A.N. - Filled for this prompt on LJ; thought I'd share it here as well. Please excuse the last line, couldn't help myself ;)

"So you'll do it?" Mycroft asked.

"All right, but in case this blows up in all our faces I want it made clear that it was not my idea," Lestrade grumbled.

"It won't, but fine. Good day to you," Mycroft said, walking away from the detective. Lestrade called out, "But why are you doing this?"

Mycroft stopped, and turned around. "I worry about them, detective," he replied. "Constantly."

He walked out of the abandoned pencil factory, quite pleased with himself. It had been a pet project of his for ages, and this time he was sure it would work. He'd pulled out all the stops, using the considerable influence that came with his minor position in the British government.

That night, Sherlock Holmes was sitting alone in his flat when he received a call from Lestrade. John had gone off to stay with his girlfriend again for the third time this week—they were getting serious, what was her name again? Mary? Mandy?—and he was bored. But fortunately someone had been murdered. Apparently someone had been murdered at what was currently the most popular restaurant in London.

"Boring. The murderer probably thought poisoning the victim at a restaurant would shift the suspect onto the kitchen staff. Interview the patrons. See if anyone is having an affair, that sort of thing. I can't do your entire job for you, Lestrade."

Ignoring the insult, the detective told him the story that Mycroft had given earlier that day.

"The victim didn't eat anything from the restaurant, Sherlock. It's the head chef that's been killed. He just dropped dead in the middle of a crowded restaurant. We don't know what kind of poison, just that it was fast-acting and very lethal. But he was with 20 other people who swore he was in their sight the entire time and never ate other than tasting the food. Everyone else is fine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Text me the address," he said, as he whipped out of his dressing gown to get changed.

Meanwhile, Molly Hooper had been watching the newest episode of Glee when she got a call from the hospital. Setting down her glass of white wine on the table, she muted the telly and picked up her phone.

"But I don't usually pick up the bodies… Oh really? How wonderful, I mean, about the baby, not about… Yes, yes, of course I will. What's the address?"

After hanging up, Molly walked into her room and looked for her usual jumper and skirt, but it was nowhere to be seen. She could have sworn she left it on the floor after changing into her pajamas.

She opened her closet, which looked strangely bare. Her clothes were still there, but some items were definitely missing. Did I put them in the wash and forget? She walked over to her washing machine to find it empty as well. Molly walked back to her closet, confused. She would have to look for her clothes more carefully when she came back if she wanted anything to wear to work tomorrow. But for now she had no choice but to wear the navy dress that she'd scarcely worn, the one that was too dressy for work and too grave for a date.

"Very nice touch, my dear," Mycroft said to his assistant, as they watched the pathologist leave her flat in her form-fitting dress.

"Well, she couldn't have worn one of those hideous jumpers to a date, now could she? I'll return them later," Anthea replied.

When Sherlock arrived at the restaurant it was strangely quiet for a murder scene. He expected police cars, panicked patrons, and a frustrated Lestrade, with Anderson being idiotic as always. The only person there, however, was Molly Hooper the pathologist, who was getting out of the St. Bart's van.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asker her, not recognizing the accusatory tone in his voice.

"Oh, Dr. Perkins, the other pathologist? His wife is having a baby. They've got two boys already, but it's a girl this time, they're ecstatic. So I said I would cover for him," Molly said wistfully, a small part of her jealous at the couple's happiness.

But Sherlock had already started walking into the restaurant, and Molly trailed after him. When they both entered, the door shut behind them, making Molly jump. She tried to open it, but it was locked shut. The entire place was empty save a table for two, which would have been impossible even if there hadn't been a murder. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Mycroft," he spat. A waiter stepped out from the back. Sherlock grabbed him by the collars, and said, "What on earth is going on? Not that I don't know, but did Mycroft actually think this would work?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir," the frightened waiter replied. "I was told that a Mr. Holmes had rented out the restaurant for a romantic dinner."

"A romantic dinner?" Molly asked. "Sherlock, you didn't-?"

"Of course I didn't," Sherlock said exasperatedly. "This is my brother's way of setting me up on a date." He rolled his eyes, as if the very idea was ridiculous.

"Oh. I see. But I don't think he'll let us out until we've at least eaten… So what do you think? Not on a date, I mean… Just as friends…" Molly said, looking at the candlelit table. The restaurant was beautiful, Sherlock was even wearing the purple shirt that she loved, and everything was perfect. Of course it had to be a practical joke.

Sherlock sighed, and walked over to the table. They sat, and Sherlock rattled off their order, even faster than he normally talked. As the waiter retreated, he glared at Molly, as if this was somehow her fault.

"But it's not so horrible, this, is it?" Molly said, smoothing her dress. "I mean, am I that bad?"

"And… The lights, I think," Mycroft said into a microphone.

The light around them magically grew brighter, and Sherlock looked at Molly, glowing in the candlelight. Away from the fluorescent lights of the hospital her brown eyes sparkled, even with that hesitant look she always had around him. And her lips didn't seem so small today, maybe she had finally found a lipstick that suited her. Her dress accentuated her figure that she kept hidden under all those jumpers.

"No," he replied softly, shaking his head. Their food arrived, and they began to eat. Molly talked about how she had wanted to come here for ages, but could never get a table. More likely she didn't have anyone to go with. Sherlock didn't say anything, but watched her talk. He'd always thought it was inane chatter, but it felt comfortable outside the morgue. When he didn't interrupt her Molly was quite articulate, her voice rising and falling in a warm register. A cello began to play a warm tune that blended in too seamlessly to be unintentional, but if you had asked him Sherlock couldn't have honestly answered that he knew when the music started playing.

Mycroft watched his brother on the monitor, looking at Molly as if he was trying to figure her out. She talked, and he listened, occasionally replying to her questions. They finished their meal, and Molly thanked the waiter before leaving. She even made Sherlock apologize to him.

In a gesture that surprised even Mycroft, Sherlock walked Molly to her flat, even after she insisted that she lived just a few minutes away. At the doorstep. Molly hesitated. "Well then, Sherlock. Thank you for a lovely evening, I guess. I wasn't expecting that." She looked back at him, their heights the same that Sherlock was standing a few steps below.

"I suppose you should thank Mycroft," he replied. "But Molly Hooper…" he started to say.

"Yes?" Molly replied, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart was pounding, hoping against hope for what she had told herself would never happen in a million years. His stormy blue-green eyes found hers, the chocolate eyes darker than he had ever seen it. At that impossibly long moment a car drove by, illuminating her face in the darkened street. The trance broke, and he blinked.

"Good night," Sherlock said, walking off into the darkness. Molly went inside and leaned against the door, not sure if the entire night wasn't a wine-induced dream.

"That idiot! Why didn't he kiss her!" Anthea yelled at the screen.

Mycroft smiled. He knew his brother, and the wheels were set in motion. The plan was working.

"I knew he wouldn't, at least not today," he said. "But he's dying to try."