Author's Note: This is really the last part to this. Also, I don't own these characters.

He is leaving tomorrow. This afternoon a messenger arrived with a carry-on bag and an envelope containing his new identity. He had several aliases in his former life, but none of those are safe to use, so his brother has fashioned a new one. He did not let her look closely at any of it. She can't know his new name. For her own safety. She knows this is true but it still feels like a string being cut.

They are lying in bed, facing each other. They have shared this bed for the last 12 nights . Or days. Time had lost a bit of meaning with no telly or internet or radio. (They were not originally intended to stay for more than 24 hours.) No jobs to do. The first night was an act of survival. The rest—well—there had been no discussion. If they were both sleeping at the same time, they were together. Either here or on the sofa, Molly's head on Sherlock's chest, their hands in each other's hair.

Three nights ago, he had kissed her. She'd been woken up by thirst and after downing two full glasses of water in the kitchen had just gotten back into bed when he had reached out to her, arms around her waist, pulling her to him. He'd done this before in his sleep, reaching for her desperately, murmuring into her shoulder, imploring her not to leave him. But this time he was fully awake, and his mouth found hers as she gasped. She'd thought she had imagined every kind of kiss in the realm of kissing when it came to this man, but god, the real thing had been so much lovelier. And she had accepted it at first-greedily-and returned it, sucking on his bottom lip (And how many fantasies had she had that just centered on his bottom lip?) and gently biting it. When he'd begun kissing her neck, and his hand had started sliding under her shirt, something in her lust fogged brain had screamed at her that this wasn't right and in an act of monumental will she had pushed him away.

"Sherlock, no. Not this. You're not-yourself."

"Molly," he'd whispered then flopped over onto his back. "Not myself. Of course. Because 'myself' is the person who insults you in one breath and asks a favor in the next."

"Well, yes, there's—that. But also, you've been through a lot, and you're just getting your bearings and you shouldn't be jumping into—oh!" Stupid, Hooper! She'd tensed a little, waiting for him to launch into her (he hadn't done it once since they'd been here, but she was conditioned to expect it) but he had just looked at her, remorseful.

"You're right. I shouldn't."

He'd spent the rest of the night in the lounge, sitting in one of the chairs by the window that made up the entire eastern facing wall of the flat (this generic safe house in an outlying borough) fingers steepled under his chin. Then he had started sending texts on the prepaid mobile that had sat mostly idle, other than being used for takeaway orders and the daily call from Mycroft, which Molly always fielded. (No, he's not ready to leave. No, he doesn't want to talk. Yes, he's still "unwell.") Later,as if summoned by magic, a messenger arrived with a laptop and a wireless router. Sherlock had spent all day and the next sending texts and clacking away on the computer, only taking tea and coffee, barely speaking.

"Tell me more," she says now. She has convinced him to try to sleep tonight, but they have ended up talking like kids after lights out.

"You were blonde as a child—"

"How could you know that? You're just guessing now."

"Your hair's barely brown, now; it's not an improbable conclusion. Even I was blonde as a child."

"What? No way." She had wondered about what he was like as a child, but she'd always imagined him to be just as dark haired as he is now. He must have been a terror, angelic looking golden ringlets and that razor sharp mind.

"Yes. Though only until I was six or seven. He rolls onto his back and begins flexing his right hand. It must have fallen asleep.

"What else?"

"You've broken your arm at some point, it bothers you when it's cold and damp, which slows you down slightly in your work. You don't like to take anything for it, but on those days you drink more coffee."

She nods. "Go on."

He rolls over again.

"You didn't grow up incredibly well off but your family didn't struggle. Your teeth were straightened so there was some extra money. So I'd imagine your father was an electrician or plumber and your mother worked as well. Teacher, if she's where you got your taste in holiday themed jumpers."

"Nurse, actually. The jumpers are all me. And dad was an electrician. He did a lot of trading, though. Rewired the orthodontist's house in exchange for my braces."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, I know the jumpers are bad, but I like them."

"No. I'm sorry for-everything." He reaches for her face and gently pushes a tendril of hair behind her ear.

"Sherlock, I—" But he is kissing her again . One lingering open mouthed kiss, and he pulls back slightly to look at her. She places her palm on his cheek. He's gotten scruffy again. Part of his new persona. He smiles under her palm then takes her hand. She is sure he must be able to hear her heart pounding as she meets him halfway and kisses him. This time a little more deeply, and he eases her onto her back, trailing kisses down her neck, her arm, with an occasional whispered "I'm sorry." He pushes her shirt up and leaves a few kisses on her tummy before coming back up to take her mouth again. And when they separate momentarily, she truly feels as though she's coming up for air after being in the water just a bit too long. Breathless and a little panicked and seeing spots.

