BBCSH/The Hobbit 'Bilbo Baggins and The Curious Case of the Desirous Dragon'

Author: tigersilver

Pairing Smaug-Sherlock/Bilbo-John

Rating: NC-17 eventually

Word Count: 2,400

Warnings/Summary: In which Smaug suffers a personality transplant wherein His Majestic Terrifyingness is replaced by two parts fuzzy duckling and one part Sherlock Holmes and Bilbo Baggins, the unsuspecting object of Smaug's newly discovered affections, exhibits a great deal of Watsonian attitude when placed under the slit-eyed scope of such draconian devotions. Also? Mindboggling transformative powers that pay absolutely no heed to mass conservation, interspecies sexual shenanigans, schmoop, flangst, a cartload of swooping about and fleeing pursuers of all ilks, plus assorted other magical stuff as well. My serialized take on Smauglock, begun on a whimsy, and please make of it as you will and be not too, too harsh, okay? Rated 'W' for WIP and later on in the tale rated 'NC-17', for aforesaid shenanigans, sexual and magical. BBC Sherlock crossover with The Hobbit, obviously.

"I am…Death!"

Frightened and oddly annoyed, Bilbo curses under his breath as the dragon flies off into the distance but what comes out of his mouth is no rhetorical question: "What have we done?"

The hobbit means more to ask 'What have I done?' but it's quite clear, really, what he's done. Doom-on-Wings has a temper to match the sheer bulk of him and is a jealous giant twat besides and now there's a whole village at risk of feeling Smaug's monumental snit close-range and very personally.

"That bloody great idiot! What now?"

Bilbo is frantic, peering this way and that, seeking an exit. How best to make his way down to the floating town, see if he can somehow intervene? He rushes this way and that, ignoring the puzzled queries and concerned glances of his dwarven companions, one thought ringing in his head only:

How to stop a beast a hundred times larger than he from wreaking havoc on a host of innocents?

The Ring! Oh, that's it! The Ring will get him safely out of Smaug's Lair undetected. Gasping a sigh of relief, he slips it on and just as deftly slips down into the tunnels and byways below, seeking unerringly the hidden entrance into the Mountain. Now, if Eru smiles, he'll be able to make the village in time.

It's when halfway down the mountain, scrabbling and sliding on scree, bruising kneecaps and scraping even the pads of his large feet that Bilbo hears it—the great shriek, the eldritch howl. Gazing up, startled, he sees a huge writhing shape wrestling to stay aloft, clearly hampered by the enormous black metal shaft piercing his heaving chest. The dragon's twisting belly and flexing form gleam in the fires edging the floating town and the cold, clear light of the full moon. Roar after roar echoes down the valley as the dragon descends, flapping suddenly ungainly wings about him and keening most piteously, until with a final burst of brilliantine flame Smaug disappears from Bilbo's view somewhere farther down the mountain.

Bilbo calls to mind the unfamiliar topography, hurriedly plotting the best possible route to where Smaug was last seen, flailing and possibly fatally wounded. The marshes! Smaug has fallen to rest in the great expanse of marshes, clear on the opposing side of the valley!

It takes Bilbo all of the remaining night and until dawn's first rays to find him.

"Oh good-oh, still breathing!" he exclaims, rushing heedless up the curled-up bulk of Smaug and patting stubby hands away at the gentle rise and fall of the dragon's thorax. "You pusillanimous lout, what were you thinking, flying off like that and trying to kill people?" It's dangerous as Hell afire to fuss over an injured dragon of uncertain temper and Bilbo knows it, but somehow that's not important.

"Halfling?" The dragon arouses himself, lifting his huge chin an inch off the marshy ground and blinking somewhat hazily down at Bilbo. "No. Hobbit."

"Yes, me, hobbit," Bilbo snaps back. "We introduced ourselves earlier, remember? Oooh! You're bleeding like a stuck pig!"

Gushes of blood aside, what's important is that this whole disaster is somehow his fault, his burden to bear, and he must make amends. That it's imperative to make amends toward a beast who likely harbors no sympathy for one footsore and repentant Hobbit makes no never mind. Bilbo is responsible for bruising the creature's heart in some way and that is more than enough cause to be reckless.

"But first, what have they done to you, you great git? That's no Man-made arrow!"

It's a low, low rumble that gives Bilbo pause as he examines the shaft of metal stuck shallowly into the one bare patch on the dragon's impervious hide. A dangerous rumble which would scare away many a fellow made of lesser material than Bilbo Baggins.

"Now, now, don't be that way. I'm only just taking a gander at it," Bilbo cautions Smaug, trying to be as soothing as he can under the circumstances. "Hmm…not too, too bad."

A scale is missing; has been for quite some time, apparently, so old wound there, but the problem is that the arrow is perilously near the creature's heart. Fortunately the tip of it is only barely dug in; a shallow wound, then, Bilbo concludes.

"You," the dragon murmurs, shifting slightly under Bilbo's touch, "you have come to me in my failure. Why is that, Hobbit? To taunt me again?"

