A/N: A huge, fluffy thanks for all those who decided to follow this story AND stick with it (seeing as I haven't updated in half an eternity, blame RL). Awesome followers are awesome!
Also, I obviously don't own anything apart from my own madness.
Once again, any kind of review/feedback is loved fiercly!
But now, sit back and enjoy~
Contrary to what they had announced, the Elves had not left Middle-Earth. A group of a considerable size had stayed behind, slowly but steadily rebuilding the villages previously lost to Sauron's army, regaining their magic as well as their political powers - neither of those were to be underestimated.
As for their reason to stay in such an utterly devastated world... many mere mortals had dared to question their motives in the past ten years, some with purely political reasons, other out of sheer and very human curiosity. All of them had gotten the same gentle and slightly patronizing smile, accompanied by silence in response. Considering how cryptic their everyday talk was already, this might have been the best for everyone involved.
Apart from Mycroft, and a few of his friends, all gathered at the crucial meeting in Rivendell, John hadn't interacted with Elves much. He assumed they were all very much like the tall, blonde man, who would hide his intelligence and rarely spoke up. If he did, though, people stopped what they were doing, their brain frozen and their eyes glued to lips speaking words that, at best times, only had double meaning. When in a bad mood, Mycroft somehow managed to include a whole continent into his sentences, causing the others to gape at him, before they finally resumed what they had done before, pretending to be temporarily deaf.
To make it short, they were ideal politicians. Witty and wise, their gentle manners betraying the enormous power each one of them possessed.
Never for one second had John doubted that they were perfectly aware of this.
Accustomed to surprises to a extent that allowed him to maintain his calm appearance, John followed Mycroft thorough endless, poorly lit passages, soon getting lost in this maze, whereas Mycroft never hesitated at any turn. There were plain, thick candles approximately each twenty metres, but without the torch Mycroft had picked up after the first turn, they'd be hopelessly stumbling and walking into each other.
The walls were rough, artless, and every few steps Mycroft and Sherlock had to avoid meeting face to stone with a stalactite hanging dangerously low. All of this was quite astonishing, as Sherlock had claimed Rinn to play big role in the politics of the world. On the outside, it was reasonable to keep the huts poorly decorated, but the complete lack of effort down here was truly striking. It reminded John of Baldur, the dwarf of the fellowship. He had told many stories of the mines to all those who wanted to hear it. Even to the unwilling ones. Especially to those. Thanks to these unwanted lessons John was able to recognize this as the work of dwarves - they didn't need to worry about hitting their head on anything sticking out from the ceiling. At least not at that height, which was the exact reason their tunnels were rather huge considering their body size.
It also meant that this tunnel had been here for half an eternity and John was getting a headache just from trying to wrap his head around that realization. All this time, politics had been made here, of all places? Except for the time Sauron had attempted to conquer Middle-Earth, forcing the humans, elves and dwarves to come out into the light, work together, attempting to overcome centuries of prejudices in a few weeks.
Apparently these traditions had not been forgotten and the undying habit of secrecy had been taken up again.
John tried to make out Sherlock's expression, but there were a myriad of shadows dancing over his face, turning it into a demonic mask, with eyes gleaming in a dangerous fashion. Seeing the wizard like this, John felt a wave of loneliness sweep him away to the faraway land of doubt and self-pity he had hoped to have left behind forever. All of sudden, he noticed that, if he ever asked Sherlock how far he would go to make the boredom go away, he wasn't sure what the answer would be. The man next to him had the potential to be a selfless saint, but so far had only shown the behaviour of a selfish brat. In any case, he was potentially dangerous, with his uncanny abilities, his sharp mind and mood swings equal to those of a notorious drunk. To round up the picture, Sherlock had met with a even more suspicious individual than himself, which was quite the accomplishment, and, despite the danger he had been and might still be in, hadn't told John anything about the man.
Not exactly the foundation for trust.
Why were these tunnels so endless? Did the politicians long for exercise before and after the gatherings, or was their small group currently led down the visitor route, created with the sole purpose of tormenting and exhausting overly curious people? Whichever was true, the more time John spent in this half-darkness with laughing shadows everywhere and somehow, always hiding at the corner of his eyes, the more paranoid and irritated he became.
That, and he started to feel his legs. But he chose not do dwell on that.
Mycroft was unaffected in his elvenly way, while Sherlock seemed to be the human counterpart: Still brimming with energy and walking with stride. Whereas John was.. hobbitting slightly behind, having to take three steps for each of Sherlock's and, as a result, looking utterly ridiculous compared to these tall men. Doubting his relationship with Sherlock wasn't benefitting his pace either, and eventually he gave up, letting the distance between them grow. A tad grumpy, he wondered if either of them would even notice if he went missing, then he decided the truthful answer to that would drag his mood down to the depths of hell and thus, settled for the version where the two sent out search parties just for him.
