In the 2939th year of the Third Age of the Sun, a party of Dwarves, led by one Thorin Oakenshield (son of Thráin, son of Thrór), were traveling back to the Blue Mountains from Bree after having successfully negotiated an agreement defining the trade of dwarven metal goods for food for the next year. They had not gone far, however, when it was discovered that the bout of severe influenza that had been plaguing the town had managed to transfer itself to the dwarves, despite their notorious resilience. A stop in travel was called for, but after several days had passed, Thorin and two others were left as the only members of the thirty-member party in any state of health, and those three showed evidence of succumbing to the illness.
A short conference between the three decided that Thorin – as leader and least sick besides – would go and seek help in general and medical aid in particular from whomever he could, most likely some of the hobbit-folk, dull as they were – and Óin would manage the camp. After stoking a pack with the necessary supplies, gathering his gear, and fixing the position of the camp, Thorin had set off within the day. The first places he had gone to had been approached in vain – the hobbits farmsteading in the outlying areas were suspicious of strangers, and doubly so of one who was increasingly obviously ill. Thorin's already-questionable sense of direction was worsened by the fever beginning to rack his stocky body. When he eventually stumbled into Hobbiton in the very early morning three days later, he was delirious, had lost all of his gear and his outer layers of clothing in an attempt to modulate his core body temperature, and was actively being avoided by those few who crossed his path at the early hour. As he stumbled up the Hill towards Bag End, he reached the end of his strength, and the dwarf collapsed in front of a green-painted round door set into the hillside. Several hours later, the owner of that particular hobbit-hole (for that was what it was), one Bilbo Baggins, opened his door to have check his mail-box and have a smoke when he noticed the unconscious dwarf.
"Oh, my," he said, and dropped his pipe.
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The local healer – Cora Chubb – was duly called, and the unknown, unconscious dwarf hauled unceremoniously but carefully into the best guest bedroom to be examined. Said examination led to a diagnosis of influenza turned to pneumonia, exhaustion, and a general lack of care. Bilbo thanked Mistress Chubb, paid her, and saw her out, after which he went back to his best guest bedroom, looked down at the sick dwarf, and sighed. He supposed that he had to keep an eye on this mystery dwarf until he – Bilbo presumed that it was a he – had recovered from the worse of his illness; it was only right. He sighed; at least it was late enough in the fall that he would not miss anything important in the gardening social circle if he dropped off the map for the next few days or weeks.
Bilbo stepped outside for a moment to call young Hamfast Gamgee away from the front gardens, getting him to mind the invalid while Bilbo made preparations to mind him for the day – primarily getting a few choice books from his study and making up a few trays of food, as well as setting yesterday's half-eaten chicken in a pot with some water in a corner to slow-boil down to stock. He then sent Hamfast back to his uncle and the garden. Before curling up in the armchair in the guestroom with A Discussion of the Flora of the Southfarthing, Bilbo had checked the still-unknown dwarf, and seeing him no worse, dribbled some water and some of Mistress Chubb's flu remedy down his throat.
By mid-afternoon, the dwarf was beginning to stir, but did not rouse. Bilbo, annoyed, stoked up the fire, put some extra blankets on the bed, and wrangled some more medicine into the stranger before delving back into his book. It was nearing dawn when Bilbo was roused from the chair – he had fallen asleep over his second book, A History of Selected Families of the Shire – by a string of loud and, from the lack of repetition inventive, curses in what Bilbo could only assume was Khâzdul. Bilbo shook himself awake and hurried over to the bed. The dwarf was awake, and from the alertness of his eyes was fairly lucid. Seeing Bilbo loom over him (as much as the little hobbit could loom), he rasped out, "Where am I?"
"At Bag End, in Hobbiton, in the Shire," replied Bilbo judiciously. He wasn't sure how much of his last few days the dwarf would remember, so felt it best to be as specific as possible.
The dwarf blinked. "Who are you?"
"I am Bilbo Baggins. This is my smial you're staying in. And you are?"
"Thorin Oakenshield. How …" Thorin coughed weakly and rubbed mucus onto the sleeve of his pajamas, further taking away from what remained of what Bilbo considered a rather majestic air ruined by illness, tiredness, and bedhead "How long have I been here?"
Bilbo looked out the window and saw the lightening of the sky in the east. "Almost a day now. You were, and remain, quite ill."
Thorin looked up at the ceiling, but there was humor mixed with the tiredness in his voice. "I wouldn't have guessed."
Bilbo gave Thorin a withering glance. "Well, since your fever seems to have broken, you should try to sleep. I, for one, and going back to my own room to sleep for a few hours, having sat up with you all night." He reached for the bottle of medicine. "But before I go, you should take some medicine. I don't want to wake up to the noise of you snuffling and hacking for at least three hours."
Thorin suffered to be fed the syrup, after which Bilbo, true to his word, had gone to his own room. As the two drifted off, they both wondered what they had gotten into.