Dr. Molly Hooper lay flat on her back, staring at a ceiling barely visible in the faint light of a gray dawn. She had laid awake for hours, not knowing which was truly to blame - the pain or the fear. As a physician, she was more than aware of the many types of pain which could be inflicted on the human body. She could deal with pain. It was a physical sensation, nothing more. It had a beginning, and, hopefully, an end. But fear was something else. Fear was often irrational. Fear would always exist, lurking somewhere in the recesses of the mind, ready to spring to life once again. Irrational fear would not bend to logic, wouldn't disappear in the face of knowledge. Irrational fear was the worst kind. You couldn't defeat it, only face it and hope for the best. If you had the courage, of course. But this type of fear could defeat even the bravest of heroes. Molly knew that her fear was irrational, and that it had certainly won out over her courage hours ago. And somewhere during the hours in which she had lain here, wallowing in pain and fear, she had come to the conclusion that James Moriarty, had he not decided to pursue a career as a psychopathic consulting criminal, could have easily decided to become a dentist. For it was only her severe dental phobia which rivaled her distaste Sherlock Holmes' nemesis.

It was just after six in the morning when she decided to call Sherlock. She knew, of course, that this was, possibly, not a good idea. The detective kept irregular hours, but still, he was likely to be still abed at the crack of dawn. But she also knew that he owed her. Owed her a few times over, in fact. She had no idea what she wanted him to do, but she did know that she wanted him here. He would lecture her on her unfounded fear, present all sorts of logical arguments, tell her how mistaken she was to suffer like this with such a toothache, when it could be so easily dealt with. She didn't care. What she wanted was for him to take care of the matter, to take care of her. But she would settle for anything he would, or could, provide her. So she texted him.

I NEED YOU - MOLLY

IN WHAT CONTEXT? - SHERLOCK

Molly winced when she read his answer. It seemed he was in a playful mood, and playful was not what she was looking for. On any other occasion she would have relished a chance to flirt with the dishy detective, with whom she had been in love for so many years. But she had no real hopes of it ever being requited, especially in the condition she was currently in - red eyes from crying, swollen cheek from her tooth, and dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. She looked more like one of the cadavers in her morgue than a princess from a fairy tale, no matter how much Sherlock looked like a charming prince. She had to snicker a bit at the thought of anyone ever considering the insulting detective "charming." Handsome, certainly. Brave, indubitably. Charming? Never! She picked up her mobile once again to make the call.

Sherlock answered on the first ring. "Molly? What's the problem?"

"I'm in pain, Sherlock. It won't go away. And I'm scared." The pathologist managed to get the words out without breaking.

"Have you hurt yourself? Do you need an ambulance? Should I call…"

"No! I don't need that. I have a toothache. I've had it all night. I've tried everything, painkillers, oil of cloves, over the counter remedies. I can't sleep, and I'm so afraid…"

"This is about your ridiculous fear of dentists, isn't it Dr. Hooper? It's finally led to this inevitable conclusion." He let out what sounded to her like a rather impatient sigh. "You're an educated woman, for god's sake. A doctor! Surely you know that…" He stopped short when he heard the quiet sobs coming from his mobile. "I'm on my way, Molly. Hold on. I'll take care of it." And with those words, the detective hung up to quickly dress and make certain arrangements.

In less than thirty minutes, Molly heard the distinct sounds of someone picking her lock, and shortly thereafter a tall, dark figure graced the entrance to her bedroom, where she huddled in her bed clutching a pillow to her swollen face. He didn't say a word, just approached the bed and sat down, the better able to wrap his arms around her and brush his hands over her mussy hair. "Come on, Molly. Time to be brave now. I know you can do this. You are the bravest woman I have ever known. Pull yourself together. I have a car waiting, and we're going to get this taken care of now."

"You're taking me to a dentist, Sherlock?"

"I certainly think that's a better alternative than a tree surgeon, or perhaps a plumber, don't you, Dr. Hooper?"

"I'm afraid."

"I know. But I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere until it's all over. I promise you."

Molly sniffed a few more times, and dabbed at her eyes with a damp tissue. "I have to get dressed…"

"Not necessary. We'll be going right from a garage to the facility. You'll be seen immediately. The only attire you'll need is, as they say, your "big girl panties."

Despite the pain and embarrassment, Molly couldn't resist a small flirtation, after all. "That's the first time you've shown any interest at all in my panties, Sherlock!"

The detective gave a rather noncommittal snicker, and briefly looked over her attire of pajama bottoms festooned with tiny ducklings and pink vest. "The outfit you're wearing is hardly likely to elicit lustful thoughts, Molly, irrespective of the seductive nature of your panties. Now, let's get you into some shoes and a coat, and down to the car, shall we?"

"I don't want to go, Sherlock. I'm scared!"

"Molly, I am not going to waste my time pointing out how illogical your fear is. You know it as well as I do! So, we're going. It will be over soon, and I'll stay until it is. Now, up and out!"

Molly found herself all but carried down the stairs and into the waiting black car. "This looks like one of Mycroft's. How did you manage that?"