That wasn't working either.
Finally, there was the hint of light at the end of the tunnel and the faint promise of life. With the stalactites hanging down from the ceiling, John was reminded of a dragon's jaw, wide open to lure in innocent visitors.
At times, there where whispers, traces of conversations to remain utterly secret. John felt strange approaching the cave. He had never been fond of secrecy, not when it came to politics. Although he had understood the necessity to keep the fellowship hidden at all costs as long as possible, he did not see the need for such measures now. Frowning, he reflected on the mixed feels in his stomach and came to the conclusion that he hated clandestine meetings such as these, because ultimately, they would lead to intrigues and rivalry, which in turn would weaken the fresh bond between the races. Back in the days, precious time had been wasted with petty accusations and distrust of each other, when action had been crucial.
Hobbits were very easy-going people, but this one hadn't had a decent meal nor a decent conversation for days and was becoming increasingly irritated.
Upon entering the vast and intimidatingly spacious cave - he had no other word for a giant chamber under the earth such as this - he was greeted with a fierce hug, a bone-breaking pat on his shoulders and several loud voices at once.
"John!", a familiar voice boomed, joined by several others at the same time, making it impossible to distinguish where one greeting ended and the other started. It was a long, conglomerated word, sounding awkwardly like "Heoodihoarloee", which left John confused for a second. After a little undecided blinking and shifting to another foot, he decided to toss formalities aside and just returned the greeting hug for hug, a grin as bright as a Shire's sunrise on his face, growing with each familiar friend he spotted, until he was positively beaming, radiating a happiness that seemed to fill the priorly dark and damp room with sparks of contentment.
Such were the effects of a happy Hobbit.
Whereas Sherlock's face rivalled the gloom Of Mount Doom itself with every exchange. Obviously he had planned on making a grand entrance, showing off and generally make himself look mysterious. After pondering his options for a few seconds, he decided to cloak himself in secrecy instead, saving at least a bit of his grace. It would be very unwise to remark that his face looked as if he had bitten into some particularly sour fruit, so that will be left unsaid, naturally.
As he spotted the wizard's expression, though, John couldn't help but snicker at the face Sherlock was making, resulting in a shift of the much wanted attention.
Finally, Sherlock thought and resumed his arrogant sneering before they thought he could actually talk to him. Not that anyone would have been able to hold his interest for long enough to call it a conversation. Except for John, he added for reasons unclear to him. He would have to analyse that thought later. Thoroughly. Very thoroughly. The mere idea of becoming attached to that Hobbit made his heart do strange leaps, which could only be unhealthy and were most likely only a sign of disgust or horror. He hated guessing things, but since this feeling was a first for him, he had to set up a theory and test it, this was how magic and alchemy worked, after all. Logic was something to rely on.
Sherlock decided to eliminate the possible reasons for his body's unnatural behaviour while he was in the meeting halls. Not only did he feel a strong urge to smoke his pipe in here, mainly because it was forbidden, the overly friendly manner of the dwarves irritated him and made him want to set something on fire. Preferably the leaves in his pipe. Vicious cycle here.
Naturally, all of this great piece of mind had been forged in a few second, which left plenty of time to deduce something about the dwarves and the reason his assistance - who were they kidding, he was doing everything on his own, nothing could be left to the idiots surrounding him - in this very underground chamber. Deducing dwarves, however, was as sensible as taming sheep, since every little thing that happened to them throughout the day had been engraved on their foreheads, stuck to their clothes in a way that the sheer abundance of information was screaming at Sherlock, making him feel slightly dizzy from the overload. Quickly, he gathered himself, smoothed his already perfect coat so it would willow around him.
''Show me the body", he demanded, earning twelve dumbstruck expressions from the dwarves, a fond sigh from Mycroft and an inscrutable expression from John. The mysteries concerning this Hobbit just kept accumulating. By now, Sherlock would need an entire day to figure everything out to his contentment, without any disturbances. Of course, it was when when he actually needed time off, for once not drowning in the vast sea of boredom slowly becoming a mindless fish, he ended up with a case sending thrills through his entire body, humming with too much energy. Later, later he would solve the mystery that was John Watson.
If he survived the excruciating stupidity of the people around him.
"What, how did you know there was a body?, spoke Baldur.
"A dead one, on top of that", added Derg, his brother, quite uselessly.
"Did someone tell you?", another dwarf asked.
