Chapter 11 - Welcome to 221B, Baker St
Much to Frodo's frustration, Mr Homes began barking orders as soon as Sam's foot crossed the threshold. He had thrown himself into his own leather-covered chair before they arrived, but now he leapt up from it, pacing and shouting excitedly, demanding 'samples' both of Sam's person and his belongings, and announcing Sam's secrets to the world as quickly as he saw them. He prowled from the parlour to the kitchen and back, still 'deducing' and ordering people out of his way. Poor Mistress Hudson hurriedly left after reassuring Jon Watson that "if things get too bad" her own parlour was open. Jon tried to calm his excitable 'flat mate' and Frodo did his best to deflect the detective's speech as well, little good that did. Sam was enraged and soon shouting back whenever the detective paused for breath (which was even less often than an excited Took), but Mr Homes continued to ignore all attempts to speak with him.
At last Jon suggested that Yousef Walitch, the man who had found Sam, be questioned first so that he might be allowed to go to his work. This Mr Homes did take note of, and naturally had a counter to that, and to every other argument put to him as well, and quickly sent both men out of the room with an order that Jon take Mr Walitch's witness.
"And take him with you!" he added, almost as a parting shot. Frodo felt his ears heat, knowing whom the detective meant even without any indicator.
"Y'won't!" Sam snapped back. "There ain't no call t' go shovin' Mr Frodo out th' door."
"Double-negative," Sherlock retorted sharply. "Indicating that there is, in fact, need, which there is. I need to speak to you without interference from your master."
Master.
Frodo stilled at the hated word as it seemed to fill the room, the hissing sibilance of Gollum echoing around him, his own declarations in the mountain ringing in his ears. His lips parted almost unconsciously; he wasn't certain what was coming out, but this deduction, this accusation was the final straw—
"Int'erference!" Sam snapped, unknowingly cutting off Frodo's tirade. "Now you look here! Y' don' even know Mr Frodo! Y' wouldn' even have call t' go sayin' such o' th' Sackville-Bagginses without knowin' 'em, let alone—"
"Don't, Sam," Frodo interrupted hastily, noting the gleam of 'deducing' return to Sherlock's eyes, but the man was already speaking.
"You're proving my point right now."
Sam reared back, inhaling sharply. "You're th' one as is interferin'!" he shouted back, a fire smouldering dangerously in his eyes. "He's been who-knows-where, gone through only Eru Hisself knows what, torn away from his land and ever'thing—as if'n th' Quest weren't bad enou—"
The man grimaced. "Wasn't," he corrected.
"—Y' tell me as I can't even talk t' him, an' then y' have th' boldness t' 'ccuse him of deliberately twistin' my witness?!" Sam was so upset he hadn't even heard the interruption.
Frodo winced, knowing that he should stop his friend. Sam would feel awful about this later; he should step in before things went too far. "Sam," he tried again, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It's all right."
Sam was too angry at this point to be deterred. "But it ain't!" he retorted, turning on the older hobbit with something close to an angry sob. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr Frodo, but there is nothin' 'right' about any o' this! Y' know what he's accusin' y' of!"
"I do," Frodo agreed grimly. It was one of the most serious crimes a hobbit could be charged back home.
"No, guys, guys!" Jon hastily stepped in. "I don't think you actually do. Shut up, Sherlock!" he added crossly to his flat mate, who was beginning to interrupt again. "Let me handle this!"
"Oh, yes. Let the doctor with his bedside manners take care of things," the detective sneered, plumping heavily down on his leather chair and taxing the cushioning dreadfully.
Jon gave his flat mate a sharp look and muttered, "They're a sight better than yours, mate." Then gently placing a hand on each hobbit's shoulder (and reminding Frodo strongly of old Uncle Rory when he needed to drive a point home to a certain young, hot-tempered lad) he faced the pair. Frodo saw Sam bristle at the touch. "Look," Jon began calmly, "he's not saying that this would be intentional."
"Oh, he ain't, is he?" Sam started.
"Isn't," Sherlock corrected behind them.
"No, he's not," Jon returned in a firm, still calm tone. "What he means is: people pay attention to what their listeners are doing and they'll unconsciously shift their story to be a little more agreeable with the audience. You and Frodo are friends, really good friends, right?"
"Aye, sir," Sam admitted, the red in his face shifting to a lighter pink as he calmed a little.
"Aye," Sherlock was heard to mutter almost derisively. Both hobbits stiffened again.
