A/N: This is a really late birthday gift for fanficology. I apologize that I didn't even have it ready for you in the same week, let alone the day of. But many happy returns on your unbirthday, too!

I have an alternate ending (meaning I continued rambling after this version's last scene but decided it didn't fit). I might post it in a another chapter later. Maybe. Depends on whether I'm tired enough to think it a good idea.

Monster

"Is this Mr. Holmes?"

The man's voice on the other end of the line sounded hesitant and a bit chagrinned. A social smoker trying to disguise his Bradford accent and failing. Vocal cord strain: dreams of making it on the West End. Like half of the people employed as wait staff and receptionists in the city.

Sherlock didn't know any receptionists.

This man was one. He could hear it in the muffled bell chiming above a door, the multiple phone lines chirping, the furious shuffling of papers, and a tearful someone's voice carrying through the receiver, "She says there's nothing she can do to stop it. I have to go under to take care of it."

"I'm not expecting any test results, my eyesight is perfect, and someone already gave me my flu jab for the year," Sherlock said, wanting to nip the conversation in the bud.

"No, sir, I'm not cold calling you," the man corrected timidly.

Swinging around to turn on his kettle, Sherlock demanded, "Then how'd you get this number?"

"That's what I'm trying to explain." The man's voice sounded more and more aggrieved with each passing moment. "This is Russell, calling from The Hermitage Clinic in Southwark. It's about Molly Hooper."

Sherlock had been squinting into the sugar container, trying to determine if the black mass buried among the turbinado granules was a vanilla bean or something less savory. At the mention of Molly's name, however, he clapped it down on the counter.

"Molly? What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Not wrong, per se, sir," Randall-the-Receptionist mumbled. "It's just that—"

Sherlock was already racing into his room, turning his mobile to speaker mode as he went. He tossed it onto the chair next to his wardrobe and flung open the doors, pulling out the first set of trousers his hand landed on.

"Out with it!" he barked, interrupting the receptionist's mumbles.

"She lied to us!" the inept man burst out. "She told us she had someone waiting for her in the lobby. Otherwise, we would have refused to administer the anesthetic!"

Nearly popping off a button as he wrestled his shirt closed, Sherlock leaned down and hissed into the mobile. "Anesthetic? You said nothing was wrong. Allow me to make myself absolutely clear. I don't tolerate liars, especially not where my friends' health and safety are concerned." He straightened to fetch some shoes, but whirled around and bent to the phone once more. "You should see what happened to the last gentleman who lied to me about Molly."

Rutger quailed audibly through the speaker. "She's not in danger, I swear. She just had a small procedure done."

"What small procedure requires the use of general anesthesia?"

"Local!" The panicky man answered desperately. "Just a local anesthetic, I swear!"

Sherlock frowned. That was a bit les dire. But he wasn't satisfied. "What did you do to her?"

"It Dr. Robard who did it," Rutger said in a rush, before remembering himself. "And I'm not at liberty to divulge—"

"Tell. Me. Now."

The receptionist didn't even hesitate. "She had her wisdom teeth removed. Two were impacted, so it was a slightly more difficult procedure than your average tooth pulling. They used Versed, rather than lidocaine. Please, Mr. Holmes, she can't leave the clinic without someone to assist her. It's strictly forbidden."

Huffing out a breath that he promised to himself wasn't a sigh of sheer relief, Sherlock demanded, "Address?"

Rupert-the-Reject rattled off the direction for the clinic before adding pleadingly, "Please do hurry, Mr. Holmes. She's an absolute monst—she's not feeling her best right now."

Sherlock disconnected without a goodbye, hurrying down to the street to hail a taxi.

When he walked into Hermitage Clinic, Sherlock was struck with a legitimate fear that Reginald-the-Receptionist was about to cry upon seeing him.

"You're here! Oh, thank Shiva!" the man yelped, standing up so quickly he nearly upended his chair.

Expression unmoved, Sherlock coolly asked, "Where is Dr. Hooper?"

