Author's Note: This is for SammyKatz who requested that Anderson meet with injury. I hope you approve!

Despite Sherlock Holmes' frequent declarations to the contrary, Anderson wasn't an idiot. He wasn't a particularly moral or nice man at times, but he wasn't an idiot. A respected forensics expert, he could usually read the evidence well enough, so long as there wasn't a brooding man with impossible cheekbones and a ridiculous name hanging over him and putting down his every speculation.

Yes, Anderson had a pretty good natural instinct when it came to reading a situation—he was part of the forensics team of Scotland Yard, after all. Even so, one bitterly cold evening, when Sherlock Holmes showed up to the crime scene with St Bart's pathologist in tow instead of John Watson, it didn't take a genius to know that something was off.

"Where's Watson?" Anderson asked, eyeballing the young woman who stood close by the consulting detective. She was bundled up against the cold in a warm quilted coat and a wooly knitted cap pulled low over her forehead. A matching cream-colored knitted scarf was wound several times around her neck—very cozy, she looked, despite her pink nose and cheeks. Anderson realized he knew her, had worked with her several times in fact, but only within the confines of the morgue. "What's Hooper doing here? She doesn't work the crime scenes."

"Brilliantly observing the obvious as usual, Anderson," huffed Sherlock, his breath making white clouds in the cold. His nose was already very red and his cheeks looked chapped. "Dr. Watson has made promise to his wife to never miss dinner on Thursdays. A charming, if inconvenient, kindness he, as a loyal husband is making to his beloved wife. Try not to look so baffled, Anderson, though I'm sure loyalty to one's spouse may be an unfamiliar concept." Holmes practically bit off the final two syllables. He was touchy today.

Anderson's face twisted. Back to the status quo, then. After Sherlock's return from the "dead" there had been something of a…truce may be too strong a term, but a cease-fire, at least, between the two. They had avoided direct personal insults, and Sherlock had kindly avoided bringing up the fact that Anderson and Donovan had accused him of being a fraud and a serial killer. It looked like the war between the two had resumed, then.

"I think it's sweet," chimed in Dr. Hooper, "and a fair exchange for all the nights you keep him busy chasing criminals." She spoke pleasantly, but there was something accusatory in her tone. Sherlock didn't spare a glance at the pathologist as she spoke, he was focused on the murder victim on the ground before him, but something in his jaw twitched. Odd.

"We're pretty sure he's been poisoned, but we won't know for sure until the autopsy—" began Anderson, but Sherlock ignored him. Anderson glanced at Dr. Hooper who was already scanning the corpse with her eyes. She nodded when Anderson mentioned poisoning, her eyes fixing on the bloated, blackened tongue of the dead man.

Anderson and Sherlock bent over the victim. Anderson tried to speak, but Sherlock raised a warning hand, demanding silence as his eyes roved over the body, taking in every minute detail. His eyes flicked back and forth rapidly, processing the data when—

Anderson gave a long, audible sniff. "Do you smell something?" Sherlock's head jerked up in profound irritation and glared at the man next to him.

Sherlock looked pained. "Yes, Anderson. I smell the rank stink of desperation coming off of the assembled team. I smell the pong of stupidity wafting off—"

Anderson interrupted his string of insults irritably, "No, no, no. It's near here. It smells like…" he took a long sniff again, "strawberries…" He stared into Sherlock's angry blue eyes.

"If you are suggesting the odor of sanctity is emanating from the corpse, I can assure you that the victim is hardly a saint. His criminal associations are…" he was interrupted by another sniff from Anderson who leaned closer to the increasingly fidgety detective. Sherlock gave an irritable sigh.

"I know some poisons can have an odor of bitter almonds, but this is really strong," persisted Anderson. He leaned closer, "I think it's coming from—"

Sherlock shot to his feet, stepping away from the man. "And what have I told you about thinking, Anderson? It's far too cold out here to waste time with your insipid chatter," at this, he shivered and rubbed his hands together. That iconic coat wasn't as warm as it was stylish, it seemed.

Anderson sneered, "yes, yes, I know—I'll lower the IQ of the whole block—ha-ha. Should've worn your hat we bought you, Sherlock. " He grinned nastily, "It's got earflaps and everything to keep you toasty."

Sherlock glared back at Anderson, and subtly tried to stamp his feet. Those expensive leather shoes didn't do much against the icy street, either.

Sherlock shivered again, and said curtly, "I think we're through here. Dr. Hooper and I will wait here and accompany the body to the morgue—"

He didn't want Anderson waiting in the cold with the stiff? Fine by him. He had a jacket with a furry hood and he was still freezing. Let Sherlock freeze his arse off. See if he cared.

"Are you sure about that?" the woman chimed in looking concerned, "It's pretty cold out here, and the ambulance will take its time since it's not a call for a living victim. You look—"

"Yes, thank you, Molly. It's fine," snapped Sherlock. "The examination of the body must begin as soon as possible—why do you even think you're here? The longer we wait, the less chance we will find what we need to convict."