Jon winced and gave the man a stern look before returning his attention to the pair. "Okay," he nodded. "So, if you're telling a story, and you know that Frodo is listening you're probably going to be watching him and, subconsciously, of course and not deliberately at all, be trying to tell a story that he'll like. So, you might skip past—"
"Obviously that's why the pair of you can't be together," Sherlock interrupted scornfully. "You influence each other."
"'Reckon as I'd prefer t' influence you," Sam muttered, eyeing the detective narrowly.
He needed to stop this at once.
Taking a step forward so that Sherlock's eyes were drawn to him Frodo spoke carefully, "What you say may well be, Mr Homes, but it does not change one thing. Sam is still a stranger to your ways, and I would not leave him friendless if I can help that."
The detective arched a haughty eyebrow at this, and a frowning Jon interjected, "Er, you were alone and friendless."
Frodo gave the soldier a half smile. "No, Jon, I was not. I had Master Lestraad at first, and then I had you."
Jon blinked in surprise at this, and then gave him a crooked, but genuine grin in return.
Frodo returned his attention to the detective, looking up into the bored face as well as he could manage. "However, Master Homes, you are asking not just myself, but everyone to leave Sam alone with you for an unknown length of time, during which you will doubtless 'deduce' him. Forgive me, but having experienced your methods myself I cannot allow this to happen."
Poor Jon buried his face in a hand and groaned.
The detective's eyes narrowed. "Do you want me to find Minis Tirith or not?"
Frodo lifted his chin in defiance. "I will not leave him."
"Look—Sherlock, why don't you interview Mr Walitch and I'll take care of Sam—" Jon started.
"No."
"What sort of 'methods'?" Sam asked suspiciously.
"Just more of the same," Frodo answered evasively, touching one scarred wrist lightly as he spoke. "You will find that he is very observant." Sam's eyes followed the movement, and then widened in understanding, and alarm.
"That!" Sherlock abruptly announced. "That is precisely why you cannot be allowed to interact with each other!"
Both hobbits jumped in surprise.
"What?" Jon demanded crossly. Clearly he hadn't seen the gesture.
"Didn't you see? He touched his wrist, communicating to Sam in one move that I knew he'd been imprisoned and how!"
Frodo felt his face heating yet again.
"N-ope. Missed that." Jon raised a brow at him, plainly curious. "Did you do that?"
"..Yes," Frodo admitted.
The man's other brow went up. "Nice!" he commented, sounding impressed.
"Yes, very neatly done, and it proves my point precisely." Mr Homes was insufferably smug.
"Yeah... Yeah, I'd have to agree," Jon nodded.
"You'd fault a body f'r not wantin' t' mention aloud as a perfec' stranger knows his worst mem'ries?" Sam demanded.
"Er, no. No, not fault, but he does still have a point," Jon returned hastily.
"Perhaps so, but my own 'point' remains also," Frodo countered quietly. "I will not leave him." Then as the detective began to open his mouth again he continued firmly, "If you will forgive a rather impolite observation, Master Homes, though you desire the smallest of details in your quest for information, you are impatient during the telling, and, forgive me, but it leads you to be quite unkind to the one speaking. I will not leave Sam to face that alone. Were Master Watson—forgive me, Doctor Watson," he bowed to the man in question, "—to stay as well I would go. Not willingly, but I would go. But I will not leave a friend of mine alone with you whilst you are observing." He thought of what Bilbo would say if he'd known his cousin's actions and bowed. "Forgive me for speaking so bluntly," he added. It wasn't quite correct, but it would do.
Jon turned to give Sherlock a stern look as if to say, I did tell you this.
Sherlock tensed, glaring back at them, jaw working, breath chugging out of his nostrils—
"Get out!"
Everyone jumped and Frodo stared up at the man in alarm. Surely he didn't mean that? He didn't think that the detective would take his words so very poorly—
Jon seemed to be thinking the same thing, for he asked, "Er, how thoroughly—"
"Get OUT!"
Frodo felt his hand grabbed and Sam nearly pulled him out of the 'flat'. The gardener's face was an ugly red again, and when Jon Watson entered the passageway his grip on Frodo's hand grew stronger, pulling the older hobbit protectively close. His other hand gripped the handle of his barrow sword tightly. Despite the situation Frodo felt himself smiling sadly. How Sam had changed since a year ago.
The door slammed harshly behind them and all four gazed at it in dismay. Jon was the first to move, running a hand through his hair and muttering, "Yeah..."