"Right this way, Mr. Holmes. Now, don't be shocked by the sight of her. Wisdom teeth extractions always leave some facial swelling, and hers required more invasive work. As for the other hiccup…." He trailed off, adopting the look of a man who'd seen things. And then it was gone and he smiled weakly. "Well, I'm sure she'll be right as rain soon. Some people just don't react well to anesthesia." He nearly skipped with glee and relief, Sherlock noticed with a glare.

As they made their way down a low-lit hall, Sherlock listened to the familiar sounds of dentistry around him. A drill whirred behind a closed door. A teenaged boy stood at a sink just inside an open one, brushing his teeth while a hygienist cringed behind him. Just across from that room, Sherlock even recognized the sound of a suction tube stuck in a person's mouth. The individual appeared to be struggling with keeping the tube from sticking to tongue or cheek.

As they neared the end of that hall, though, Sherlock heard a new, unfamiliar noise. It sounded like muttering, but… not in any language he'd ever heard.

Turning to look at Sherlock as he eased that door open, Ricardo's smile was pained, though he tried for enthusiasm. "We borrowed her mobile and saw that yours was the last number she rang. She'll be so glad to see you," he recited woodenly. The sod would never make it on the West End, if this was any indication of his acting ability.

Sherlock immediately forgot about him, though the moment he laid eyes on Molly.

The flurry of movement the detective and the receptionist walked in on ceased in a split second. Sherlock paused, truly stunned by the sight before him. Vaguely, he mentally patted himself on the back for yet another correct assessment of Raoul. Apparently, this joke of a receptionist was not only a bad actor, but also a horrible liar.

Molly Hooper was not glad to see Sherlock Holmes. Not even a little. Not if the murderous glower she shot him and the flaring of her nostrils were any indication.

Her immensely puffy cheeks only slightly softened the acid of her expression.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Sherlock moved further into the room. He tried to smile coaxingly. "Molly! What a surprise. I can see I've interrupted your departure. But since I'm here, maybe you'd like to leave with me through the front door? We're on the third floor of this clinic, and I have doubts about your urban gymnastic skills at present."

She was wedged halfway through the room's lone, narrow window, one leg in and one leg out. Her head was outside, while both arms remained inside, clutching shelves on either side of the frame.

She appeared to be rather remarkably stuck.

Growling, she wriggled a little. If she hadn't recently come out from heavy sedation, Sherlock realized her escape hatch would work quite nicely; a ledge ran the length of the building to a neighbor's roof. But, clearly, Molly was currently wrestling all sorts of hindrances to her spatial and depth perceptions.

Hopping up onto the counter, Sherlock walked over to her, ignoring the pained sigh of the receptionist.

Molly's expression didn't soften. She barked an explicit order at him. Or, Sherlock suspected that was what she was attempting.

"Weaf me awone, Stherwock," she garbled, her muddled diction obscured even more by the double glazed glass between them.

Pausing in his approach, he thought through the general sounds and syllables. "Ah, 'Leave me alone, Sherlock.'" He pursed his lips in a moue of regret. "I would love to, Molly, truly, but I'm afraid this one time I must insist that you climb back inside and we can be on our way."

She shook her head mulishly, stopping only when she quickly had to suck back some drool that tried to escape during the vehement movement. "No."

He sighed. "So you'd like to be stuck in there for the rest of the night? Midazolam hydrochloride has a rapid half-life. You'll be miserable all too soon, and it will only get worse. I somehow doubt the clinic staff will be falling over themselves to offer you parcetamol after you threw"—pointedly, he scanned the room—"several sharp, pointy tools and approximately thirty toothbrushes at them."

Molly opened her mouth, the huge sponges of cotton gauze tucked in behind her molars more apparent. But she appeared to consider Sherlock's words. Her abused tooth sockets must already be aching.

"Go fwuck yoursthelf," she mumbled. No translation was needed for that one, so Sherlock simply waited patiently. She debated a bit more, her chipmunky cheeks working with the effort of her muddled thoughts. "Fine."

