Here it is, the final chapter. Thank you all for your patience. Real life has taken precedence over the last few months and I feel relieved to finally have this completed. Every kudos, every comment, every hit has meant so much and kept me going. Thank you, all!

ENORMOUS, incredible thanks and all my love to my beta and cheerleader, MoodyBlue42. I literally could not have done this without her help. Gem of a person, that one.

Just a quick PSA: I will only be publishing my stories on AO3 from now on. FanFic dot net has generally become a bear to work on as far as publishing stories and I do not like their new policy on anon reviews (specifically the fact that I can not turn off that function anymore and opt out). I publish under the same pen name, so please feel free to jump on over to AO3 for future stories!

"I'm not exactly sure what you're asking, Detective Inspector."

Gillian Evans, the head of the Division of Archaeology, was a kind but busy woman. At ten in the morning, she had shed her marigold blazer and rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse. A stack of papers half a foot high sat on her desk and her desk phone blinked red, no doubt loaded with messages. Greg couldn't shake the feeling that he should consider himself lucky she was looking directly at him as they spoke.

"I just need to know if anyone on your staff might have, uh, professional experience with mummification," he said carefully.

"Plenty of staff and students here have studied the techniques and history of mummification extensively," Professor Evans replied, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked down her nose at him. "It rather goes hand in hand with graduate work in Egyptology."

"So, anyone particularly talented in that area?" he pressed.

"Again, Detective, I don't quite know what you're asking me," Professor Evans huffed, clearly becoming frustrated.

Greg felt his frustration level spike as well.

"If I wanted to mummify a dead body, who would I go talk to, in your professional opinion?" he asked bluntly.

"Paul Harris," she told him, reaching for a stack of papers and dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "His office is down the hall. If he's not there, you'll find him in the lab."

"And that would be where?"

"Basement level, north end."

He tried not to fume as he rode the lift down to the bottom floor, having been unable to locate Mr. Harris in his designated work space. Of all people, it would be that nervous little man, wouldn't it? Staring him right in the face and practically broadcasting his inferiority complex when confronted with authority. He'd known plenty of men like that in his lifetime, so desperate to stand up to whatever bullies they'd endured when they were young that they failed to realize how harsh and bitter they had become as adults. It wasn't common that their stories ended in violence, but from time to time...

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out just as the lift doors opened. A missed call from Molly and a new email.

"Damn," he muttered, realizing as he tried to access either message that reception in the basement was utter crap. He'd have to call her back later.

Tucking the phone away, he focused on the task at hand. Directory signs told him where he would find the archaeology lab in the seemingly vast maze of the basement hallways. Places like those had always given him the willies, monochromatic and empty as they always seemed to be. He followed the numbers on the doorways, the overhead lights buzzing slightly with electricity. Out of habit and a need to know that he had the option, he ran a hand over the pistol he had holstered under his jacket. It was authorized by the Yard. Barely.

He let himself into the archaeology lab, a large, rectangular room devoid of windows but awash in artificial light. Every available surface was taken up with books, papers, artifacts, or equipment. Everything from pottery to skulls and sarcophagi sat in various spots, waiting to have their secrets discovered at the competent hands of the Cambridge staff.

"Excuse me, this is a restricted area…"

Paul Harris trailed off as he came around the corner of a lab bench. He visibly swallowed, his eyes widening, and Greg knew instantly that he was looking at the Davis' killer.

"Detective," Paul said, his voice weak. "Was there something you needed?"

"I'm afraid I need to ask you some questions, Paul," Greg told him, moving slowly towards him and keeping his tone calm. "I think it would be best if you came back to London with me."

"No, I don't believe that's going to happen," Paul said, suddenly steeling.

"Look, I've made it two whole weeks without needing to forcibly cuff anyone," Greg said, attempting to play the nice cop. "I would really like to continue that pattern. So why don't you just come with me."

"You won't cuff me," Paul said firmly. "You have no reason, no evidence to arrest me."

"Due time, Paul. I assure you, the law will be on my side."

"About what?" Paul laughed, albeit nervously.