"Sherlock. This—this can't be about—pity or remorse." It is a terrifying thing to say, but as much as she wants this, she cannot have it be a misplaced act of kindness on his part. His kindnesses can be devastating.

"Molly, no," he says, "This is just about you, and—and me."

As he looks down at her, it finally hits her that she may never see him again. That he may just disappear, or that he may really be killed. Would she ever know? Would she be extended that courtesy? She decides that while she might regret doing this, not doing it would be the biggest mistake of her life.

"Yes," she says. "Please. Yes."

After that line has been crossed, it is only a matter of removing physical boundaries. The shedding of clothes. His pulling the elastic from her hair so it will flow freely. There is no art to any of it. His shirt gets stuck for a second when she's removing it. There's a moment when Molly's bra is in danger of being ripped off because he is clumsy with the hooks. The discussion of their lack of prophylactics, conducted in shorthand.
"IUD?"

"Yes, and all tests negative."

"Me too."

"Okay."

And then it is just skin, and breath ad heat. She had always somehow imagined him to be cool to the touch but he is feverishly hot. She feels she may be engulfed by his body in the same way she is sometimes engulfed by his personality, and that she will wake up tomorrow with scorch marks on her skin where he has touched her.

His hands and mouth are not enough and even though she presses against him frantically it is not enough. She begs him to take her and he reaches between their bodies. But when he enters her it is too fast and she winces and pulls back.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No—I mean, a little—but no just—slowly."

So he eases into her in a few gradually deepening strokes, and when he is fully inside her he pauses and strokes her face with his palm.

"Okay?"

"Yes." She kisses him, and he begins to move with her. She is so grateful for the full moon because it bathes the room in silvery light and lets her see his face, all hollows and angles and bright eyes that look at her with something she allows herself to call reverence. Then he can't keep his eyes open any longer and squeezes them shut biting his lip and increasing his pace. She keeps up as long as she can and finally just digs in her heels and braces herself against him, and she feels her orgasm coming like an itch that's just out of reach and then oh god there it is and all she knows is this moment. He follows her within seconds, his name in her ear. And in the next ragged breath, "I love you."

She doesn't answer because she knows she can't have heard him right. And that even if she did, it's the influence of endorphins or duty or something else. And even if she dared ask him to repeat it he is slipping so quickly into sleep—head resting on her heaving chest, one hand carelessly draped on her breast—that it would be pointless. She imagines that if you could see inside her mind, it would be one gigantic exclamation mark, and has been since he nearly startled her to death in the lab almost two weeks ago.

She wakes up alone a few hours later, a pre-dawn grey having replaced the moonlight. It is the lack of shared body heat that wakes her. She sits up and looks at his side of the bed. Wrinkled and empty. He wouldn't have left like this, would he? They were supposed to leave at the same time. But of course he would. It's the sort of thing he's always done, coming and going with no warning. They had packed the night before so it would have been easy for him to slip away. Stupid to think that he would ever change so utterly in such a short amount of time, no matter the circumstances.

But then she hears the kettle click off, and the clinking of china and flatware. She exhales.

She puts on his dressing gown, the one she fetched for him last week. Ties the belt. Steps into the kitchen. He is leaning against the counter, shirtless, hair askew,staring into a mug, watching his tea brew. He looks up at her and his eyes are wary but not cold. She had feared coldness the most. He takes down a mug for her and passes her a tea bag and the milk. And for the next few minutes there is nothing but the sounds of this ritual. Whatever happens, make tea.

She breaks the silence.

"Did you mean it? It's—well, it's okay if you didn't, if it was just hormones or you just felt you should. I just want you to know that you didn't have to say it, if you didn't mean it. I would have still done it all the same." She stares down at her tea, trembling.

"Look at me, Molly."

She shakes her head. It's unbearable.

He takes her by the shoulders and gently turns her around to face him. He bends his knees so he is at eye level with her, cupping her face in his hands. And the look on his face is unbearable, but for completely different reasons.

"I would never—" he clears his throat and stands to his full height again, pulling her to him. She wraps her arms around his waist and presses into him, making contact wherever she can. His heart is pounding against her ear and his voice seems to resonate through her entire body as he speaks.

"It wasn't just—earlier. I realized it that day you told me you didn't count, but I filed it away because I didn't know what to do with it, and more importantly I didn't want there to be any way that Moriarty could figure it out. And I've had nothing to do but think since—since we've been here, and it was always there, and I realized that even though I only knew it that day I couldn't even pinpoint the exact moment it actually happened. I know the exact date of every sensational murder that has occurred in this city in my lifetime, I could give you directions from here to any place you wanted to go in London. I can tell you the chemical compound of almost any substance in this flat, but I could not tell you with any certainty when it was that I—first loved you, so I'll just have to assume that it was the first time I saw you. I always thought such things were impossible, but now I know they're really just improbable. And I am more sorry than I can ever express that I haven't loved you well, but I hope that the fact that I have loved you always mitigates that, at least a little."