"I merely called my brother, who informed me, rather emphatically, just how inconvenient the hour was. I then asked him what happened if the queen were to suffer a painful toothache at such an inconvenient hour. When he explained the arrangements in place for such an occurrence, I demanded that such arrangements be made available to my pathologist. He wouldn't have done it for me, but he is inordinately fond of you, as well as your raspberry tarts, Molly. So, we're currently on our way to an emergency facility adjacent to Buckingham Palace, where you will be treated by the most competent staff available in the UK." Molly started to speak again, but was quickly hushed. "Don't say a word. To refuse treatment now may amount to treason, you know, and I don't think I can get away with that twice!"

They arrived within a few moments, and were rushed inside. The smell of the dental facility, and the sound of a whirring drill made Molly's mouth go dry and her heart beat faster. She looked frantically around her, but Sherlock Holmes held fast to her hand, leading her gently toward a door where a dental chair stood in a pool of light. People in white were bustling about, probably wondering just how important the small woman in the ducky pajamas was. She was guided to the chair by a smiling woman with a kind face who urged her not to be so nervous. True to his word, Sherlock would not leave her side, even when it was suggested that he may be in the way. They must have had some inkling of who he was, or rather, who his brother was, for no one pressed the matter. Even Molly found it difficult to believe that the soft spoken grandfatherly man in the white coat who seemed to be in charge was any sort of psychopathic serial sadist, and soon, even if she was not completely comfortable, had abandoned her fight or flight stance. As a physician, she knew that needles may not be pleasant, but were certainly nothing to panic about. As her mouth began to feel numb, she thought that she may have been given enough local anesthetic to numb an elephant. Obviously, these people had been warned about her, and had decided that she would feel nothing at all to upset her. While she was losing feeling in her mouth, she looked up at Sherlock, who gazed back at her with unhidden concern. He squeezed her hand and gave her a comforting kiss on the top of her still mussy head. And then the work began.

And it was nothing. She knew the man in white was doing something in there, but he may as well have been removing her appendix through her throat for all that Molly felt. The high pitched whine of the drill was a bit disconcerting, but nothing she couldn't handle. The constant commands of "Rinse" and "Spit" occupied her mind. All she felt was a bit of pressure as the filling was pressed into the now clean whole in her newly repaired tooth. The drill was used one again to polish the filling, and then it was over. Molly felt embarrassed, and relieved, and was hard pressed to decide which was the dominant emotion. After the final rinse and spit, she rose from the chair, still clutching the detective's hand, proud of the fact that she had not made a complete fool of herself in front of these competent and kind strangers. She was returning to her smiling and friendly self, when Sherlock handed her her coat and started to lead her out of the facility. "But, I don't even know the doctor's name, Sherlock. I want to thank him. Bloody hell, I want to hug him!" The woman's word came out more than a bit slurred, but Holmes managed to get the gist.

"I'm afraid his identity is on a need to know basis, Molly. I'm not sure the Queen herself knows. But I understand that she simply refers to him as "Needles", perhaps for his overuse of local anesthesia. I fact which I am sure you appreciate!"

To her credit, Molly did try to reply. She meant to say, "Perhaps he will be knighted. Sir Needles!" Heaven only knows how it came out, for her companion gave her one of his patronizing looks, and a confused smile. When they returned to the long black car, Sherlock settled her into the back seat, then joined her. Turning in her direction, he spoke in a serious tone. "You were very brave, Molly. I know that was difficult for you."

Molly was busy poking at her cheek, trying to measure the extent to which the anesthetic was wearing off. It was dissipating rather quickly, because she managed to say, almost intelligibly, "I'm not really that brave, Sherlock. I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you."

"Don't be so modest, Dr. Hooper. Irrational fears are just as hard to overcome as rational ones. They feel the same. They affect us the same way. I said you were brave, and I meant it."

"Rather a small kind of bravery, compared to a man who jumps off a building to protect his friends. Who fights crime and corruption with his brain and his body. Who has risked his life dozens of times to…"

"Don't say such things, Molly. I'm no hero. And there are certain things, and circumstances, where my so-called bravery fails me."

"I find that difficult to believe."

"What?"

"That there is anything which you don't have the courage to accomplish. I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you can find it in yourself to do anything."

"Really?" Sherlock was now looking at the petite woman, clad in ducky pajamas and wrapped in a coat, in a rather speculative way, reticent and curious, gathering his thoughts and his courage at the same time. "Perhaps you're right, Molly." He then moved even closer in the back seat, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, bringing his lips to meet hers in a lingering kiss. When they moved apart, Molly looked up at him through dropped lashes and spoke very slowly, so he could understand her still slightly slurred words. "You're wrong, you know. You are a hero. You're MY hero, you impossible man." He moved to take her in his arms once again, as she whispered, "But maybe we could try that again when my mouth isn't still numb. I bet it will fell even better!"

Sherlock grunted, "I'm not numb, and it felt pretty damn good to me! Let's get you back home and into bed."

"Oh, good, I'm really tired. I didn't sleep at all last night."

"Sleep isn't exactly what I had in mind, Dr. Hooper. But we can start there, I suppose."

"And where, pray tell, are we going to end, Mr. Holmes?"

"Does that really matter when the trip is shaping up to be so very enjoyable, my love?"

"Guess not! You know, I'm really glad you talked me into 'putting on my big girl panties', so to speak."

"That works out well then because, at the risk of sounding rather crude, I am so looking forward to taking them off!"