It was late on a Wednesday afternoon when Sherlock Holmes made his appearance in the morgue at St. Bart's hospital, thankfully not on a gurney this time, but under his own propulsion. Dr. Molly Hooper had not heard from her friend in close to two weeks, but she knew that the detective was not in the habit of making social calls when he was engaged on a case. In point of fact, he was not in the habit of making social calls under any circumstances, but in these past few months Sherlock had adjusted this habit to accommodate conversations with his trusted pathologist and colleague. Not even John Watson could boast the same accommodation.

When the detective approached the small woman, he found her carefully perusing a train time table from London to Cambridge. He could have, perhaps, recited the schedule to her from memory, having made the trip at regular intervals during his undergraduate days. But first he had to ask.

"Molly, are you entertaining the thought of traveling to Cambridge in the near future?"

"Oh, hi, Sherlock. Yes. I have a symposium to attend this weekend. 'Forensic Pathology as It Pertains to Modern Investigative Techniques.' I'm actually speaking on Saturday on determining and analyzing wound patterns on homicide victims."

"At Cambridge?"

"Of course, Hence the train schedule. Some detective!" Molly said with a smile.

"You should have informed me. I could show you around. It is my old stomping ground, so to speak."

"You were busy with your case…"

"Finished! Errant husband, angry wife, disappointed mistress. Boring!"

"Are you going to tell me who killed who?"

"Wife killed mistress, mistress's lover killed wife in retaliation, husband collected insurance and took off to Tahiti with his secretary. Boring!" He shoved his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff, and continued. "So, I'm free. When do you have to be in Cambridge?"

Molly looked at the man hesitantly. "There's a cocktail meet and greet session on Friday evening, but the conference itself isn't until Saturday. My address is at two in the afternoon, but there are some roundtables I'd like to attend in the morning. Sunday is left open for sightseeing, or travel…"

"Ah, good! I'll pick you here at the end of your shift on Friday, then. I'll make reservations for us at this place I know. See you then." And with that, the exasperating man turned and left allowing no room for protest. Not that Molly was even thinking of doing so. I weekend away with the love of her life, even on a platonic basis, was not something she was going to turn down.

Just at five o'clock, as she prepared to leave at the end of her shift, Molly received a text from Sherlock telling her to meet him outside, where he was waiting in the pick-up location outside the hospitals main entrance. Molly was not surprised to learn that the detective had hired a car as sleek and posh as himself. Long, black, and lean, the only things missing was some tousled curls and a rakish scarf! She tossed her bag into the back seat, and slid into the passenger seat.

"Nice car, Sherlock. Going back to the old alma mater in style, eh?"

"It's simply a vehicle, Molly. No more, no less. Form and function, with a modicum of comfort for the long trip."

"It's not that long a trip, Sherlock. Maybe an hour and a haIf, at most…"

"Are you complaining, Dr. Hooper. You could be sitting in a crowded train carriage, in an uncomfortable seat provided by British Rail. If you would prefer…"

"No! No, this will do nicely. I just can't believe I'm heading off to Cambridge University in a posh car, with a posh man…"

"I'm not posh, Molly. I detest posh…"

"Sure you do, Sherlock. You detest posh from your expensive coat, to your custom suits, right down to you cashmere scarf…"

"That doesn't mean I'm 'posh', Dr. Hooper, merely that I appreciate quality!"

"How do you ever put up with me, I wonder, with my khaki trousers, and my loud jumpers!", Molly said with a fit of giggles.

"As I said, Molly, I appreciate quality," Sherlock replied in a serious tone, and Molly blushed a bit at the unexpected compliment. "So tell me, what other elements of the university experience have you missed out on. I assume you've been punting, as I hear they do some version of that at Oxford, as well as Cambridge."

"Never. I suppose the male population at Oxford never considered me punting material, Sherlock."

"Nonsense! But then, again, I never considered Oxford as intellectually gifted as my own alma mater."

"Why did you choose Cambridge, Sherlock?"

"Simple, really. Mycroft went to Oxford!"

"And you attended Harrow because…"

"Mycroft went to Eton, of course!"

"Of course!" Molly shook her head, a bit disapprovingly. The rest of the ride passed uneventfully, and it was just after half six when they arrived at the hotel Sherlock had chosen. It was a small place on the banks of the Cam, not far from Magdalene College, where Sherlock had matriculated. It was small, quiet, and secluded. Just the place for a romantic getaway. But, of course, Sherlock had booked two rooms.

"We could have just stayed at a hotel near the symposium, Sherlock."

"Nonsense. That would be crowded, and noisy. In the center of town. If you're going to go away for the weekend, it only makes sense to spend your time in an environment completely different from your normal surroundings. Don't you like the place. My parents used to stay here on the rare occasions that I would allow them to visit, and they always found it quite satisfactory."

"It's lovely. But it does seem more suitable for, uh, couples. More of a romantic getaway type place, don't you think?"

'Really? I only see quiet. And secluded. But if you would prefer…"

"No! It's fine. Beautiful, in fact." Molly looked around once again at the homey setting. Comfy overstuffed chairs scattered around a small intimate lobby, with a huge fireplace. A small bar was set in an out of the way corner, and a dining room was off to the right. When they got to their rooms, she discovered that the cozy atmosphere continued. Each of their rooms had a large bed with a plush feather duvet, and a small fireplace. No telly in sight. Definitely a room designed for romance. But the effect seemed to go right over the consulting detective's head.

Molly had just finished changing from her work clothes to something more appropriate, when there was a knock at her door. Knowing it would be Sherlock, she opened it immediately.

"Are you ready? I thought we could make short work of this cocktail thingy, and go find some food. There's an excellent chips place, open late. Best chips in Cambridge!"

Sherlock knew that good chips were a special weakness of hers, and that she wouldn't be able to resist the "best chips in Cambridge" when he offered. Molly knew that it was only a bribe to get her to cut short her attendance at the cocktail party, but, quite frankly, she didn't care. She'd take chips over cocktails and shop talk any day! And, as it turned out, attendees at the session were much more interested in the famous Sherlock Holmes than in his mousy companion. Molly was beginning to feel as if she were back at Uni! And by the time they returned to their separate rooms, she was more than ready to call it a night, exhausted by a full day at work, a long drive, and a more than ample intake of wonderfully greasy chips.

The two met for breakfast in the morning, and Sherlock mentioned that he had some things to arrange, and some people to look up while he was in town. Molly was now beginning to suspect that it was not simply the pleasure of her company which had lured him away from London, but was certainly more than used to such developments. He explained that he would meet her for lunch, and then attend her address, as he didn't want to miss such an important event in her professional career. Molly was touched, and a bit proud that he thought so highly of her work. But Sherlock had not touched on any plans for the evening, and Molly was a bit annoyed that she had not thought to ask. Perhaps he thought to make the return drive immediately after her speech? He hadn't mentioned checking out of the inn, though, so she had assumed that they would be spending another night there. Oh, well, she was happy with whatever time he would choose to spend with her.

Dr. Hooper's speech was well received, her expertise in the field of wound patterns generally acknowledged. For once, no one gave a thought to the famous detective who sat beaming proudly in his seat, for all attention was on the lively question and answer period following the address. When the inquisition was finally over, Sherlock approached his pathologist and, securely holding onto her arm, guided her out of the auditorium to a waiting car, driven by an elderly man she recognized as an employee of the inn at which they were staying.

"Where are we going, Sherlock?"

"A bit of a surprise. We're heading to a spot on the Cam, just to the south of Magdalene College. I remember it from my days there." The spot was well south of the inn, and Molly wondered for a moment how they would get back to their rooms. Had Sherlock arranged return transport as well? But when they approached the riverbank, Molly was surprised to see a small punt tied to a dock, with a supply of blankets, cushions, and a picnic basket on board.