"Finding out about the Davis and their research fraud," Greg stated, carefully watching Paul's face. "Confronting them and killing them because you were… mad? Jealous? Accidental, or not, you still did it, and did your best to cover it all up. You used your skills as best you could to hide what you had done, trying to hide the evidence in plain sight. And you can either make this rather easy on yourself, relatively, or very, very hard. Your choice."

Paul's mouth turned down and he hesitated. For a moment, Greg thought he might actually go quietly. But in the next second, he yanked the stool next to him off the floor and flung it at Greg, dashing away. The stool caught the edge of Greg's arm, but he managed to leap clear of any direct damage, yanking his gun from its holster and running after Paul. The man pulled everything within reach off of the lab bench as he ran along and Greg struggled to keep his footing as he lept over equipment and artifacts. Seeing a clearing on the bench, he launched himself onto the tabletop and slid to the other side, hoping to cut Paul off before he could reach the door. Not quite believing that he would actually make a go of it, Greg raised his gun and tempered his racing heart as he watched Paul hurtle towards him with what looked like a small wooden shield.

"Stop!" Greg shouted, waiting until the last second possible before squeezing off a shot, hitting Paul squarely in the shoulder.

The man staggered backward and howled and Greg rushed him, reaching for his cuffs.

He underestimated what Paul was made of. In a split second, the shield was flying through the air with a last ditch force and it connected with Greg's ribs. Stinging pain shot through his chest and the wind left him instantly. His gun and cuffs fell from his suddenly useless hands.

His body connected hard with the floor and he saw a pair of shoes limp towards him before everything went black.

oOo

"Do you know who he was going to talk to?" Sally asked Molly as they raced at a breathtaking pace down the road.

"No, he just wanted to poke around, see what he could suss out." She went silent for a moment, listening to his mobile ring and go to voicemail yet again. "He's still not answering. Damnit."

She was nearing panic.

"Rule number one," Sally said, her voice even and controlled with years of practice. "Don't freak out until you have to."

"My boyfriend has gone silent while investigating a murder, I feel like I need to freak out."

She saw Sally glance at her.

"That's the first time I've heard you call him that."

"It's the first time I've ever said it," Molly replied, unsure of the revelation.

Boyfriend.

It seemed like a weird title for people their age, but nothing else fit. Lover sounded off to her ears, as though it were only sexual. Partner sounded so stiff. Significant other…

Why was her mind going through the catalogue of monikers when none of it mattered if something happened to him?

"Hey," Sally said, reaching over with one hand to stop Molly from worrying her handbag in half. "He's a tough old bloke. He's faced worse. And we're going to find him."

It didn't take them long to track his steps to the division head's office. A DI from London was an anomaly amongst the Cambridge archaeology students and staff and he'd stood out.

"Do I need to be worried for my department's safety?" Professor Evans asked insistently after Sally demanded to know the exact route to Paul Harris.

"I'd call for a lockdown, yeah," Sally suggested, pulling out her authorized weapon and checking the safety. Molly tried not to let the sight frighten her any more than she already was. "It'll make things cleaner and easier when I catch this wanker."

Professor Evans' eyes widened in genuine worry and she reached for the phone as Molly followed Sally out the door.

"Do as I say," Sally instructed in the lift, watching the numbers tick down until they reached the basement. "Stay behind me and don't do anything to put yourself in danger unnecessarily. Got it?"

"Yes," Molly answered, taking a deep breath as the lift doors slid open and they stepped into the hall.

oOo

Greg woke slowly, his chest throbbing and his lungs burning faintly. They still felt deflated, trying to recover the missing air that had been knocked out of him. When his eyesight evened out, he looked around the room, trying to figure out where he was and what the industrial noises of steam and motors were. Even in the dim light it only took him a moment to realize that he had been dragged into the boiler room, his hands tied in front of him with a nylon rope. And he wasn't alone.

A badly decomposing body lay just to his right, similarly tied and wrapped loosely in a white sheet.

The smell was overwhelming and he struggled not to heave.

He looked across the room and saw Paul busy at a folding table, vials and beakers of liquid and other materials scattered across the work space.

Considering that the man had murdered two people, Paul had done a piss poor job of restraining Greg and he was able to easily push himself to his feet.

