Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, Arthur Conan Doyle's, Peter Jackson's, or John Ronald Reuel Tolkien's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

Inspired by the fact that Martin Freeman is sometimes just too perfect for words—how could I resist putting John Watson in Bilbo Baggins' place? This is not a reincarnation fic, nor is it an attempt to faithfully recreate The Hobbit in the world of Sherlock … not quite. It's inspired by the Hobbit, so there will be elements that are familiar, but, um, no … no thirteen dwarfs, no dragon, no heaps of gold. Not exactly. Unless you squint a bit. This is the 21st century, after all.


John sat in front of his blinking computer screen and tried to think of something to blog about.

Really, since Sherlock died, why bother? Because while John did not think of himself as a boring person, he had to admit that without the cases with Sherlock, he didn't have much to blog about.

He hadn't written an entry since Sherlock had jumped off Barts' roof, and now was stuck with a classic writer's dilemma—he wanted to write, but had nothing to write about. It wasn't like he could blog about the patients he saw, what with medical confidentiality and all. His personal life … well, the less said about that waste land, the better. So what did that leave?

And so his cursor blinked at him, taunting.

It was almost a relief when the bell rang.

"John Watson?" the tall man at his doorstep asked.

John blinked at him, taking in the extreme … greyness … of the main's hair and clothing. Except for the white shirt under his grey tweed jacket, everything about him was grey, livened only by the somehow familiar twinkle in his blue eyes. "Can I help you?"

"I certainly hope you can," the man said jovially as John stepped back to let him in. "My name's Gandalf, but most people just call me Grey."

John nodded absently, still trying to place why the man seemed familiar. Something with … fireworks? He gestured up the stairs and turned to close the street door, then followed his guest up to the flat.

Grey was looking around the room with a sparkling interest, intrigued by everything, and John could only hope he hadn't inadvertently let in one of Sherlock's groupies. They had come out of the woodwork in the days following his friend's suicide, and it had just gotten down to a reasonable level in the last month. "Tea?" he offered.

"Oh, no. Thank you. Perhaps later," Grey said, taking the chair offered. "I came to see you on behalf of some clients of mine who could rather use your help."

"Me? That's flattering, Mr Gandalf, but I'm just a doctor. I hope you haven't confused me with Sherlock…"

"No, not at all. It is definitely you who we wish to hire. And, if you'll allow me to say it, you look as if you could use it."

"The work?" John asked, feeling insulted.

"No, Dr Watson, the adrenalin," said Grey with a smile. "A purpose other than attending sniffles as a stand-in at a local clinic. Something possibly worth blogging about instead of staring at a blinking computer cursor."

John looked guiltily at his laptop. How had the man known?

"At any rate, I feel I owe it to the son of my old friend, Bella. She'd hate to see your spirit wasting away here."

John's head had swung up at the mention of his mother's name. The surprise almost took away the sting of being told he was wasting away … almost. "You knew my mother?"

"Indeed," said the older man, "And you as well. Why, I helped host your tenth birthday party."

Of course, John thought. "The fireworks."

"You remember." The twinkle returned. "Yes, your mother was a good friend of mine, and between that and reading your remarkable blog, I thought you'd be just the person to help my clients."

"What kind of clients are you talking about, Mr Gandalf?"

"Please, call me Grey," he said, pulling out a card from his jacket pocket. "I am a consultant myself. I specialize in pairing up people who need help, and I think you are just the person to help my current clients with their … difficulties. They should be good for you, too."

He pushed himself to his feet, using a cane much more elegant than the one John had used when he met Sherlock. "Yes, I think this will do excellently. I'll have them call you. After all, you can always say no once you've heard them out, can't you? It does no harm to meet them, and it will be most beneficial for you. Yes, indeed." He walked toward the door, replacing his fedora on his head. "Good morning."

And he was gone, leaving John wondering. Was it a good morning?

#

He had tried a google search for the man, but it seemed Grey Gandalf didn't have an internet presence, and with the man no longer watching him from Sherlock's old chair, eyes intent and wise, the whole visit seemed unreal. If it hadn't been for the pasteboard card discreetly naming Shadowfax Enterprises, he would have thought he imagined the entire thing. He considered contacting Mycroft to ask him what he knew of the man, but something held him back—he just wasn't sure if it was a reluctance to invite Mycroft's interference or a continuation of the animosity he'd felt since Sherlock's suicide.

