A/N: This is the first funny story I've written and I had a great time with it :) constructive criticism or a kind word are always lovely!
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or lines you recognize from BBC or other various sources.
"Sherlock, is everything alright?"
John looked at his friend Sherlock Holmes who had an ice cube in his mouth.
"Simply an experiment, nothing to worry about."
"What type of experiment?"
"Not one you would understand," Sherlock muttered while trying not to drop the ice cube.
In actuality, the ice cube was not for an experiment. Sherlock's mouth ached, but he certainly didn't want his doctor friend to notice this.
"Well," John said getting up from his chair, "when you're finished you should really come eat something. You're getting thinner than usual."
Sherlock ignored this comment. Rising himself, he walked to the bathroom. Once safe inside, he spat the ice cube into the sink and opened his mouth. He couldn't quite place the pain, but it came from the right half of his mouth. Holding open his jaw, he tried to find something that could be causing it. The search failed miserably. After about fifteen minutes of this investigation, he gave up and wandered out to the kitchen.
John stood by the stove, a pot of something boring bubbling as he stirred it.
"What are you cooking? It smells funny."
"It's beef stew, of course it smells funny, everything I cook smells funny," John grumbled, stirring the pot vigorously.
"I don't want any."
"This isn't optional, you haven't eaten a proper meal in days."
Sherlock pondered this. If he ate, his sore mouth would be problematic. If he refused, John would get fussy. John couldn't come to grips with the fact that food slowed his body far too much. A fussy John worried Sherlock. He became rather annoying when he fussed.
"Sit down," John demanded.
The army doctor had a slightly dangerous glint in his eye. He really was worried about Sherlock's wellbeing. Sighing in defeat, the consulting detective flopped into a kitchen chair. The bowl of stew set in front of him caused a wave of discomfort through his body. Everything required chewing, and chewing hurt. Slowly, he lifted his spoon and took a bite. He chewed cautiously, trying not to show pain.
"Sherlock, something's wrong with you," John observed. "You never chew so slowly. Either your stomach hurts or you've got a toothache. Which is it?"
Sherlock finished chewing.
"You watch me chew?"
"You're stubborn, I make sure you actually swallow your food. You'll get ill if you don't eat. But you're avoiding my question."
"I don't feel the need to answer your question."
"Then I'll figure it out myself."
"You're hardly the figuring out type," the detective scoffed.
"I've solved it already. You've got a toothache."
Sherlock gaped momentarily at his friend.
"Quite obvious. I'm surprised it took you so long. Now will you let me eat this stew in peace?"
"No, no I won't. Toothaches can be quite serious if not taken care of."
Sherlock sighed.
"Alright, then fix it quickly."
"You know I'm not a dentist, I'm going to make a phone call, and you're going to brush your teeth," John responded pulling his mobile out of his pocket.
Sherlock sat stubbornly on his chair. He refused to go to a dentist. It simply would not happen. John dialed the number, glaring at the detective meaningfully.
"I won't. You can't make me."
"Don't be so sure."
John set an appointment with a good dentist. Hanging up the phone, he stared Sherlock in the eye. The stare down lasted for about ten minutes before Sherlock slowly rose from the table in defeat and went to brush his teeth.
Upon reaching the dental office, John herded Sherlock in the doors. Anyone in the office would have seen a tall, dapper, fully grown man pouting like a toddler as a much shorter, and incredibly determined man practically pushed him through the doors. Fortunately, the office was empty of all except a girl behind the front desk. When the she looked up, she nearly laughed at John, an acquaintance of hers, forcing the tall stranger into a chair.
"Hi John, how've you been?"
"I've been playing daddy to the world's only consulting detective, so not too great. Do you have paperwork for him to fill out?"
"Yep! Here you are," the receptionist responded with a chuckle.
John handed Sherlock the clipboard. Sherlock frowned as he filled out his information.
"John, why do they need to know all this? It's absurd."
"It's basic stuff, it helps keep patients in order."
After handing in the clipboard and deducing that the receptionist loved deviled eggs, had three cats, was single and thought John was quite charming, Sherlock slouched in the chair. He hated being bossed around, although John's bossing did save his life or his dignity on occasion. This was certainly not one of those times.
A blonde woman opened the door and called his name. John gave Sherlock a if you know what's good for you you'll comply look and settled in to his chair. Sherlock rose, and walked after the woman. Obviously she liked her job and enjoyed horror films. This worried him a bit.
"Go ahead and sit down here and I'll go get Dr. Millar," the woman chirped.
Sherlock lowered himself into the chair, glancing about nervously. He disliked any type of medical office, especially dental ones. Although he would never admit it to John or anyone else, dentists caused him great amounts of anxiety. The dentist strode into the room.
"Hello, you must be Sherlock. I'm Dr. Millar."
"I thought as much," Sherlock said cooly.
"Go ahead and sit back. Could you tell me where the pain is?"
"Right side of my mouth, I think the upper portion. How long were you in Afganistan?"
The dentist looked a bit confused, but then smiled slightly.
"John mentioned you might say odd things. I left about a year ago. Now, I need you to open your mouth so I can find the problem area."
Sherlock obeyed without a fuss, the pain really was getting to his brain. As Dr. Millar poked around, he called out some kind of nonsense to the blonde assistant, who typed it into the computer.
"Well Sherlock, you've got a good sized cavity in your first molar on the upper right side. You should thank Dr. Watson for making you come in before you needed a root canal. Would you like to watch a movie while we work on it?"
"Actually, could you ask John for my phone? I've got some music on there."
"Sure thing. Would you be comfortable with some nitrous oxide to relax you, just at the beginning of the procedure?"
Sherlock nodded, his voice unwilling to work. The assistant handed him the phone, and he placed the earbuds snugly into place. Turning the music on low, he took a deep, shaky breath.
"You're handling this well," the dentist complemented. "John is a horrible patient. We have to get someone to hold him down until we get the gas on him."
This surprised Sherlock. John, afraid of the dentist, it seemed impossible. He allowed his shaking hands a bit of freedom. He supposed that wouldn't bother Dr. Millar too much after dealing with John. The chair reclined, and Sherlock took another shaky breath before he opened his mouth. The gas began flowing into his nose and he relaxed, staring at the ceiling. After a while, the gas turned off and Sherlock noticed he couldn't feel his mouth. He tensed momentarily, but calmed down as the strains of a beautiful violin piece ran through his headphones.
When the dentist finished, he tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock turned off his music and allowed his mouth to close.
"We're all finished. When the novacain fades off, you'll feel slightly sore for a while. I say milkshakes and tomato soup are good choices for the next 36 hours. Be careful not to chew on your cheek and take some aspirin every few hours."
Sherlock got out of the chair and shook hands with the dentist. Walking out to the waiting room, he pictured John, pinned in the chair, writhing about like a deranged snake. It made him chuckle a bit. He pushed open the dividing door and nodded to the receptionist.
"Well, that went smoothly," John commented.
"Indeed, now, I need a milkshake."