This chapter contains a few SPOILERS for the Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (although I assume that most people have seen it). It may be slightly Sherlock-y (is that even a word? "Sherlocked" is, so why not…) in the future, because of what I've got planned ;) But it's not really a crossover. There are also a few quotes from the book, may I note. Just thought I'd say. Well, onward…

But this current hobbit's wondering would be gone soon, and replaced with knowing, because at that very moment, there is a heavy knock on Bilbo's prized yellow front door.

'Who could it be at this fine hour?' Bilbo mutters to himself, drawing his eyes from the dwarves and dropping the curtain as he goes to investigate – no, he doesn't like that word, it implies adventure – … as he goes to check. There.

He opens the door swiftly, and without looking at who stands on his doorstep, he utters a brief greeting. 'Good morning.'

'And what could you possibly mean by "Good morning", my dear little fellow?' a gravelly, booming voice answers, and Bilbo finds himself staring up at a wizened elderly man with a pointed grey hat and a long beard of which the tip is tucked into the man's tan belt. He is tall, taller than most of the big people, Bilbo notes, with eyes as grey as the Brandywine on a stormy eve. The man – or wizard, as we know – carries a staff, and to Bilbo he is frighteningly familiar.

'Um – um, good morning. Do – do I know y-you?' Bilbo stutters, stepping back – a big mistake.

The man takes this as an invitation to enter Bag End, banging his head of Bilbo's prized swinging chandelier as he steps over the threshold. He brings a hand up to rub it fiercely, suddenly noticing that Bilbo hasn't shut the door yet, and is still standing, open-mouthed at the spectacle in front of him. What a queer fellow indeed… 'Shut that door, my dear Bilbo, we're getting a draft… And what did you mean by good morning? Could it be that you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or do you feel good on this morning, or feel that it is a morning on which to be good on?'

Bilbo lets the door swing shut. 'A-All of them at once, I suppose…' Bilbo coughs slightly, 'Who are you?'

'Who ever thought that I would live to be "Good-morninged" by Belladonna Took's son?' the grey man murmurs to himself under his breath. 'I am Gandalf,' the wizard rumbles heartily, 'And Gandalf means me.'

'Gandalf!' Bilbo exclaims, and a flicker of confusion passes over his face, before he splits into a wide grin, 'Not the Gandalf?! The one who told all of those amazing tales of trolls and Wargs and goblins and bear-men and dragons! And who made those magnificent fireworks that the old Took used to have on a midsummer's eve! Ah, Gandalf, welcome! Welcome! Good morning!'

Gandalf the Grey merely smiles down at little Master Baggins (whose Tookish side is coming out again – for those who haven't noticed) and nods to himself slightly. Yes, this little Hobbit definitely needs to go on an adventure… 'What a lot of things you use "Good morning" for!' the grey wizard chuckles mildly.

Gandalf the Grey clears his throat. After ushering in all thirteen dwarves (you do remember them, yes? The ones Bilbo was spying on – *ahem* - watching), they proceeded to ransack all his pantries and sing whilst doing so. In the midst of this Bilbo wanders around, frantically telling every dwarf to get their filthy paws off his jam and wondering why in the world these dwarves are even in his home in the first place. But Bilbo is a hobbit and he likes visitors. He just likes to know them before they come visiting… 'Bilbo, meet Dwalin, Balin, Fili, Kili, Dori, Ori, Nori, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and especially Thorin Oakensheild,' Gandalf gestures finally to a princely dwarf, one who is slightly taller than the rest. He has a mane of flowing dark brown hair and eyes as lost and cold as a single icicle hovering over a lake. 'This is Bilbo Baggins, the fourteenth member of our company.'

'At your service!' all of the dwarves – save one – bow again, sweeping off their travelling-hoods politely.

Bilbo stares at them all nervously. 'You mean, these dwarves are yours?' he yelps at Gandalf.

'We do not belong to any man, be them wizard or other,' Thorin growls from the corner, eyes wild.

Gandalf sighs, 'Yes, thank you, Thorin.'

'Tell me, Master Baggins,' Thorin continues, circling the hobbit like a wild Warg of the East, 'Have you much skill in fighting?'

'Pardon me?' Bilbo squeaks.

'Sword or axe?'

'Well,' Bilbo clears his throat before straightening his back slightly and standing with a sort of pride, 'I do have some skill at playing conkers but I fail to see why that is important…'

Thorin smirks widely at Bilbo's confession. He turns to address the rest of the company with arms held aloft. 'I feared so. Looks more like a green grocer than a burglar to me, lads,' he cackles, and the rest of the dwarves snort loudly with laughter, creating much of a rumpus.