"You told me you had never been punting, Molly. No one can come to Cambridge for the first time, and not indulge. It's unheard of!" After exchanging a few words with the man in the driver's seat, Sherlock helped Molly into the flat-bottomed wooden craft. Removing his Belstaff, he took up his position on the till, or small deck, at the stern, and, having untied the craft, reached for the pole and placed it carefully in the water. With a steady gait, he walked the small deck, pushing the craft away from the dock and into the ever so light current of the shallow river.

"Sherlock, this is a lovely thought, but we're the only one's on the water!"

"Well, it is rather the off season, being only March. And at night. But this way, we can observe the sunset from the water, and there is a full moon this evening, so it won't be completely dark."

"Really, Sherlock? I didn't think you knew anything about the solar system?"

"Yes, well, I only say that to annoy John. He, of course, likes to believe it's because I have the idea that everything revolves around me!" The detective chuckled. "He may be right, of course."

"I've never ridden in a punt before, but something seems different from what I observed at Oxford." Molly said, as Sherlock shifted position as he poled, causing the craft to rock a bit. "Careful, you're rocking the boat!", she then said with a bit of apprehension.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Relax, Molly. Punts are quite stable, due to the flat bottom. And at Oxford, they push from the wrong end! I told you before, they're intellectually challenged. No offense meant!"

"I don't know about that, Sherlock. It seems a bit more dangerous to be pushing from an elevated deck rather than the inside of the boat, don't you think?"

"Perhaps," the detective actually laughed. "In truth, legend says that the practice originated with the women of Girton College, in the early part of the twentieth century, who thought it showed off their ankles to advantage."

"Well, you do have marvelous ankles, Sherlock!" "

"Thank you Dr. Hooper. I thought I had caught you gazing at them with admiration a moment ago." He said this knowing full well that Molly Hooper had, more than likely, been admiring the dashing figure he cut in his perfectly tailored suit and snug aubergine shirt.

Molly blushed, and giggled, a bit, but finally asked, "And just what am I supposed to do while you do all the work?"

"Well, I believe you're supposed to lie back, languidly, and…"

" 'Languidly'? "

"Yes, Molly, 'languidly'. Meaning lazily, impassively, borderline comatose. Stretched out on the cushions like a cat, like you haven't a care in the world, with your arms draped casually over the sides of the boat, not knowing or caring your propulsion unit is at risk every moment of a misstep which will plunge him into a rather frigid river."

Molly leaned back further into the cushions, trying desperately to assume the aforementioned posture, but not entirely succeeding.

"You're not very good at doing the 'languid' thing, are you, Molly?"

"Well, it's quite difficult to pull off in this chill, Sherlock. And I definitely am not attired properly. No diaphanous pastel dress to float in the evening breeze, after all."

"I'm sure a Cambridge woman could pull it off, Molly. It must be your Oxford reserve holding you back."

Molly smiled at his teasing, and made another exaggerated attempt at appearing languid. Unfortunately Sherlock became much too enthralled at her attempt to notice that his pole had become stuck in the muck of the river bottom. Now the first rule in such a case is to let go of the pole. But Sherlock Holmes was not a man to admit defeat so easily, and continued to struggle with the pole until the punt was carried far enough away that it drifted out from under his well shod feet, and he was left clinging to the pole, mere inches above the surface of the river. Molly let out a squeal of distress, and immediately grabbed for the paddle, stowed away for just such an occurrence as a lost pole, and perhaps a lost pusher. She paddled back to the site of the disaster as quickly as possible, but not before the detective had sunk up to his waist in the cold water. Molly grabbed Sherlock, Sherlock grabbed the pole, and finally both were brought back aboard.

The doctor in Molly took over as she bundled Sherlock in every blanket on board, and nestled him down on the cushions to keep him warm. "Are you alright, Sherlock? Cold?"