She sobs and holds him tighter. It is too much. Too much. Too damned much. Because he will be leaving and may never come back, and she'd almost rather it had been a lie, because then maybe she'd have had a chance of getting over him.

"Molly, Molly. What's wrong? "He asks, taking her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes again.

"What's the use of my knowing that-this." She inhales deeply and exhales. Find your words, Hooper. "It's just useless now! You're going to be gone in two hours and I may never see you again, or you might—actually die, and I may not ever even know—"

"And you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or an undiagnosed heart condition could kill me before I get to Dublin. Or I could just act like I used to and delete this whole thing, or you could find someone new and forget about me and I'll come home to find you married and pregnant. Anything could happen. So that's why it does matter. It matters that right now,and for the next five minute, and the next five minutes after that and after that, I love you.

"You're only going to love me for fifteen minutes?" she smiles weakly.

He pulls her in tightly. "Ah, there's my Molly, with her terrible jokes."

They shower together, a vastly different experience from the first day in the flat. This time, he is fully present, and she has no qualms about looking at his body or what he might see of hers. They wash each other, their soap slick hands gliding over each other, memorizing everything. She is sure that she could map out all of his freckles with her eyes closed. That she would know the swoop of his clavicle by touch alone.

After, they start to get dressed, but end up on the sofa. Though time is even shorter, the frantic urgency of the night before has dissipated. He takes the knowledge of her body that he has gained and along with her soft whispers of what she likes, he makes her body sing. As she moves above him, she looks down at his face, which is rapturous and wondering, and she will take this image with her: Sherlock Holmes, alive and in ecstasy, and for this moment, utterly and completely hers. The most secret and precious thing she will ever possess. And as her orgasm rolls through her, she leans in, her hair falling all around them and one of his hands moves from her hip to the nape of her neck and she whispers in his ear "Always."

They don't shower again. There is no time. Molly wouldn't have, anyway, preferring to take him with her on her skin if she cannot take him with her for real. For a while they just lay on the sofa, Molly collapsed against Sherlock's chest, watching the sun rise, Sherlock's hand gently encircling Molly's upper arm, caressing it lightly with his thumb.

The nearby church bells strike seven.

"They'll be here soon."

"Yes," he replies, not moving. Finally, she rouses and goes to the bedroom, slipping on the clothes she was wearing the day he had "died."

She holds the dressing gown to her face for a moment and inhales. It smells of him, and of her, and of them.

"Fuck it," she mutters, and throws it into the small bag. Zips it and goes into the lounge.

Sherlock is there, just finishing dressing. She struck for a moment at his appearance. It's not just the clothes, though the skinny jeans, trainers, Ramones t shirt and cardigan are a complete departure from his usually immaculately tailored appearance. What strikes her is that his very posture has changed. He is looser, more relaxed, his shoulders slumped slightly, as though he had spent his adolescence trying to fold in on himself and had never opened up again. He is putting on his new persona as easily as he put on the clothes. He throws on a pair of horn rimmed spectacles and a knit cap that obscures all but the front of his hair. She giggles.

"Yes?" he says as he closes the laptop and loads it into a canvas messenger bag. He sorts through all of his papers and documents and distributes them in the bag's various pockets.

"Nothing, just—you." She shrugs. Her eyes are pricking with tears and she blinks frantically. No crying Hooper. No fucking crying.

He stops what he is doing and looks at her. Looks back to the messenger bag and closes it. Buckles the straps. Puts it over his shoulder and across his body. Swallows hard and holds his hand out to her.

Sherlock Holmes holds Molly Hooper's hand as they walk down the corridor. He holds it as they ride the elevator. They hold hands in the underground garage as they wait for the cars that will take them to separate destinations. Destinations. Molly has one of those moments of illumination when she realizes that destination and destiny have the same root. She looks up at him and his jaw is set, eyes already distant. Even though she is still holding his hand, she feels as though he is already gone. The identical black cars pull into the garage. The moment they stop Sherlock presses her hand to his mouth, then drops it and goes toward one of the cars. He has covered half the distance when he stops. She reaches him in seconds, rushing into his arms. He drops his bags and kisses her frantically.

She is the one to break away. She tears herself from him and pushes him toward the waiting car.

"Go. Now. Go!" She runs toward the other car, into the back seat. She gives the driver her address.

"Just go," she says. "Now." Her car pulls out first, and she doesn't look back.

As the two cars exit the underground garage, one turns left and the other turns right. Molly Hooper stares straight ahead, eyes locked forward.