Still, he supposed that when these mysterious clients of Grey's called, he would talk to them. As long as it didn't seem shady or illegal … what could it hurt? Maybe he'd have something to blog about after all. And Grey had known his mother. Until Sherlock, John had never met a better judge of character than his mum.

The day went on with no calls, and he spent another night feeling oddly empty—bereft now not only of Sherlock's bracing company but of the promise of (maybe) something interesting and worthwhile to do.

He had no hours at the clinic the next day, so he spent the day puttering around and very firmly ignoring his laptop. No, he had nothing to blog about, thank you, and no reason even to look. He considered going to the shops since he was out of milk again, but he was feeling lethargic after his poor night's sleep and what was the point, really? He'd just sit here with the book he was reading. (A history book. Definitely not a murder mystery. Sherlock had ruined them for him.)

He was feeling so lazy, he decided in the end to make an early supper and then planned on lying on the couch watching telly for the rest of the night. He knew it was pathetic. He knew Sherlock would have been appalled, but for one night? How bad could it be?

He was just plating his supper when the bell rang. Who…? Maybe it was Grey again? Except, when he had said they'd call, John had assumed they meant on the phone…

He hurried down the stairs, and opened it, ready to apologize, when … he had no idea who this person was.

His first reaction on seeing the burly, tattooed man was to close the door on him. The world was still dangerous, after all, and Baker Street had had a slew of assassins living here not all that long ago, but there was something in the man's face that seemed … not unfriendly, quite, and there was no question he had a dangerous edge to him, but … not inclined to harm him.

Still, the way the man breezed in and up the stairs put John on edge. It was his home, damn it, and only Mrs Hudson was allowed to barge in. (Well, Mycroft did sometimes, also, but there seemed to be nothing John could do to stop that—but at least he knew Mycroft wasn't coming to murder him. If it ever came to that, Mycroft had people to do that for him.)

John followed the other man (Dale, he'd said) up the stairs, bewildered. About the only thing that was reassuring was that this was so like Grey's behaviour yesterday. If this was how his client introduced himself, though, John was not impressed.

He was barely at the top of the stairs when the bell rang again. "Go ahead," Dale told him. "The others should be right behind me."

Others? John turned back down the stairs to find a man with a trim, white beard on his doorstep. "William Fundinson," he said, introducing himself. "Are the others here yet?"

"Er," said John, feeling even less eloquent than usual. "One, upstairs. How many are coming?" But William was already heading up the stairs. John started to close the door but found a pair of young men politely pushing their way inside.

"This is the place, yeah? We saw old Bill coming in a minute ago. Who else is here? I'm Phil, by the way."

"Kyle," said the other, pulling off his coat and wiping his feet on Mrs Hudson's rug. "Nice to meet you. Upstairs, is it?"

Bemused, John leaned out the door this time, looking up and down the street for other visitors. He spotted the CCTV camera across the street pointing his way, and gave a shrug. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he wasn't feeling threatened. They all seemed nice enough, he supposed.

A crash from upstairs drew his attention and, shutting the door, he hurried up to 221B and … how had things dissolved into chaos so quickly? Dale and William were busily rummaging through his cupboards while Phil browsed through the books on the shelves. Kyle was holding the skull in his hands, looking utterly fascinated.

"Excuse me!" John said, indignant. "I'm sorry, but what do you think you're doing? You can't just go through my things!" Especially the skull, he thought. So many of the things in the flat were Sherlock's and were fraught with memories he was still hesitant to touch. It had been six months since his friend had died, and while John wasn't exactly prostrate with grief, that didn't mean he wanted complete strangers pawing through Sherlock's things.

He spun around at the bang from the kitchen. What the hell? William and Dale were pulling things out from the refrigerator and piling them on the table, looking as if they hadn't eaten for months. And, really, how old was some of that, anyway? John had been living on tea, toast, and takeout for months. He wasn't sure he'd want to eat any of the food in his own cupboards, much less serve it to guests, no matter how pushy.

He grabbed an old, frozen package of meat (he hoped) from William's hands. "I'm sorry, but you can't just go foraging in my freezer. I don't want to seem rude, but … it's just better if you … you just can't. I'm sorry."

William looked at him. "Apology accepted," he said, and then turned back to Dale, who was chopping onions on a cutting board, looking altogether too efficient with a knife, John thought.