"Right," the pathologist replied tightly, "suit yourself." She adjusted her scarf and bent down to inspect the victim's tongue more closely. Sherlock opened his mouth, his eyes following her. He looked almost…contrite. Anderson's eyes swiveled between the two. If he didn't know better, this looked like a little domestic.

"Thank you for your help, Molly." He said stiffly.

"Mmm-hm," was the only reply.

"Let me just go clear you riding along. I'll be back in a moment." Smirking at Sherlock, Anderson turned to go back to the car. He'd have to cut through some tape to allow Sherlock to ride along in the ambulance, but Lestrade would handle it.

Several phone calls and a hot cup of coffee later, Anderson made his way slowly back to the pair standing behind the yellow police tape. The formalities were taken care of. He just needed to pack up and leave Sherlock and Hooper to it. Funny thing that he'd brought her along—

Anderson was still some distance away when he saw something that made him come to an abrupt stop and stand rigid in the cold air. The well bundled woman had Sherlock's gloved hands in her own and was chafing them briskly in her own. She dropped them suddenly to open up her thick coat, and taking his hands again, she placed his arms around her waist, underneath her warm coat and stepped forward to give him a big bear hug, made awkward due to the thickness of her jacket. Sherlock sank into her, hunching his shoulders against the cold and buried his face into her neck and wooly scarf. They swayed together, back and forth for a moment before the distant siren of the approaching ambulance—come to take the body away—caused them to reluctantly part.

What the hell had he just seen? Anderson's brow furrowed and he stepped closer. A rather friendly way of warming someone up. Who the hell would want to get that close to Sherlock Holmes? The closer you got, the more ammunition he had to insult you. Didn't she know that?

Dr. Hooper was looking down, refastening her coat, when Sherlock placed a gloved hand under her chin, and tilted her face up to his for a brief, soft kiss on her wind chapped lips. An apology. The wind shifted the sheet covering the dead man at their feet and caused an errant curl to fall over Sherlock's forehead. Dr. Hooper smiled and gently brushed it back.

It all happened within a minute or two, but to Anderson's horrified eyes, it was as if it were all happening in slow motion. Sherlock Holmes kissed a woman- a woman who kissed him back. A shudder ran down Anderson's spine—from cold or disgust, it was hard to tell.

Anderson began to move forward again, but he was in something of a daze, eyes fixed on the consulting detective and his pathologist, who were now standing a very professional distance away from each other, hands in pockets, eyes on the corpse. He didn't see the patch of ice.

Down Anderson went. Crack went his head on the cold cement. He lay stunned on the icy ground.

"Oh!" he heard a woman cry out through his fog of pain. Blinking his eyes open painfully, he saw the warm brown eyes of Molly Hooper staring down at him worriedly. "Are you okay? Just stay still. The paramedics are here for the body, but Sherlock's gone to bring them to you." Anderson groaned. "Shh. We'll get you taken care of." Molly bent over the injured man again, and a tendril of silky, brown hair fell over her shoulder and tickled his nose.

He twitched his nose. "Strawberries," he muttered.

The woman looked concerned. How hard had he hit his head?

"I'm sorry. What was that?" she asked kindly.

"You smell like strawberries," he said thickly.

Molly smiled. "It must be my new shampoo you're smelling. Nice, isn't it?"

"You smell like strawberries," he mumbled again.

"Yes, yes…" she patted his shoulder. Anderson's eyes widened with horror.

"So does Sherlock!" His detective training told him that could only mean one thing. But no. No!

Molly's eyes narrowed as she looked down on him. Anderson continued to stare at her with wide eyes, "Has he been scrubbing your floors?"

She heard the innuendo in his tone though she didn't understand it and pulled away hurriedly as the paramedics swooped in to shine a light into Anderson's eyes and check his vitals. "I think he hit his head hard," she murmured to Sherlock who had arrived with the paramedics and now stood beside her staring at Anderson with derision.

Suddenly Anderson smirked. He lifted a shaking hand to point at Sherlock. "Just look at the state of your knees," his giggled, and then moaned and closed his eyes again.

Sherlock's eye twitched and Molly wrinkled her nose. "What did he mean by that?" she looked up at Sherlock curiously.

"I have no idea," lied Sherlock smoothly, before turning to the paramedics who were lifting Anderson onto a stretcher. "Do examine him carefully. I suspect a brain injury, but then again, with him, it would be rather difficult to tell. Come along, Molly."

He strode off into the night, his pathologist close behind. As Anderson was loaded into the ambulance, his thoughts painfully and disjointedly replayed the scene of Sherlock Holmes kissing Molly Hooper over a dead body in the street. Wait until he told Donovan. He closed his eyes, smelled strawberries, and tried really hard not to throw up.