Paul was standing between him and the the door. Oblivious. It may not have been the choice dictated in his police training, but given that Greg was fairly certain his alternative was mummification, he plowed forward with as much force as he could manage and drove his shoulder into Paul's side.

Paul yelped in surprise and locked his arms around Greg as the two of them crashed into the table and then to the ground. They scuffled on the cement floor, Greg doing the best he could with tied hands by lifting them over Paul's head and putting him in a choke hold.

If he had had free use of his hands, he could have reached for Paul's arm to stop him from grasping for the tools that had been knocked to the ground when they collided. He could have done more to restrain him and protect himself. Those were the regretful thoughts that sprang through his mind as Paul plunged something sharp into Greg's stomach.

The pain was immediate, hot and blinding. His hold loosened on Paul and the other man scrambled away, faltering for a moment before bolting towards the door. Greg moaned, pressing his hands over his stomach and rolling to his side involuntarily.

Through eyes squinted in pain, he watched Paul go flying out of the boiler room and nearly collide with Sally Donovan on the other side of the door. The sergeant skillfully sidestepped his onslaught and tripped him, sending him sprawling onto the floor in front of Molly. Oh God, Molly, why was she there?

In the few seconds it took Paul to get his hands under him, preparing to push to his feet again, Molly had yanked her Farb Gel from her handbag and pulled the cap off, aiming the bright blue spray directly into Paul's face. He shouted and clawed at his eyes, falling onto his back.

Sally trained her weapon on him as she glanced into the boiler room, spying Greg on the floor.

"Molly," she said urgently. "Help him. I've got this."

"Oh my God," Molly breathed, literally dropping everything and rushing into the boiler room.

He groaned as she knelt by his side, her hands gingerly taking hold of his and prying them away from where he'd been stabbed. Everything went grey and fuzzy for a moment, Molly's sweet face going in and out of focus. He could feel his body start to shake.

"Greg," Molly said firmly, starting to unbutton his shirt. "Can you hear me? Look at me."

He did as she said, even though his vision was swimming.

"Molly," he gasped. God, it hurt.

"Good, you stay with me," Molly told him. She opened his shirt and he heard her muttered, "Shit."

"That bad?" he said, forcing a smile onto his face.

"You're going to be okay," she ordered, her voice shaking slightly as she removed her jumper and pressed it to his stomach. "All right? You're going to be fine."

"You have an exceptional talent with the dead, Hooper, but you're not that good," he wheezed, coughing and groaning as she pressed on the wound. He watched her face as he felt the shock creeping in – her strong jaw, her adorable nose, her surprisingly serious brow. He decided right then and there that if he was going to have a last moment, he wanted it to be looking at her. "Hey," he said, grabbing her attention. Molly looked at him, her hands still working furiously at his abdomen. "I love you, Molly."

Her face contorted in shock and fear before settling into something resembling frustration.

"Stop that right now," she told him. "You don't need to do that because you're going to be fine."

"Either way," he gasped, wincing. "I do love you. And there's nothing you can do to stop me saying so."

A single tear slipped down her cheek, but the corner of her mouth turned up.

"I love you, too," she murmured. "Now you hang on so we can tell each other in a proper setting."

She kept one hand pressed to his wound as the other found his, squeezing tightly. He clung to the contact as consciousness slipped from him, hearing Sally on the phone calling for backup and an ambulance.

oOo

Molly always felt out of place in other hospitals. She'd done so much of her schooling and training at Barts, it felt like home. When she didn't know every nook and cranny of a place and every face she saw, it left her feeling helpless. The Cambridge Hospital certainly had her feeling like an outsider.

It really didn't help that the man she loved was laid up in one of their beds and his general care was out of her hands. She was able to keep an eye on everything and look after his progress and medication, but the staff patted her shoulder and told her, "Don't worry, luv, he's in good hands."

Which left her with nothing to do but worry for two days as he recovered from surgeries, sitting by his bedside until the attending nurse told her to go home (a hotel room, for the time being). At least it kept her away from London and away from the awful man who had done this to him. A man who was currently awaiting a murder trial and would easily be convicted.

"He's confessed to everything," Sally told her when she came to check in on Greg. "Found out that the Davis were deep into the black market and getting all sorts of funding and financial benefit out of it. Plus fame. I think that bothered him the most, though he hasn't said it."

