Hey guys. This story is one I wrote ages ago and have republished. I don't own any of the characters or worlds shown in this. Also I'd like to thank those who have stuck by this little story, you guys are really great. Enjoy this.

'Either Mycroft is playing a joke or this is the strangest dream I've ever had' thought Sherlock as he surveyed his surroundings.

He was sitting in the front garden of a tiny house built into the side of a small hill. Small pathways wound through the seemingly random placement of homes and fields. If Sherlock wasn't a firm lover of cities he'd envy the people who lived here.

He got to his feet slowly and took out his phone, ready to call his brother and demand he be brought home. He unlocked it and noticed he had no signal. He suppressed a groan of annoyance and raised the phone above his head, trying to gain at least one bar. He moved his arm around as if that would help.

That's when the round, green door of the house he stood near opened. Sherlock stopped waving his arm and observed as a small man, less than the height of his waist, cautiously stepped outside. He was wearing a white shirt with a gold waistcoat over it, dark green trousers and braces to hold them up. He wore no shoes and his feet were quite large and covered in fair, curly hairs like the ones on his head. But what grabbed Sherlock's attention straight away was his face, clean shaven and oddly familiar.

The man looked uncomfortable under this scrutiny and cleared his throat, "I'm sorry...can I help you?" he asked politely, "its just...I don't exactly know you, nor was I expecting company so early." His voice sounded familiar too. It took Sherlock a moment to figure it out but when he did it was like a slap to the face.

John.

His lips twitched into a smile and relief washed over him. He replaced his phone in his pocket and stepped onto the pathway towards him, "oh John, am I glad to see you. Was this Mycroft's doing? And why are you dressed like..." he gestured to the smaller man's outfit, "that? And...why are you so small? Did he drug me?"

The man looked awfully confused, though bristled at the comment on his height, "I'll have you know I'm a perfectly respectable height for a hobbit, thank you very much," he said stiffly, "and there's nothing wrong with my clothes."

Sherlock tilted his head at him, a small frown appearing. What was going on? This had to be John. He looked just like him!

Taking advantage of the silence the hobbit drew himself up, "Bilbo Baggins of Bag End," he announced while sticking his hand out, "and who, may I ask, are you?" For lack of a better response, Sherlock simply gripped his smaller hand and shook it once, "Sherlock Holmes," he answered, "of London. Could you tell me where I am? I seem to be lost."

The hobbit, Bilbo, relaxed slightly and retracted his hand, "thought as much. Don't see many Big Folk around here, you're probably on your way to Bree," he looked at him expectantly. His confused look returned when Sherlock shook his head, "I don't think I can get home from here. I'll have to wait for my brother to come fetch me," Sherlock sighed.

Bilbo raised his eyebrows, "so you've nowhere to go? Well I wouldn't be much of a Baggins if I didn't invite you in for a cup of tea, at least," he turned around and beckoned for Sherlock to follow him through the little door. Sherlock had to stoop to get inside and straightened up once he was, "thank you for inviting me in," he said to the retreating back of the hobbit, who waved his hand in a 'think nothing of it' gesture, "no point in standing around in the garden," he said off-handedly.

Sherlock followed him, but not without having a good look at the house. It was wonderfully cosy and littered with small treasures and keepsakes. It was clear that Mr Baggins was quite a rich hobbit. It was equally clear to Sherlock that he had no wife, children or any other family to speak of. Though there must have been, once, for there were many doors leading to what he assumed were bedrooms.

He was led to a small kitchen, where Bilbo had begun to make tea, an action he'd seen John do so many times in a similar way that he had to speak up, "you remind me of my friend," he practically blurted, then immediately felt stupid for it. Bilbo raised an eyebrow at him, "how is that? Have you got a friend from around here?" he asked with a disbelieving expression. "No," Sherlock replied, "he's...well, a man. But he looks just like you and you have similar voices and...characteristics," he added. He struggled to keep a straight face as Bilbo gave him a look that so strongly resembled his friend that he could barely believe otherwise.

"Is that so?" Bilbo asked, setting two cups of tea on a tray and heading towards his sitting room, "and my apologies, my chairs aren't suited to your height." Sherlock shrugged, "I'm sure it will be fine."

When they were seated and drinking their tea, Bilbo bit his lip and tapped the side of his cup with his fingers, "do you mind me asking how you got here?" he inquired, "because it seems to me like you don't know at all. Which would be quite ridiculous." Sherlock smiled, "it is indeed ridiculous Mr Baggins. Though I suspect my brother is behind it. So I can only assume he will come back for me," he drank from his tea. Bilbo chuckled, "it does sound the sort of thing a family member does." Then silence rose and both of them were happy to let it sit.

After a long while when both of them had finished their tea Bilbo stood up, "I'm going outside for a little while to smoke my pipe," he explained as he retrieved it from the mantelpiece, "you're welcome to join me. You can borrow some of my pipeweed. Might as well while you wait for your brother." Sherlock considered the invitation, then smiled and rose as well, "that sounds splendid. Though, would you be so kind as to lend me a pipe? I'm afraid I don't have one," Bilbo looked at him oddly, though didn't comment while he found a spare pipe and filled each one with a pinch of Old Toby.

They sat outside on a hobbit sized bench, puffing away on the pipe weed. Sherlock adjusted quickly from his normal cigarette and was soon blowing smoke clouds that rose in time with the smoke rings that Bilbo produced. Bilbo told Sherlock about hobbits and their customs while he listened and chuckled about the many meals of the day a hobbit would eat.

He didn't question anything, knowing that if Mycroft didn't come then he would most likely wake up, seeing as this would most definitely be a dream. So he allowed his worries to leave him for a moment.

Bilbo was taking a break from telling him about why hobbits didn't wear shoes. He shut his eyes and tilted his head back to soak in the sunlight. Sherlock stared at the ground and tried to think of a suitable way to wake up, deciding that Mycroft was not coming.

Sherlock looked up when he heard Bilbo give a small cough, and saw a very old looking man standing in front of them. He wore long grey robes, a silver scarf and a blue hat, and he had a long grey beard and equally long hair. He had a walking stick, which was poised in front of him.

Sherlock opened his mouth and was about to say something when Bilbo said "good morning."

The man's eyes flickered to Sherlock before settling on the hobbit, "what do you mean?" he asked, "do you mean to wish me a good morning or do you mean it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean that you feel good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?"

Bilbo blinked, "All of them at once, I suppose," he replied slowly. The man narrowed his eyes and hummed to himself. Sherlock watched his small friend with slight amusement as Bilbo straightened up, "can I help you?" he asked politely.

Sherlock turned to look at the old man who answered, "that remains to be seen.

"What an odd answer, Sherlock thought. He'd been about to ask the man what he meant when he spoke again."I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure."