On Tuesday morning, John is significantly (and most curiously) shorter.
That's the most obvious difference, but Sherlock just as soon notices everything else that isn't quite right. Longer, curlier hair, huge bare feet that are as fully covered with hair as his head, rough-spun clothes, and a general lack of composure.
(Tired, has spent a great deal of time outdoors, recently recovered from a cold—these are all observations Sherlock makes, but none of his deductions quite manage to answer the main question in his mind.)
"Good heavens," Not John says, "but I believe I was supposed to find a dragon, not a… a house, and one of you Big Folk."
"A dragon?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "What were you doing, looking for a dragon?" For argument's sake, he decides not to share the obvious—that dragons don't exist.
"It's a secret quest," Not John explains, "and I don't know you, so I shan't tell you the details. But if you're not the dragon I'm looking for, then might you tell me where he is, or how I managed to miss him? He is very large, I understand, and the truth is, I have a dwarven King to impress, so I should like to be getting back."
By now, Sherlock has reasoned that this most certainly isn't John Watson, not even if he were to have contracted a height-altering disease (of which none exists, of course) and momentarily lost hold of his sanity. That leaves the question of where his blogger has gone, and why he has been replaced by a man bearing his resemblance in all but stature.
He doesn't like this situation, though. It borders dangerously on the inexplicable, which by nature makes Sherlock extraordinarily uncomfortable.
"I'm afraid I can't help you," he says. "Dragons don't exist, and there are no dwarves in the royal families of any current country."
The small version of John looks disappointed. "I see."
"However," Sherlock continues, "I may be able to help you, if you explain what happened to you. Who are you?"
That seems to brighten up the little man's features. "I'll warn you, it's a long story. Shall I begin with my own part in the tale? My name is Bilbo Baggins, and until recently I have lived a peaceful and pleasant life in the Shire, in my home in Bag End. Perhaps I should fill you in on the details of Thorin's life as well—he's the dwarven king, mind you, and a very important figure in this story."
Sherlock frowns. Which shire, he wonders? A rural area, he assumes, though the details of Bilbo's person are too foreign for him to deduce properly. "Begin by telling me how you ended up here in my flat."
"I walked through a secret door in the side of the Lonely Mountain," comes the reply. (Sherlock knows of no place called The Lonely Mountain, though perhaps it is a local name that he has somehow not heard before.)
"A secret door led you into my flat," Sherlock restates.
"It appears so." Bilbo shrugs.
"And when was this?"
"Not but three minutes ago, I should think," Bilbo replies.
"Show me where," Sherlock instructs, and Bilbo leads him to a place in the hallway directly in front of the closet door. Dragons and delusions—perhaps someone had shut this fellow inside (though for what purpose?) and all this talk of secret doors was the nonsense it sounded like.
"I do apologize for intruding," Bilbo says after a moment. "I hadn't planned on sneaking into anyone's home today—besides Smaug's, of course, but that is something of a different situation, you see, him being a dragon and everything."
Sherlock just nods. He is annoyed by the intrusion, but curious as well. There's a part of his brain still working in overdrive trying to work out exactly who and what this little fellow is, but he defies rational explanation, true enough.
He does have an idea, though. He reaches out a hand and pulls the closet door open, preparing to find a disruption on the inside that would support his earlier theory.
Instead, he sees a rocky mountainside, overlooking an expanse of land with stunted growth and the forms of gnarled, blackened trees. Beside him, Bilbo Baggins makes an excited squeak.
"So it was that simple! I only needed to go back through the door! How fortunate that it works both ways."
Sherlock thinks he might have a migraine coming on. If the secret door, one that can apparently magically transport people back and forth between two very separate places, did in fact exist, did that mean that there was also truth to the talk of dragons and dwarf kings?
He stares at the closet door and the glimpse of the other world peeking through on the other side. "And you claim there are dragons in this world of yours?"
"Oh, yes. Now, if you don't mind, I have a quest to carry out, and my role is vitally important, so if you don't mind, I'll be on my way." Bilbo gives a cheerful little wave and without another word hastens back to his own world.
Sherlock does the best thing he can and closes the closet door. He waits three seconds, then opens it again, hoping to see a regular closet.
Unfortunately, the mountainside is still there, but perhaps that's for the best—there's still no sign of the real John Watson.
Sherlock gives it a few moments' thought, then decides to return to his reading. John can take care of himself, but if he's gone for too long, then perhaps Sherlock will go searching for him.
Fortunately, there's no need to send a search party, because John comes stumbling into the room a few hours later.
"Sherlock, you'll never believe what's happened to me," he gasps. "I've… I've talked to a bloody dragon! A bloody dragon, Sherlock."
"Smaug, yes?"
John just blinks. "How did you know?"
"The door goes two ways, John."
(They will, of course, have to work out just what to do with the seemingly magical closet at some point in the future, but not before a bit of studying.)
