John looked around himself. How strange, he thought, to be able to leave all of London's familiar noise and clatter in less than an hour. Having a rather large compatriot who could fly came in handy sometimes.

John couldn't say he really liked the outdoors: he was more of a city boy at heart. Every once in a while however, he liked to go away from London, breathe some clearer air, enjoy a few moments of calm.

Also he was curious to test just how keen his sense of hearing was. He didn't have a massive dragon to distract, as Sherlock had left immediately after dropping John off. He had said he would be back within two hours, but John wasn't sure exactly how timely the dragon would be.

John crept into the forest, eyes darting about. According to Sherlock, the closest sign of human civilization—a lone road—was a good six kilometers away. The wild land, veiled by trees, was quiet in a way that London could never compare to. But in John's ears the forest was alive with sound. Birds' feathers ruffling against each other. The splash of a round dew drop falling from one leaf to another. Unseen creatures calling to each other in their high, quick-speaking voices.

John went in about twenty meters. Though he didn't go in very deep, the forest quickly grew shadowed. In this time of spring, the under- and overgrowth was thick.

Some instinct came alive in John, a feeling he hadn't known he had, a peculiar love of this wild and hush. He explored quietly, always staying within sight of the band of light that indicated the edge of the wood.

After a while he came upon a recently fallen log, and a touch of his fingers confirmed that it wasn't too wet. He climbed up and sat himself down, swinging the average-sized pack he had brought with him to a place beside him. Balanced securely, he leaned over and opened the pack, pulling out one sandwich of several. The lunch he had brought was much more amply sized than he could have eaten before, but he was a hobbit now.

He sat on his log, contentedly eating his sandwich. He studied the vibrant greens of the forest's new growth, dimmed some by the insignificant sunlight. Light occasionally filtered through the treetops, painting visible rays for the dust mites to dance in. Forest noise echoed between the trees, and not a hint of manmade sound could be heard.

There was music, John realized, floating in the air. Birdsong, the same as he had always heard before, but he had thought it was random and chaotic then, noisy little birds cheeping about their territory.

Here though, it weaved together in a beautifully simple symphony that seemed to go in pace with John's slow breathing. It was beautiful noise. There had yet to be a record that could match it.

What strange thoughts for someone who wasn't a nature-lover.

The place was so peaceful and still, and though the sun's rays were hardly dazzling, the day was pleasantly warm. John nibbled away at the rest of his lunch, eventually ending up lying flat on his back on the fallen log, eyes half-closed as he listened to both the clear and muted sounds of the wood.

He might have dozed off. At least his eyes closed. But still his ears continued to drink in sounds, sounds John never would have been able to hear before. And after this was all over, he might never hear them again.

His rest was disturbed by the familiar beat of Sherlock's wings. It was strange how much he listened for those now.

"How did your test go?" Sherlock inquired disinterestedly as John broke free of the forest's edge.

"Superb," John told him. "I can hear a twig snap twenty meters off."

"And your nap?"

John started. "What makes—"

"Obvious."

John's lips curled upwards. "In other words, you saw the moss tangled in my hair."

"I did say it was obvious, didn't I?"

John shook his head. Of course Sherlock would have the last word. John supposed it would never be any other way. He scrambled up onto Sherlock's neck and snatched the dark blue scarf looped between two spines.

"Where did you find this scarf, anyway?" John wondered.

"An aspiring world-record achiever," Sherlock answered. "Not that anyone would really care about the largest handmade scarf in the world, but they were willing to donate."

Sherlock spread his wings as far apart as they could go and violently launched himself off the ground, nearly leaving John behind. The dragon didn't seem to care at all for running starts, even when there was plenty of room.

Sherlock banked, and a chill wind shrieked past John's ears as they pointed towards London.

Spring is in the air (we actually have had tons of sunshine in Washington lately, it's unbelievable!), so I thought I'd get John outside for a little while. I'm not sure that he cares for the outdoors at all—in fact he probably doesn't—but bah, I'm doing it anyway. And it is a great place to test out your hearing.

Oh my gosh. Guys, when the next Conversation rolls in we'll have only half a year to wait until The Hobbit! Yaaaaaaay! *excited hopping*