Prompt: Dragons, from sirensbane

A/N: This is an idea I've had for AGES and I'm beyond thrilled to find a prompt that I could fit it into. Yes, I know, I'm back in WWI but THERE'S A REASON I PROMISE

It was in the dark, stormy days of early winter 1918 that I found myself at last aboard a steamer to cross the Channel back to England. It had taken several weeks past the official end of the war for me to be released from service, as I had taken it as my duty to assist with sending the wounded back home before I could think of joining them. I would be in France still, for there were more wounded returning from the front each day, even after the fighting had long since stopped, but the British Army, mindful of my advancing years, had given me leave to return home in time for Christmas. That, at least, I was grateful for. When the date of the armistice was announced, I had finally felt secure enough to promise Holmes that I would return for Christmas, and I intended to keep my promise.

It had been a long, arduous journey, first by truck out of the makeshift field hospital which had been my personal front for the long years of the war, then by troop train into Paris and then a crowded, passenger train out again. I had barely room to sit, filled as the train was with returning troops of all nationalities as well as displaced refugees from France and Belgium seeking a friendly place to settle. Now, I had only to cross the Channel and take one last train into London before I could call my service complete. London! The mere name evoked memories too strong for me to overcome. Though I was not naive enough to think that London had was unchanged. None of us had survived this war unchanged; as I looked out on the rough waves of the Channel, I knew I was returning to a very different world than the one I had left. I had hardly a thought as to what the future would bring, and felt very sorry for the men younger than I, who had survived the horror of the last five years and now would need to rebuild the world they had hardly a chance to know. My time was over, and my own personal future likely held nothing but a few years of retirement in Sussex Downs, where Holmes had kindly asked me to join him, and which I had gladly accepted.

I soon became aware that I was not alone in my contemplation of the waves. A young man who had been sitting on a deck chair suddenly stood up, put something away in the pocket of his army jacket, and stood next to me, an expression of consternation upon his face. I studied my new companion surreptitiously; a small mustache graced a lean, handsome face with neatly combed hair and kindly eyes. The fellow noticed me next to him and smiled. "Forgive me for disturbing you. I am only having some difficulty with something I have been trying to write, and I find I need a break."

I nodded. "A letter home?" I asked politely.

"No," the fellow said. "More a sort of...story. It was something I did to pass the time, in the trenches, and I thought to continue it but I don't know. Perhaps I have lost my inspiration now that this is all over."

I considered this. The war had been the worst horror the world had yet seen, but as a writer myself I could understand how one could find inspiration in it, if only as a drive to escape or attempt to make sense of the carnage. I gazed upon the fellow with new interest. Of all the professions I have worked at in my life, I had spent much of my time with either soldiers or doctors, and of course criminal investigators. I had rarely had the chance to spend much time with other writers, save my literary agent, Doyle. Perhaps my little stories had not been enough to grant me entrance to the great literary societies of London that I remembered, which had included the likes of Wilde, Barrie, Stevenson and Wells. In truth, I had not even considered myself among their ranks. I only wrote up accounts of true events, and the talent for making up an entire tale was not mine. Still, I held my hand out to the young man next to me. "I quite understand. I am something of a writer myself. Dr. John Watson."

The young solider shook my head and then his eyes widened in recognition. "Sir, you are not the Dr. Watson? The biographer of Sherlock Holmes?"

I laughed gently at the awe in his expression. "Indeed I am, though that was many years ago."

"Why, it is an honor! I grew up on your stories, sir. My brother and I spent our childhood playing detective! It was a great argument among us which of us was to be Holmes. I cannot believe I have had the fortune to meet you!"

I could not be other than gratified at finding such an appreciative audience; for it was usually Holmes who received the accolades between us. "Which of you usually won?" I asked.

"I did," the young man answered. "I am the elder, so I could assign roles as I wanted. Though I doubt I did him justice. Though in fact, it was your stories, among others, that gave me the idea that I could write myself."

"Do you write mysteries as well?" I asked. In the years since I had published stories of Holmes, many other such detective stories had become popular, though I remained secretly proud that many people told me mine were superior.

"No," my new companion answered. "I write more fantastical stories. I am fascinated by the ancient Anglo-Saxon epics, Beowulf and the like. Stories of magic and other worlds, and knights and quests."

"Oh," I said. "Rather like Wonderland, or the Baum series?"

"Something like that," the young man answered. "To tell the truth, I found they did not make much sense and were more suited to children. If one is to create a whole secondary world, it should make at least as much sense as ours. One must know how the languages have developed, and what sort of technology the people use. That way one does not get confused as to why a man can be created out of tin yet an entire land uses thatching on their roofs. I would write something much more akin to the great Arthurian epics, or perhaps the Norse Nibelungenlied, the Ring cycle."

I frowned with interest. "I have never considered that before," I said. Though the idea was interesting. Holmes and I had spent many happy hours at the opera, where those same Norse stories were popular for adaptation.

"Perhaps that is my own interest. I have always been very much interested in language," my new friend said. "In fact, I am hoping to gain a position teaching Old English Literature at university. One must have a career if one hopes to write."

"Yes, indeed. I suspect Holmes would enjoy meeting you," I said. "He has also always been interested in ancient languages. Though I am not sure he would approve of writing fantasy. He was most disparaging of the Wonderland stories when I read them."

The young soldier next to me smiled. "Yes, well, few consider such fantastical stories suitable for adults, though at one time any story that did not contain magic would have been thought tedious." He smiled impishly. "Besides, I have always thought no story is complete without a dragon or two."

I had a sudden image of myself and Holmes facing a dragon, armed with swords. My new friend was correct, dragons certainly did make for exciting stories. "I shall certainly be interested to see what you will write in future," I said. "I have no doubt that you shall find your inspiration again. Take that as advice from an experienced writer. No bout of writer's block lasts forever."

"No, I am sure it does not. In fact, now that we are speaking of dragons, I feel I might be on to something." I recognized the itch to write when an idea is upon one, and I decided to take my leave so my young friend could get back to his worlds of magic and dragons.

"It was very nice to meet you, might I ask your name?" I asked.

"Tolkien, sir," the young soldier answered. "John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Lancashire Fusiliers."