"You," Bilbo shoots back shortly, gingerly laying a second hand on the black metal and jiggling it slightly, testing for its give and heft, "may be Death but you're also a prize idiot. Come on, Smaug, did you not consider that the Men might have weapons of their own? They're hardly about to take on a destructive force like you without something dire for dragons tucked up their raggedy sleeves! Now lay still and shut it. I think I can pull this out, if only you'd let me at it—"

"Why?" Smaug demands, interrupting insistently. "Why would you? You have made it more than clear you despise me, Hobbit. You chose that—that scum of a Dwarf Kingling over me, did you not? You should have no care if I live or die, little one."

"Look, that's not important now, Your High-and-Mightiness," Bilbo snaps. "And of course I care! Just—just give me a moment, will you? I think I can save your life here—unless you'd rather I didn't?"

"Still—" the dragon persists, scowling. "I don't understand it, Hobbit, and I desire to always underst—ARRRRRGGH!"

"Told you to shut it, didn't !? There! It's out."

With a rude yank and twist Bilbo manages to extract the arrow's tip from the tender flesh exposed by the missing scale. He casts it aside immediately, his gaze on the hole gaping crudely the nasty death lance has left behind it.

"Oh, shite!" The hobbit stumbles back and dances away, stepping ably out of reach as the dragon's blood spurts from the wound and gushes steaming and dangerously hot down the expanse of gleaming natural armour below the one unsheathed gap. "Mordor's Minions!" Bilbo exclaims, eyeing the pooling blood warily. "I'd forgot about that! S'truth!"

"What …what?" the dragon mutters weakly, struggling to twist his great snaky neck about and peer down himself. "Hmm?" The sight of blood doesn't seem to bother Smaug particularly much, oddly as that is. Bilbo stares at him, aghast. "What did you…did you—oh. Ah. That."

"Yes, that! Your blood's poisonous, dimwit!" Bilbo bursts out, thrusting an accusing finger at a bemused Smaug. "Which any respectable dragon should be well aware of already and know to warn his friends in advance! And there you are, practically biting the hand that's helping you, you great ninny! Do watch where you're bleeding!"

"Oh….oh, sorry…all apologies….hmmm. I am…I find I am, hmm...suddenly…quite weary." Smaug's rumble trails off into a heaving sigh as he slips into a form of draconian insensibility. "Hmmmm..."

"Oh thank the stars above for that small favour, at least, " Bilbo grumbles, scrambling his way around the unconscious dragon's lax form and turning his eyes to the shining marshes. "Driving me mad, you were, what with the questions! Bloody stupid dragon! As if that mattered now."

The rising sun turns Bilbo's peaceful surrounds seemingly afire, brilliant with reflected light spreading over the waters interspersed with tufts of weedy growth and grasses. Which is a welcome thing but also a bother, given it leaves Bilbo squinting and glaring about the marshy countryside.

"Now, feverfew, I need feverfew. Mum always said feverfew for a wound. Where, oh where shall I find it out here, in this desolate place?"

It's several hours after, rising fast on an overcast midmorning, and still the Men of the floating village have yet to detect the snoring lump that is a haphazardly patched-up Smaug and the much smaller, somewhat bedraggled Hobbit fussing now and again over the makeshift bandage he's stuck to the dragon's chest. Oddly enough, nor have the band of Dwarves come seeking for Bilbo and for that Bilbo is desperately grateful. He has quite enough to accomplish, ta very much, and confrontations with irate Men or puzzled Dwarves are not what he needs at the moment, especially as he is already anticipating the todo which will inevitably occur when his recalcitrant patient awakes. A sleepless night and a highly aggravating morning's efforts have done little to settle the Hobbit's temper.

When Smaug does deign to awake, Bilbo decides, at least he'll be well up to set down any furious pouting on his part, the silly serpent!

Moreover, Bilbo's had to sacrifice the sleeves of his shirt in order to make a poultice sufficiently large enough to slow the sluggish bleeding from Smaug's wound down to a halt. It's quite enough to almost make him regret chasing after the great beastie and trying to aid him—almost. Bilbo had quite liked that shirt, despite the fact it was a hand-me-down from the Men and a bit more than too large for a hobbit. Whatever; he decides firmly he's not ruining his coat for the sake of a pesky dragon. That's carefully set aside, well away from the traces of dragons' blood staining the tufts and grasses.

"Ruddy idiot," Bilbo mutters after some considerable while of waiting about, bored nearly to tears, fretting more than a little and thus idly kicking a hard heel against one of curved claws below him. "Snoring away like the great lump you are. What am I ever to do with you?"

