Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had never entertained the thought that at the age of thirty-eight years he would become a professional babysitter. Well, not professional, actually, as he was not getting paid. And not the babysitter, either, as his position was almost entirely supervisory, much to the chagrin of one Dr. Molly Hooper, the actual babysitter in question. Molly never considered that she needed supervision, actually, and viewed his constant "constructive criticism" with a jaundiced eye. Yet, on every occasion when John and Mary Watson had asked her to watch over their toddler daughter, Claire, Sherlock had invited himself along. Just in case. He never would, or could, explain what it was just in case of. Perhaps he believed there was a notorious black market in nappies, pablum, and dummies. Or perhaps he just wanted to partake of every opportunity to be near his adored god daughter. Or his pathologist. Possibly both.

On every occasion, just before putting the child down for the night, Molly would read a bedtime story, mostly fairy tales of the Disney variety. Molly adored the Disney fairy tales, and had a complete collection of the videos, which she shared with the little girl at every possible chance. She had the child humming along with the dwarves in "Snow White", and bouncing to the tunes in "Cinderella". She would act out the parts of all the characters, doing voices and making faces, until the child, exhausted from clapping and giggling, would doze off. Unfortunately, it was at this point that the voice of reason, as Sherlock referred to himself, would inevitably intervene.

"Molly, do you think it is really a good idea to fill Claire's head with such trivia?"

"Fairytales are not trivial, Sherlock. They are folklore! They have been part of the culture for hundreds of years. Children can learn to identify good and evil, and the consequences of each…"

"I wonder what kind of tales James Moriarty's mother told him, then. He did take a rather severe turn to the evil side, don't you think?"

"Dammit it, Sherlock, didn't your mother ever read you bedtime stories?"

"Of course she did, Dr. Hooper. Don't all mothers? She would have been expelled from the mother's guild if she hadn't, I imagine?

"Didn't you like them, Sherlock? Even as a child?"

"Actually, I did quite enjoy them. The fantasy, the magic is rather exciting to the psyche of a child. Kiss a toad, and wind up with a Prince, though? I always thought most of these tales were skewed to the female perspective. I mean, the girl got to be a princess, while the prince had to endure a rather long bout of 'toadiness' before finding someone willing to kiss him. Seems a bit unfair, doesn't it? And why was it always a prince? These women always seemed to have rather elevated expectations. Couldn't they settle for a prosperous fishmonger? Or tailor?"

"Sherlock, you have a rather jaded soul, don't you?"

"Perhaps. But I did rather enjoy the pirate tales my father used to tell me. Blackbeard spreading terror over the high seas. Kidnappings. Dead men guarding the captain's treasure. Walking the plank. Snatching fair maidens…"

"Fair maidens?"

"Of course! What red blooded young Englishman doesn't want to snatch a fair maiden, Molly? Of course, at that tender age I still had no idea what they were doing with them. By the time I figured that out, I was much too old for the fairy tales at all!"

"Sherlock, sometimes I'm still not sure you know what to do with them."

Sherlock ignored her disparaging comment, and went on. "I did like some of the more morbid tales, though. 'Bluebeard' was quite a favorite until I realized I had an Uncle Claude, who had been married four times, and I had only met one of his wives. I looked at the poor man a bit differently after Pappa read me that story."

"Your father read you the story?"

"Of course. Mummy was afraid to give her precious younger son nightmares. Little did she know that Mycroft used to sneak into my room occasionally with rubber spiders and plastic worms."

"Yuck! That was horrible, Sherlock."

"It was a lot worse when he started using real ones, Molly." Sherlock snickered at the memory. "Fortunately, Mycroft reached puberty well ahead of me, and I learned that his techniques, when I applied them, worked just as well on his prospective paramours as they did on me. So many nubile young women running screaming from his presence may have scarred him for life. I sincerely hope so!"

"Anthea is still hanging around, Sherlock."

"I do not believe that the devil himself would, or even could, frighten that woman, Molly. Perhaps it's a form of professional courtesy?"

"Sherlock, Anthea is lovely, and completely devoted to your brother…"

"That alone should raise concerns about her sanity, Molly!"

