfortunately, it would appear that time and mishandling has rendered any potential evidence useless," Sherlock replied.

"So, we committed a felony for no reason?" Molly's voice rose a bit. He would have thought she was angry if it wasn't for the grin on her face.

"No worries, I'll just have Mycroft return it tomorrow," Sherlock said with a causal wave. "What's the point of having the British Government for a brother if he can't help you sweep a little theft under the rug?"

Molly chuckled at that. Having a high-ranking government official for a brother must come in handy for a man like Sherlock, who seemed to view laws a mere suggestions. She wondered what other kind of trouble the detective got himself into.

"Well, I guess this means that this little "date" has come to an end." Molly made sure to put that word ostensibly in air quotes to show how silly she thought it was and how she definitely did not see this as a date.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed with a stiff nod of his head. "It's a shame we didn't manage to solve the murder."

The pathologist couldn't tell if he was disappointed that they hadn't cracked the case or that their adventure was over. If she didn't know any better, Molly would have thought Sherlock sounded almost sad about it. But she did know better. She knew that the great Sherlock Holmes was known to be stoic and emotionless. There was no way he was feeling the same heaviness in his chest as she was feeling.

"I should get going then," she said in a tone that she hoped sounded natural. "We've been at this much longer than I thought we would, and I have an early day tomorrow."

"I should walk you home," he blurted without thinking. "it's my fault we were out so late, and if someone from the British Museum comes after you, I should be there to explain the whole situation."

Sherlock cringed at himself as soon as the words left his mouth. He didn't know why he wanted to walk her home. He just knew that he wasn't ready for their night to end. He had to come up with an excuse and that was the best he could come up with. He realized it made it seem as though he didn't think Molly could handle herself. What if he had made her mad? That is not how he wanted to end their last date together. He looked at her and saw that she was shaking her head at him with a slight smile on her face.

"While I'm sure I would handle myself perfectly well if that were to happen, I wouldn't mind the company," she countered in a bemused tone.

"All we have to do now is talk to Mycroft, and we can move on with our lives." Molly's voice came out as almost a whisper. "We can pretend like this never happened."

The two of them stood in front of her building. There was a tension in the air that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Neither of them wanted to think of whatever was going on between them. Neither of them wanted to consider what the future held for them. Neither wanted this night to end.

"Like this never happened," he repeated, almost to himself.

Sherlock fought the urge to say more, to say that he didn't want that. He didn't know what he was feeling, but he knew that he didn't like it. He didn't like that he had grown fond of the petite pathologist. He didn't like that she had seen him vulnerable. He didn't like that it was all coming to an end.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," Molly said quietly. "Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes." She quickly turned around and entered the building without waiting for his response.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper," Sherlock responded to the night.