"And he killed them for it," Molly said flatly.

"Indeed he did," the sergeant confirmed. "He confronted Donald after the gala, where he'd stolen the black market knife, and when things got nasty, it turned physical. Smashed his head in and panicked. In his mind, the next step was to kill Linda to keep her quiet."

"And then stole her body from the morgue."

"It was a lot easier for him to make off with Donald's body that night," Sally informed her. "He couldn't get her out of the hotel, so he had to wait for another opportunity."

"And the man with him during the Barts robbery?" Molly asked.

"A colleague," Sally said somewhat sadly. "Who thought he was there for a research pickup. Didn't realize what he'd been dragged into."

"All of that over a research grant," Molly said, gritting her teeth angrily.

"I suspect ego had a lot to do with it," Sally confided. "He might not look like much, but that doesn't mean he didn't have it in him." She looked over Molly's shoulder into Greg's room. "How is he?"

"In and out," Molly told her, rubbing her arm. "But he's recovering well. They were able to repair the damage and he's avoiding infection. All good things."

"And how are you?" Dark brown eyes looked straight into Molly's, full detective mode activated.

"Worried out of my mind," Molly said with a nervous laugh.

"Love will do that to you," Sally said knowingly.

A few days later, Molly was walking into the hospital with a small package she'd had to go on quite a search for. She found Greg sitting up and looking more alert. He smiled broadly when she walked into his room.

"What's this?" Greg asked with a smile, taking the box from Molly.

"Long overdue tiramisu," she said, immediately wrinkling her nose. "I did not mean for that to rhyme."

He chuckled, taking a peek into the box.

"I think I promised this to you a while back. Something about making up for a little pop on the nose," she said, somewhat cheeky. Greg's eyebrows rose. "Did you know that it translates to 'pick-me-up?' Thought it was appropriate."

Greg set the box on the bedside table.

"Best get-well gift I've received. I'll save that for later when I'm done forcing down what they claim is chicken soup," he told her, taking her hand and tugging her down to sit on the edge of the bed. "I believe they enjoy lying about the contents of the food here."

"They make you take a class in medical school," she quipped. "How to get patients to eat fake meat and sauce in five variations."

"Really?"

"No," Molly laughed, slipping her hand more securely in his. "But it might be useful."

She stared down at their entwined fingers.

"Why the serious brow, Hooper?" he asked, drawing a finger down her temple.

"Other than the fact that I almost lost you?"

"You didn't," he said. "Takes more than a murderous lunatic to take me down."

Molly laughed gently.

"There's, um… there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about. Something I wanted to say, but I've been waiting for the right moment," she said, looking up and seeing his expression suddenly serious. She smiled tenderly. "I love you, Greg."

His face broke out in a smile once more and he laughed, pulling her close so that their foreheads touched.

"This is the proper setting, then?" he asked, threading his fingers in her hair.

"As good as any," she said with a smile. "I couldn't wait any longer."

"I'm glad," Greg said, tilting his head and capturing her mouth in a kiss. "Because I love you, too, Molly."

oOo

Five months later...

The alarm went off at six o'clock, the same as it did every morning. Greg rolled over and blindly felt around the bedside table for the phone, finally locating it and hitting snooze. Then he rolled back the other way and scooted towards the warm body he had been previously wrapped around.

His clothes from the previous day were strewn with hers on the floor; the rest of his wardrobe was tucked neatly into her closet and in half of the dresser. His books had found a home on her shelves and his various other personal items had fit in so seamlessly it was as though the empty spots had been waiting for him all along. The only new item, the only one she didn't know about, was the small square box hidden at the back of his sock drawer, saved for the perfect day when he could work up the courage to give it to her and hope to God she liked him enough to say yes…

He breathed in the flowery scent of her hair and kissed the bare skin of her neck. Molly giggled sleepily and shrugged her shoulder, curling into his body.

"S'morning," she mumbled, lacing her fingers through his as he rested his hand on her stomach. "Aren' we running today? You'll be late."

"Ten more minutes," he sighed happily, nestling into the pillow and pulling her close.