Molly smiled to herself, allowing the thought that if he believed that of Anthea, what must he think of her own sanity. Sherlock continued, "Mummy would always tell stories of fairies, and elves, and brownies. The thought of tiny, little people living in the back garden can be quite unsettling, in a way. Especially when one is mowing the lawn! And, oh good lord, all the princes and princesses! Where were all the commoners, Molly? I'll tell you where. Being chased by giants, and eaten by wolves, and baked in ovens by witches. And they were bedtime stories! The stuff of nightmares, I say. Give me a good pirate or dragon any day of the week."

"Sherlock, please refrain from expressing these opinions to our godchild. Let her enjoy her the fantasies as long as possible. They grow up fast enough…"

"But you must admit, Dr. Hooper, that her time would be better spent learning the periodic table, or biological classifications, or geologic formations…"

"Oh yes, I'm sure there will be many discussions of the like once she reaches nursery school, Sherlock! Perhaps she should start reading 'War and Peace', or Darwin's 'Origin of will surely impress her peers!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. I didn't read Darwin until I was almost nine…"

"No wonder you got picked on at grammar school, Sherlock!"

"What makes you think I was picked on, Molly?"

"Call it a hunch, okay? I would have picked on you, and I adore you!" Molly spoke with a laugh, but started to blush when she realized what had popped out of her mouth.

"Well, it was a bit difficult, being the dumb one at home and the smart one at school. Makes for a rather splintered personality."

The two adults had left the sleeping child to her dreams, whether they be of princesses, or toads, or dragons, they couldn't tell. But she seemed to be enjoying them if the slight smile on her sleeping face was any indication. Molly went to fix them some tea, and Sherlock settled down on the Watson's couch.

"What would you like to watch, Molly? Anything interesting on?" he said as he flicked through the channels.

"Let's compromise, Sherlock. I won't insist on any children's movies, if you give up on the nature documentaries just this once." The detective didn't even put up a fight, for, truth be told, while he did enjoy the occasional documentary, especially the one about penguins, or "penglings", as the presenter pronounced it, his favorite viewing was crap telly. The crappier the better. Give him a good who's-the-daddy free for all, and he was set for the evening! So they settled in on the couch, sipping tea, and discussing whether brown-eyed Cletus could have possibly fathered little blue-eyed Cletus, Jr. when Molly brought the discussion back to the fairytales of their childhood.

"Come on, Sherlock, admit it! You must have had a favorite tale, with a princess, and true love, and happily ever after. You couldn't have been this cynical all your life!"

The attractive man with the even more attractive eyes turned to look at his companion, and slowly reached to run his fingers through the long brown hair, which was hanging loose about her shoulders. "I did rather fancy 'Rapunzel', I suppose. It has left me with a life-long fascination with long hair."

He was still playing with her tresses as Molly looked over at him, saying, "Well, her hair was golden, wasn't it? Not mousy brown like…"

"There is nothing mousy about you, Dr, Hooper! Don't ever think that there is." He smiled at her. A genuine smile, filled with affection, and perhaps something else. "But 'Rapunzel' was not really my favorite."

"Are you going to tell me, or make me guess?" Molly was already thinking along the lines of the more blood-soaked stories, such as "Little Red Riding Hood", or "Hansel and Gretel".

"Actually, my favorite fairy tale is the one I hope I'm living, Molly."

"I am really having a hard time thinking of your life as a fairy tale, Sherlock!" The pathologist snickered a bit as she continued, "You've been shot, and stabbed, and beaten, and you have people out there who want to kill you. And they're your friends! Heaven only knows what the criminal element wants to do to you!"

"Ah, but if I'm correct in my thinking, none of that will matter if my fairy tale plays out true to form, Molly!"

"I wish I knew what you were talking about, you git…"

"My favorite fairy tale, the one I made Mummy tell me over and over again, was 'Beauty and the Beast'. It seems I have modeled my life on it, I enjoyed it so much." He then moved his hand from her hair to around her shoulder. "And I'm counting on you to provide the happy ending, Dr. Hooper. I know I can be a beast at times…"

"But I'm no beauty, Sherlock…" the small woman stuttered her response.

"Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder, Molly. So I think I'm the best judge of that!" He pulled her closer, and kissed her with all the passion of a beast, and the gentleness of a prince-in-the-making. "Don't you believe in fairy tales, Molly?"

"I do now!", she said as she moved further into his arms. "But, just to be on the safe side, tell me more about your Uncle Claude and his four wives."