"Of course I'm cold, Molly! It's still winter, and I just took a swim in the Cam! I should have know better…"

"I thought all Cambridge men knew how to use a punt, you git. Just how much experience with these things do you have?"

"Actually, I've only done this once before. And this was actually an improvement. The last time, no one came to my rescue, and I had to swim for shore. Granted the weather was a bit warmer…"

"No one tried to help? Were you alone?"

"No one goes punting alone, Molly. But the young lady in question was a bit better at being languid than you. Perhaps because of the drugs in which we had indulged before our ill fated expedition."

"She didn't even try to help?"

"She barely even noticed I was missing. When she did, she did manage to wave goodbye. Languidly."

Molly Hooper was now laughing riotously, despite her sympathy for the half-soaked and freezing man next to her. She was still laughing as he unwrapped himself from several blankets, and pulled her close, then proceeded to wrap her up with him.

"Sherlock?"

"You wouldn't deny a freezing man a little body heat, would you Dr. Hooper?" Then he, rather gently, turned Molly onto her back and positioned his torso on top of her. "What kind of doctor are you?"

"The kind that is quite used to dealing with bodies much colder than yours, Mr Holmes!"

Sherlock then, quite unexpectedly, at least to Molly, moved his lips to her neck, and started to nibble on it like it was the most delicious things he had ever experienced, including the best chips in Cambridge. "Sherlock Holmes, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?", the small woman said with alarm as she pushed him away.

"Rocking the boat, at least figuratively speaking. Shaking things up. Changing the status of our relationship…"

Trying to change the subject, Molly inquired about his companion in his previous punting adventure. "She was fine, Molly. I assume someone managed to corral the punt before she arrived at the North Sea. Although I didn't see her for a few weeks after that. And she didn't know me when I did encounter her…" Sherlock's last few words were muffled, as he had once again buried himself in Molly's neck.

Molly once again pushed him away, but this time with a rather seductive giggle. "What am I going to do with you, Sherlock?"

"At the moment I can definitely come up with several suggestions, Molly. Would you like to hear them, or should I just demonstrate?" And with that, Sherlock closed the distance between her lips and his own. Molly Hooper could not believe what was happening. She was in a punt, on the river Cam, wrapped up in comfy blankets, and snogging Sherlock Holmes! Everything was perfect. Perhaps too perfect, and a nagging thought came unbidden into her mind. The next time they broke for air, she couldn't help but voice her concern.

"Sherlock, I have to ask. And it really doesn't matter. But, well, is this going to be a one-off situation? A weekend experience? What happens in Cambridge stays in Cambridge?"

And his next words chilled her as much as the river had chilled him. "I'm afraid so, Molly. I'm not good at this sort of thing." But just as she was trying to keep her heartbreak from showing on her face, he added with a smile, "Yes, punting is definitely not for me. I hope you don't mind if we give it up?"

Molly worked up as much momentum as she could, given the limited space between them, and punched the grinning man firmly on his upper arm. "You know what I mean, you git!"

"Of course I do, Molly. And whether or not this is a one-off is entirely up to you. I have weighed all the pros and cons of the situation, and have made a decision. I want you. I don't expect that to change. Ever. So, now, the decisions are all yours. Just let me in on any plans you make regarding our future before you tell our friends. Is that too much to ask?"

"No, that's reasonable," she said with a chuckle before pulling him in for another kiss.

"And now that that has been decided, Dr. Hooper, may I suggest we return to our romantic inn as soon as possible. Snogging in an open punt may work very well for undergrads, in July, but I would prefer to be in a nice warm bed with an even nicer and warmer pathologist." Having said this, the detective disentangled himself from Molly's arms, putting on his Belstaff against the chill of his still wet clothing, resumed his position on the deck, and started pushing the punt, as quickly as possible, downriver towards the inn, while Molly laid languidly back amongst the cushions and blankets, admiring his marvelous, uh, ankles.