"Mycroft must have told him everything already." Again, one of the other dwarves.
"That's a pity."
"No storytelling, then."
"You shouldn't look forward to telling tales of someone not even properly buried."
"It wouldn't be tales. More like, a real story."
"Isn't that what tales are? Just.. a little more bloomy."
"Everyone, shut up!" Sherlock shouted and reeled in the ensuing, stunned silence, which he most definitely wasn't going to cut with a knife. Wiser this time, he directed the question towards Mycroft, still lingering in some elvishly sublime way at the entrance, whose usual polite mask had cracked slightly to reveal something akin to amused fondness, only infuriating Sherlock even more. How dare he look down on him? Even put him in the same room with those.. simpletons?
Before he had the chance to rant, complain or even deduce something truly embarrassing, a soft voice interceded all attempts at thoroughly pissing off the Elf.
"Mycroft, I think you should fill us in on what happened while we're going to the corpse, alright?" It should have been alerting, worrisome, how swiftly everyone complied. The dwarves stilled, Mycroft smiled slightly, nodding and motioning for them to follow him, and, worst of all, Sherlock actually doing so, with less grace than usual, as if his brain and body hadn't fully come to an agreement yet.
All due to the gentleness of that confusing Hobbit, as if he had known how and most importantly why Sherlock had been stressed, with all the unnecessary input, his impatience and confusion just adding oil to the fire. It had been very much like applying soothing balm to cuts, like he remembered Mycroft often doing when they had been kids, or rather, when he had been a reckless brat and Mycroft an awkward teenager. The invoked memory caused a way too comfortable warmth to spread inside of him, so he tried to distract himself by focussing solely on his surroundings.
Barely formed tunnels, even rougher than the ones they had walked through before, while they got uncharacteristically wide for dwarf-made ones. As the height of the ceiling increased with every step as well, Sherlock concluded that this must have been the ancient parts of the whole labyrinth-system, built by a race that has been rumoured to have been the first in this world, until they perished. At least, most believed them to be, Sherlock thought otherwise and had developed his own theory how they had split into three different tribes, eventually becoming what they are now: Humans, dwarves and Elves. Not that anyone would ever listen to him, let along open their limited horizon enough to consider that theory.
Advancing further into the darkness only lit by one meagre torch, Mycroft spoke up.
"His name was Holdir, an important representative of the Mythrill-Mines. His reason for being here is unknown to us. I was the one to discover his.. remains as I was on my way to the well, whose existence is known only by a few and its power accessible to even fewer. Only magicians of a rank equal to me would have a reason for trying to find their way to it. I suppose you know the well's effects on the user?"
"Of course", Sherlock said instantly, but couldn't resist showing off if only a little, "its effects are rumoured to be immortality, knowledge and strength, the extent of its power depends on the skill of the user."
"Exactly", Mycroft nodded sagely, ,,that is the cause for my astonishment. What could have possibly driven Holdir down these sacred halls?"
"There are 14 possible answers to that question so far, I'll have to see the body to narrow down the results", Sherlock promptly replied, mind instantly filled with his very own labyrinth of clues he has gathered so far, not yet leading to a satisfying conclusion.
However, all his senses refocussed as they turned around the corner, assessing the scene before him.
Holdir's remains had been burnt to no recognition, even the battle axe - apparently he hadn't been fighting - had melted, coating the upper half of his back, the rest pooling around the fallen body. Dwarves usually wore leather, but if Holdir had worn any, it had become ash, much like most parts of his body.
"How did you know it was Holdir at all?" John asked in horror laced with genuine interest. He was a doctor, after all.
"I know a spell that can identify.. cases such as these", Mycroft responded simply.
Sherlock gestured for them to be silent, and thankfully the echoes disappeared from the walls. A few steps next to the body the ash was smeared, leaving behind something that resembled a footprint, but closer examination revealed the imprint to be from a kind of paw.. one with sharp claws and too huge for any beast, considering the height of the upper tunnels. Altough.. Sherlock turned around sharply, dusting enclosing him in the motion, settling on his coat.
More steps to the opposite direction,, a bit to the left... and yes, there it was. With his long, thin fingers he reached out, touching the spot where a bit of stone had crumbled off. Effortlessly, he mumbled the fitting spell, feeling the stone heat under him, until it was almost melting. Eyes closed, he took no notice of the stone nearly burning up, and instead let his mind be flooded with images. When he opened them again, his victorious grin was infectious.
"Whatever Holdir had intended to do here, it woke a creature better left sleeping." A dramatic pause, earning him an exasperated sigh from both men ruining the moment, then he continued.
"A dragon, Mycroft. Very old, and, I believe, very angry."