'ENOUGH!' Gandalf roars. He seems to grow taller suddenly – not just because he is in the presence of little people – and colder, as if all the light in the tiny hobbit-hole he is sucking away. He brandishes his fist before letting it clatter down on the table, 'IF I SAY MASTER BAGGINS IS A BURGLAR, THEN A BURLGAR HE IS!'

The hobbit whispers to the grey wizard, who crouches down to hear him. 'But Gandalf, you know I am no burglar. I have never stolen anything in my life!' Bilbo Baggins mutters quickly, before raising his voice so that the dwarves can hear, 'Furthermore, I cannot just go running off into the blue. I am a Baggins –' he makes a discontented noise and clears his throat, 'Of Bag End.'

Then Gandalf bends down and whispers seven tiny words to him, and those particular seven tiny words made all the difference: 'Ah, but you are also a Took…'

Bilbo stays silent for a long time, cradling his cup and saucer in one hand, and his head in the other. He watches the fire flicker comfortingly, and lets the heat spread up his hairy, woollen feet and all the way up his body. Ah, comfort… But Gandalf is right. 'Pass me that document.'

All is dark in the house of the hobbit, save one lonely light at the table where the thirteen dwarves, a hobbit and a wizard plan.

'… then we will need to –'

'But how can we –'

'Does anybody have any chips?'

SLAM.

'Drat that blasted bird!' Bilbo Baggins exclaims, storming over to his round open window and slamming it shut dramatically. The bird in question, now behind the glass, starts tapping it persistently with its glistening black beak. Bilbo shoots it a look before storming back over to the table. 'I believe him to be spying on us,' he says, by way of explanation.

Thorin barely glances up at him, but shoots one quick glance over to the bird, before straightening the map out and continuing to read, 'Leave her alone! That is a thrush, a bird of my people. She brings us good fortune, Master hobbit.'

And yet none of them notice, not even Gandalf out of the corner of his eye, that the bird flutters off, quickly and frantically, towards the East. She is heading for Erebor.

...Three days later...

Smaug is bored. No, Smaug is BORED. The dragon huffs out a deep, breathy sigh, black smoke curling around his nostrils in a foggy haze. After easily defeating the lake-town of Dale – and eating the majority of their livestock, as well as themselves – he has been cooped up in the Lonely Mountain while he waits by word of the Shadow-voice. Although, for what, he is not so sure.

And so he waits... and waits… and waits…

CLANG

And suddenly, with a heavy clatter and a bang, a mother thrush shoots through the partially open window like a flaming magic pinecone (Smaug has seen his fair share of these).

He opens one eye lazily, a golden beam of light shooting out from under one heavily-armoured eyelid. 'Not your best landing then, bird,' he grumbles, his booming voice shaking the very rotting roots of his mountain.

The bird ignores this jibe, continuing the business of straightening out her ruffled feathers. 'My liege –'

'Molly, don't call me "my liege",' the great dragon makes the rumbling air quote awkwardly with his left claws, 'or "my lord" or "your honour" or any of that nonsensical drivel, for the matter. My name is Smaug. I am Smaug the Golden, Smaug the Terrible, Smaug – Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities, but I am certainly not a "liege".'

The bird – Molly – sighs heavily, before continuing, readjusting her grip for balance upon an old, bent goblet at the dragon's snout, 'Yes, O Smaug the Terrible. It would seem that the Master Dwarf and his band of henchmen – or henchdwarves, as it is - have decided to return on a quest to the Lonely Mountain for… uh, revenge, my lord Smaug.'

Smaug the Golden lets the fine mithril coat he is inspecting fall from his talons with a clatter onto his nest of treasures. He is seething, yet rather cocky, as he turns to look the bird squarely in the tiny eyes, his own orbs burning with the immense magical flaming power which a dragon wields. 'Revenge?' he hisses at her, and his breath reeks of blood, 'Revenge?! The King under the Mountain is dead and where are his kin that dare seek revenge? Girion Lord of Dale is dead, I have eaten his people, and where are his sons' sons that dare approach me? I laid low the warriors of old and their like is not in the world today. Then I was but young and tender. Now I am older and stronger, oh, so much stronger, my little sparrow friend!'

'Um, thrush,' the mother bird timidly corrects under her breath, almost to herself.

'Whatever,' he waves her away with a "Does-it-look-like-I-care,-peasant?" look and a set of newly bronzed and buffed talons – courtesy of the old war-banners of the dwarf king, which are now in tatters. 'Leave me.'

'As you wish, lord Smaug,' the thrush hisses, and with a single flap of her tiny wings, she is gone.

Smaug rises from his latest bed of treasures, gold tinkling off him and spattering like tiny raindrops against his thick hide. He begins to pace through his palace, inspecting all of its golden splendour, the great roars ripping themselves from his blistering throat setting fire to each remaining dwarf tapestry.

In the corner of the dwarfish chambers the face of the darkness gives a malicious grin, before it turns away and only black surrounds.

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