"A nasty bit of temper," Mr Walitch murmured.
"Is he always like that?" Sam scowled.
"Eh... not really, no," Jon returned, and then all four jumped back with exclamations of alarm as something which sounded as if it was made of glass crashed violently within the 'flat'.
Sam turned quickly, anxiously looking Frodo over and demanding, "You're sure as you're alright?"
"Yes, yes, I am fine, Sam," Frodo hastily reassured him. "Mr Homes has not harmed me in any way." Humiliated him, yes, but not harmed; it certainly wasn't anything worth mentioning to his already upset friend.
Sam still eyed him sceptically, but only shook his head a little, for which Frodo was grateful.
"..Right." Jon smiled grimly. "Okay, I don't know what his problem is in there, but why don't you three go downstairs and visit with Mrs Hudson for a while, and I'll try to talk him down."
"Jon," Frodo began hesitantly. "Are you certain that he is the only person who can help us?"
For a moment Jon Watson looked torn as he struggled to answer. Then he admitted, "There are - other people in the city who might be able to help you, yeah. He's not the only one, but he is the best one. I mean, I know that he's a little unconventional, but he is going to get you results ten times faster than anyone else."
"And what sort of results are those?" Mr Walitch murmured rebelliously under his breath
Sam crossed his arms a little belligerently. "Meanin' no offence, Mr Jon, but I reckon as I could take a few more days if'n it means a few more manners."
"No, we're not talking days," Jon hastily corrected. "We are talking..weeks, possibly even months. Yes, I've got no idea what his problem is in there," he muttered hastily, "but, guys, this is only your second day and he's already seen.. quite a bit on you," he made a sweeping gesture at Frodo's person, "that, uh, most people wouldn't see; not even most detectives. Not even Scotland Yard, who are supposed to employ the best of the best... and are honestly why Sherlock has a job. It's a matter of: yeah, eventually people will get the clues that you two are giving them, but it could potentially take.. months before they would put them all together; whereas Sherlock... He's just waiting for that one, erm.. that one clue; he just needs that one clue and he'll—" he stopped short and then chuckled a little, "—he'll weave that tapestry together within twenty-four hours out of all the other clues." He offered Frodo a wry grin and the hobbit quietly returned it, remembering the confusion surrounding the word only yesterday.
Yesterday already seemed like long weeks ago.
"Clew?" Sam echoed.
Frodo turned to his friend, nodding. "Apparently here a problem such as we have is called a 'mystery' or a 'case', and the hints to solve that 'case' are called 'clews'," he explained.
Sam's forehead wrinkled. "Clews like thread?"
Frodo smiled at the words and Jon snorted, clearly amused. "Similar," the man returned. Then with a sheepish look he added, "Erm, technically you guys aren't really supposed to be telling each other things yet. But, I will tell Sherlock that your response wasn't coached."
"Coached?" Sam wondered.
The door flew open and an imperious voice snarled, "Get in here!"
Startled, the four whipped back to face him. Jon, being the companion, recovered first, nearly at once, and tartly retorted, "Is it safe?"
"Excellent question," Mr Walitch muttered.
Mr Homes rolled his eyes and stalked away. Jon followed. Frodo, knowing full well that Sam would follow his lead no matter where it might take them, cautiously reentered as well. Gleaming shards of what appeared to be brown and white glass littered the edge of the rug before the mantle. Sherlock Homes seemed to be a whirlwind of aggrieved pride. "You sit here," he commanded Sam, yanking forward the rather uncomfortable chair with the back placed just high enough to press sharply into the back of a hobbit's head and neck which Frodo had sat in just yesterday. "And you, there!" He pointed Frodo towards the worn leather-covered settle (or sofa, as he had learnt it was called). "Don't look at each other, don't speak to each other; you're in the same room but don't interact! You'll compromise the evidence!"
"Compromise th' what?" Sam's tone was sharp, and once again Frodo felt himself tense at the accusation. Perhaps Jon was right and the man didn't truly mean to accuse either himself or Sam of deliberately twisting the truth, or outright lying, but he certainly did not speak in a manner to cover over such an accusation either.
"Uh, Sherlock, can we talk?" Jon cut in hastily.
"Yes. Downstairs, with the vendor."
"Uh, no. No, you and I, right now, privately."
"No." And Mr Homes once again plumped into his chair and waited for everyone to do his bidding. Beside him Frodo felt Sam tense as well, but he remained still, clearly still waiting to see what Frodo would do.