Though he was rather pleased to be the one to help Molly for a change, she'd just angrily told him to go do something rather anatomically impossible. So he didn't rush to help her from that window. He merely stood to the side, one arm subtly bracketed around her and watched with amusement as she studied her predicament.

She tried to bring her leg in, but her foot kept catching on the window frame, and she didn't have the presence of mind to tuck her calf in a little bit closer to her thigh. At the same time, she was trying to assess the drop down to the counter, but couldn't see this with the sash window disrupting her view. There were likely only three inches between the tips of her shoe and the countertop, but, again, Sherlock said nothing.

She wiggled a bit more, accomplishing nothing, before she paused, breath puffing with exertion. She scowled at him through the glass. And then, with no warning whatsoever, her face crumpled and fat tears welled in her eyes.

"Hep me, pweasthe?" she hiccupped.

He would die if word of it ever got out. He was counting on Molly's drugged state to work in his favor. Under no circumstances could John, Mycroft, Lestrade, or—egads—Mary ever learn that Sherlock Holmes actually crooned to Molly, trying to sooth her.

"Of course I'll help you," he murmured, stepping closer and securing his arm around her hips. Gently, he took her right hand from its clutching hold of a shelf and squeezed it before kissing her knuckles. "You need to have this arm outside first, in order to get your head inside. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded, sniffling noisily. He released that hand, replacing it with her left while she twisted around so she was only one arm and one leg shy of accomplishing her initial exit strategy. But she pliantly followed his quiet and sure directions to move her back inside.

As she leaned forward to move her head back through the window, he cupped the back of her head to protect it from the wood frame. "That's it, my sweet. There's a girl."

He disgusted himself with how genuinely and easily these comforts spilled out.

After another minute of encouraging words, Sherlock was finally able to pull Molly clear of the window. He made sure she was surefooted enough stand before he hopped off of the counter and reached back up for her, lifting her down to the welcome floor.

Sagging against him, she sniffled again. He had to crane and tilt his head oddly to see her where she'd burrowed inside the drape of his coat, but his suspicions were confirmed: tears were streaming down her face again.

He felt bad for her. Truly, he did, but he couldn't help the small smile as he studied her poor, chubby, glistening cheeks. When she didn't seem inclined to move or stop crying, he clucked his tongue (Mrs. Hudson would approve, he thought despairingly) and stroked a hand over her hair and down her back, pulling her closer while he swayed comfortingly.

Rusty-the-Repulsive, whom Sherlock had gladly forgotten about until that moment, cleared his throat, obviously wanting to be well rid of the dark cloud that was Molly Hooper.

Sherlock shot him a vile look, but he couldn't deny that he would much rather leave these idiots to their own devices. Ducking his head to kiss a wet, salty cheek, he whispered, "Should we go home?"

She brightened just a little and nodded. "Yesh pweathse," she gurgled.

Nodding at the receptionist, he arched a brow. "I believe you have Dr. Hooper's belongings, Russell?"

"Not histh name. It'sth Wrasthputin." Molly corrected him, turning her head only enough to shoot a one-eyed glare to the man standing across from them.

"Rasputin…." Sherlock thought about it. "That does sound right. How on Earth did I come up with Russell?"

Not long after the taxi had spirited Molly and Sherlock away from that hateful place, Molly yawned once, massaged her sore jaw, and then pitched forward, coming to a rest against Sherlock.

He tentatively wrapped his arms around her when she moved further into him, laying her head on his chest. She was still having significant problems holding in the drool, and Sherlock resigned his shirt to its potential future in the rubbish bin; almost certainly if her mouth was still bleeding. But as she started to snore softly, he only wanted to laugh and grin.

Instead, he kissed her temple and combed his fingers through her hair. "Rasputin had one thing right," he murmured to her. "You are an absolute monster, Molly Hooper."

He pressed his lips to her forehead one last time and then shifted a little to watch London race by outside of the taxi window.