Not that he was thinking clearly at all, at this point. He was feeling too flustered, and by the time the bell rang a third time, he was feeling fairly numb.

This time, at least, he recognized one of the people at his door—Grey was standing there with another man with dark hair and sharp blue eyes. "Thorn Durin," he introduced himself with a nod and John found himself silently backing away from the door. He wasn't intimidated, he told himself, so much as … awestruck? Even after the army and all too much familiarity with the way a Holmes could command a room, he didn't think he had ever met someone with so much natural presence.

"John Watson," was all he said, then, looking at Grey, "Is that everyone?"

"My dear doctor," said Grey, "I don't know how many have arrived yet."

John just shook his head. "Of course you do. You were standing up the street watching."

Grey looked impressed. "Not many would have seen us."

"Not many have lived with Sherlock Holmes, either," said John, waving his hand upstairs. "The party seems to be upstairs, though I can't vouch for the refreshments since nobody told me I was having guests."

Grey had the grace to duck his head, but Thorn just headed up the stairs as if used to invading any space and making it his own. John trailed up the stairs, wondering exactly what was going on. Grey might have said he had clients with a need for John's skills (whatever he thought they were), but John had expected something more … professional, and less festive. He wasn't sure what was going on in his flat upstairs, but he was fairly sure that volume of levity was not professional.

With a glance at Mrs Hudson's shut door and a sigh. He wasn't sure what kind of business they were going to be discussing, but she would have appreciated a gathering that sounded as festive as the one upstairs did.

It was odd to feel so left out in his own flat, he thought once he was back upstairs. His guests (?) were a lively group. He gathered they all knew each other well, but hadn't seen each other in a while. They acted more like family than business associates, and he couldn't help a feeling of nostalgia. He had had a similar relationship to his army buddies, back in the day, and certainly Sherlock had felt more like a brother than a mere friend or flatmate.

It just seemed odd that his flat would be hosting a joyful reunion for complete strangers while he stood lonely on the outside.

Grey seemed to sympathize, though, and came to stand by him. "I should apologize for them, but they're enjoying themselves so much. I haven't seen them so happy in a long time."

John peered up at him. "And why is that? Never so happy as when invading someone's home?"

"No, my dear doctor. It's just that tonight they have hope." And he nodded and dove into the fray just as the doorbell rang again.

This time, it was a delivery man with an armful of pizzas.

Apparently they had decided John's pantry was insufficient after all.

#

Later, after a surprisingly amiable meal (considering John still felt like the odd man out as the rest talked about absent friends and alluded to unspoken secrets and plans) he felt oddly … resigned … to his flat having been invaded. It had been Grey Gandalf's fault they had come, after all. It had become obvious very quickly that the Durins and Fundinsons had thought they were expected. And, even if his guests had something like an edge of desperation, they were, well, nice.

He tried not to think about how Sherlock would have reacted to that innocuous little adjective. It was true, though. They were friendly and, if not precisely well-mannered, well, they weren't any worse than his army buddies had been. In fact, they reminded John a lot of his friends from the army—not quite reckless, but living on the edge of knowing that each day could be their last. Not that they seemed to be running in fear of their lives, but they had that feel … he'd seen it in the army and he saw it in desperately ill patients. An awareness that, while things are good right now, they could turn to catastrophe any moment.

And, really, it was the most life the flat had seen since Sherlock's suicide. The flat was almost bursting with it as his guests joked and laughed and even sang as the night went on.

Somehow, even though part of him wanted to be offended … part of him felt drawn to them, as to a bonfire on a bitterly cold night.

Finally, when the pizzas were down to scraps of crust and John was thinking about offering tea (until he remembered he was out of milk), they brought the conversation around to their business.

"We need you to help us slay a dragon, Dr Watson," said Thorn. "Mr Gandalf assures us you are ideally suited for our purposes."

"A dragon?" John asked. "The ones I've seen in the zoo don't seem particularly threatening."

Thorn gave him a wry smile. "A metaphorical dragon, doctor. One named Moriarty. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

#

(Note: With all due respect to Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Ori, Nori, Dori, Oin, and Gloin, it just really wasn't feasible to crowd fourteen people into 221B while keeping this remotely realistic. Five were hard enough. So, um, they had to sit this one out.)