Note: This was written ages ago for Let's Write Sherlock's Challenge 5, which was to focus on minor characters in the series. It was also inspired by (and perhaps to some degree - maybe a large one - cannibalized from) the P.G. Wodehouse story The Knightly Quest of Mervyn, which made me smack my forehead, close the book, put it down gently, and laugh for a week.

Disclaimer: I have no ownership over BBC's Sherlock, and I do not profit from this in ways that involve money.

Strawberries for Molly Hooper

Part 1: Monday – Tuesday: The Quest

The night was a good one, as these things went. They had both gotten off work late (hardly unusual, given their professions) so they'd missed the film they'd wanted to see, but dinner had been nice and it hadn't even mattered that they'd forgotten to make a reservation. Greg knew the restaurant's owner, and, as he told a guilty-looking Molly while they waited for their food, the crispy fish was completely worth the unfriendly looks from the people who were still waiting in line outside.

He drove her home after that. There was work the next day for both of them, so there were no invitations to come upstairs, not even just to watch reruns of Downton Abbey on the sofa, with Greg keeping a box of Kleenex handy for the bits that made Molly cry. (Greg hadn't asked her to his flat yet. His ex-wife still hadn't come by for the rest of her things, and he felt deeply uncomfortable at the thought of taking Molly there while they were still lurking about the place.)

"So I'll see you Friday then?" said Molly, smiling. Her lipstick wasn't as red as it had been at that little Christmas party at 221B Baker Street, and Greg thought it suited her better. She looked more comfortable, at any rate, and that was good.

"Yeah, Friday." He grinned back at her, feeling like a giddy teenager. They had been seeing each other for a couple of months now, and Greg at least was in the happy-giddy, rose-tinted-glasses stage of semi-serious dating. He'd not been in many serious relationships – hardly any, actually, excepting his marriage – and everything seemed new and wonderful. If the right music came on, literally nothing would have stopped him from mooning about her street like a love-struck Freddie Eynsord-Hill. "Unless something comes up, of course."

"Oh God, I hope not," said Molly automatically, then she covered her mouth with her small hands when she realized what that sounded like. "No, I didn't – I meant –"

"I know what you meant," said Greg gently. "I'm not as thrilled about dead bodies as our mutual acquaintance is" – he'd coined the phrase when he noticed how Molly would titter and blush and look embarrassed at herself when Sherlock came up in conversation (it was, she explained, a crush, just a crush, and a nuisance, and she wished very much that she could turn it on and off like a tap, she'd been trying to beat it for years) – "and I'm in favor of no murders happening this week. This month. Ever, actually, but then I'd be out of a job." And he rubbed the back of his neck, or rather his scarf, beneath the collar of his coat. "Look, um, I wanted to get you something for – for next time."

Molly's cheeks took on a pink tinge that had nothing to do with the cold. "Oh, you don't have to," she protested.

"Well, I know I don't, but I want to do something nice for you."

"You already do nice things for me."

"I try to."

"You do," said Molly firmly.

"Okay, well, I wanted to do something else." Greg waved a hand vaguely at the city of London. "I meant to surprise you with something, but I thought about it, and I didn't want to get you some stupid knickknack that you'd secretly hate—"

"But I wouldn't hate it. Whatever it was."

"That's because you're nice. But – is there anything you'd like? Anything at all?"

"Oh." Molly bit her lip as she thought for a bit. "Um. Pens are always useful."

"Pens?"

"All right, not pens then," she amended, laughing at the look on his face that had accompanied the mental image of his showing up for their next date carrying a box of biros with a ribbon around it. "What about – oh, I don't know – strawberries?"

"Strawberries?" Lestrade managed to sound merely quizzical now, instead of incredulous.

"Yes, strawberries," said Molly, warming to the subject. "I think – yes, I rather like the idea of eating strawberries in the middle of winter. Maybe…snuggled up in front of the fireplace?" And she lowered her eyes sweetly as she made the suggestion.

"All right. Strawberries." Greg nodded. "I can get you strawberries. Chocolate-covered ones?"

"No, just, you know, ordinary ones. Nothing fancy."

"And you're sure about that? Just strawberries? Nothing more exciting? I could do you a nice dragon fruit if you like. Or a guava. Or a mango."

Molly laughed again and squeezed his hand. "Strawberries."

"Okay, then, you'll have your strawberries." Greg leaned in and kissed her, softly, on her mouth, which was not – contrary to the assertions of some consulting detectives – too small at all. "Good night, love. See you Friday."

"Strawberries?" said Anderson.

"Yep, strawberries." Greg took the folder from him, opened it, decided that everything was as much in order as it was ever going to be, and closed it again. He hadn't been able to stop himself from talking about his last date, and, well, they were all friends anyway. "Didn't want anything else. Expect pens, maybe."

"Pens?" said Sally Donovan.

"My reaction exactly. Though it'll be hard enough finding time to get the damn strawberries, with the Amberley court case finally coming up. I still might end up nicking a pen from Supplies." He raised the folder, smiled at the two of them. "Anyway, I've got to take this to the D.C. before he starts shouting for it. Thanks, Anderson."

And he went off with a definite spring in his step. Sally turned to Anderson, and he recognized the look on her face instantly. They had known each other for years – before either of them had joined the Metropolitan Police, actually – and they were good friends, for the most part, and lovers occasionally, and that only when their judgment was shot to hell, though neither of them said so, to save the other's feelings. And so he knew that that overtly serious expression Donovan had on meant that she was beginning to hash out the details of an intricate plot.

"So the boss needs strawberries," she said.

"For Molly," said Anderson. "She's a nice girl."

They exchanged a look. In the space of a few seconds, that look said, The boss hasn't looked this happy in a long time, and She really is very nice, and, I am rooting for them so hard, I'm already trying to decide what to wear to the wedding.

"We could get the strawberries for him," said Donovan slowly. "No, scratch that, I think we should. How many do you think she wants?"

"I don't know. A dozen?" Anderson shrugged. "They sell them in those little baskets anyway, so however many is in one of those, I guess. It shouldn't be too hard."