He shifts his arse on the nubbly knuckles beneath it, ruing the fact dragons didn't seem to have much extraneous padding. Further, it's none too warm a day when one is clad only in one's waistcoat, vest and shirtsleeves, especially when the shirt sleeves themselves are torn away. Bilbo grimaces, unsure that his decision to take advantage of the dragon's natural body heat to keep himself warm was a wise one. Not that perching on a tight-clutched claw is in any way comfortable but it does beat planting his arse on the damp cold ground. "You do know, don't you? They are going to come looking soon, I'm certain of it, and we cannot be found here. They'll be sure to finish you off in a winking and I don't see as how I'll be able to stop them."

"Hardly." One great slitted eye snaps open suddenly, glaring at Bilbo dead square. "But you. You are still here, Hobbit. And you have not yet answered my question."

"What question?" Bilbo hops off the claw he's borrowed and stands pat directly before the dragon's snout, crossing his arms belligerently before him. Smaug is recipient of a narrow-eyed glare and a skeptical snort. "I think it's more to the point to speak of ways and means of transporting you, Smaug. You're a sitting duck right now and it's only a matter of ti—"

"I can fly, Hobbit, never fear," Smaug sneers at Bilbo. "And further, I am well able to carry your insignificant self to a place of safety. Should I wish to."

"Should you wish to?" Bilbo snorts indignantly and much more loudly. "After all I've done for y—"

"That's the question," Smaug says again, his patience clearly very thin. "And it is tedious of you in the extreme to force me to continue asking it of you. Why, little one, have you come and why have you tended me? Tell me your reasons now and no more delay!"

"Well!" Bilbo flaps his hands up, beseeching the dull grey skies for some patience of his own. "Surely it's obvious, even to you?"

"No, not," Smaug grinds his teeth at Bilbo, speaking through them. His deep voice sounds very strange when constrained so. "Explicate," he orders. Bilbo glares.

"Very well, if you need it spelt out. It's my fault, isn't it?" he says, slumping his shoulders a little. "Setting you off like that—getting you wounded, even. I mean, you're not all that bad, really, if one doesn't dwell overmuch on your past, Smaug. Or...or that little 'I am Death' speech of yours. Bit over the top, I'd say."

"Not…all that bad?" the dragon echoes, looking quite taken aback. "You don't say."

"And I don't care to dwell, really; it's not my nature," Bilbo goes on, shrugging philosophically. "I mean, you didn't try to kill me too, too many times back there in the mountain and it was perfectly understandable you'd want to, now I think about it. Hording things and all, and then me stealing things—only natural of you. Besides, you were amusing to talk with, earlier. Witty. And, you were definitely jealous of my friend Thorin—"

"Jealous! I was not!" Smaug harrumphs, deeply affronted. "Bite your tongue, tiny man!"

"Hobbit. I thought we established that. And of course you were," Bilbo replies, cocking his chin at the furious Smaug. "It was plain as the nose your face, Smaug. Though there's absolutely no reason to be. Thorin is only a good friend of mine and—"

"Good friend!? That pompous git?"

"A good friend," Bilbo repeated pointedly, "and someone else in need of my assistance. You were just caught in the midst, is all. Not your fault, really. So why shouldn't I help you, too? 'Specially when you need me to."

"Ahem," the dragon coughs, twin curls of smoke coiling their way up into the chill moist air. "As to that. Dragon, here. Not exactly welcome amongst you other dwellers of Middle Earth, usually, us dragons. And hardly the fodder for friendship, Hobbit. Though far be it from me to dissuade you of your strange fancies. As they have been of some use to me."

"What can I say?" Bilbo grins when the dragon cocks a claw at the makeshift bandage, rearing up to do so. "I'm easy, yeah? What of it. Now, come along with you, lazy bones. We have to be on our way or they'll find us. And we can't very well simply return to the mountain. That would be suicide, spot on."

"Meh-hauuunghh! Heh-heh-heh! Hil-arious!"

Smaug's reptilian features wrinkle, rumple and twist as he rises to all fours at last. Bilbo stares at him, all agog, for there's this very funny sound he's hearing and it originates deep within the dragon's damaged chest. It sounds...it sounds vaguely like?

"Erm? What?"

"You!" Smaug barely stifles another weird outburst and bares all his teeth at Bilbo doing so. "And that—that is my amusement, my little friend," he goes on, tossing a haughty head at a passing march bird. "My very own true laughter, showing itself, and it's a rare, rare thing to have inspired it, I must advise you. Few have ever managed it before—and survived to tell the tale. Come, climb aboard, will you? We have wasted far too much time here, just as you've said. Needs must be off, so don't dawdle about, get on me! I'm flying in a moment and I shan't wait!"

"Wait!" Bilbo exclaims, even as he's seeking footholds and handholds and scrambling his way up to sit between the dragon's great shoulders. "No, do wait! Where—where is it we're going?"

"My real home, of course," Smaug replies smugly and carelessly, the wind nearly carrying away his reply as the first few beats of two enormous wings propel them both up and away. "You surely don't believe a dragon of my stature has only the one horde, do you?" he adds slyly, peeping back at Bilbo's startled face and dropped jaw. "For that would be a very foolish fancy indeed, my little friend."

TBC