Frodo was torn. On the one hand he wanted to leave, at once, and never look back. This Man, with his arrogance, his overbearing self-centredness, and his appalling lack of manners, was swiftly approaching the point where Frodo knew that his own temper would break. And how he feared to know what the result would be now, after... after It. On the other hand, however, (the one which was missing a finger: therefore carrying less weight) there was everything which Jon had said—and not only Jon but also Master Lestraad yesterday. Both were Men whom Frodo had found himself instinctively trusting; not only because Jon Watson somehow reminded him of dear Bilbo at times, but on a far deeper level, much as he had once trusted a scruffy ranger called Strider back in Bree. It was a thing which he thought he would never know again and made the thought of not trusting them all the more bitter. Then too, Jon's admission just moments prior seemed to ring of the truth as well. Mr Homes' ability to read the truth in a few scars and scraps of clothing rivalled (dare he think even surpassed) that of Aragorn to read dirt scuffs and snapped twigs, and Aragorn was the greatest huntsman and tracker to walk Middle Earth in this age. But still, there was his appalling manner!
"Go ahead, Sam," he finally murmured.
Sam looked at him in surprise.
"We have no other course to follow at the moment—" He tensed again, wanting to strike that smug, knowing smile from the Man's face. He felt his fingers curling themselves into a fist at his side and forced them to uncoil. Without daring to speak he nodded to Sam, moved away, and seated himself on the settle (settled himself on the settle, a nine-year-old Frodo seemed to whisper in his ear. He ignored it).
Sam watched him in concern for a few more seconds before nodding shortly. "Right then," he said to no-one in particular, and squaring his shoulders he turned as well, marched over to the chair in the midst of the room (the interrogation chair, grown Frodo's mind whispered) and sat; looking towards Sherlock. Almost without being aware of it Frodo noted the defiance in Sam's stiff back and the tilt of his head. That was not Samwise the gardener sittting there, nor Samwise the servant. It was not even plain Sam Gamgee, whom Frodo loved best. This was Samwise the Brave, Samwise the Defender; the hobbit who faced down Shelob and slain orcs.
This was either going to be the best thing which could happen to both Sam Gamgee and Sherlock Homes, or else a complete disaster.
After a few more protests (token ones, Frodo could tell) and stern warning glares at his friend (far truer than the protests) Jon left. Scarcely was the door shut before the detective began: "Now. The half-lives of any drugs in your body are expiring as we speak. I need samples of everything: blood, hair, urine, saliva; as well as clothing samples to compare with his, which I still need!" he glared at Frodo. "You can tell me about your case after that."
The words were delivered in his customary break-neck speed, leaving Sam spluttering and rearing backwards in disgust and confusion, and Frodo dismayed.
"Mr Homes, did you learn nothing from yesterday?" he groaned, unaware that the words had actually escaped his mouth until the detective turned baleful eyes on him. Frodo felt himself flush at the realisation, but lifting his chin he added calmly, "Explain it to him. Please. Or I will," he added as an afterthought.
The haughty sneer he received in response truly rivalled any of those which Lalia Clayhanger Took had ever given another, but then to his surprise the detective leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg and throwing an elbow across the back and returned tartly, "Go ahead."
Frodo could not have more shocked if he'd heard Lotho volunteering to help mulch the Gamgee's garden. It took a second or two before he managed to counter, "You're going to allow me to speak with one of the witnesses?"
"I'm here to stop you if you say too much," the man sneered.
Sam bristled up—
"Sam, please," Frodo said quickly. The gardener shrank back down a little. Frodo could still see his back stiffening into a sort of shield though. A protection from blows and sharp words. From heat and harsh winds. From precipice drops and stern ranger captains and Gollum's gripping fingers... He pushed the pervasive thoughts to the back of his mind hastily, having no desire for the detective to either see them, or attempt to interpret them.
"Thank you, Mr Homes," he finally nodded, and then he turned to Sam. His dearest friend was staring at him in dismay, clearly unwilling to believe that this could have possibly been Frodo's action. The older hobbit flinched a little at the thought himself.
"Mr Frodo?" Sam's voice was hesitant. "Y' didn' — do thet, did y'? Y' didn' give him thet..." he trailed off, grimacing at the thought of what the detective was asking.
Frodo's stomach twisted. It felt as if he was betraying everything he knew when he murmured, "Yes, I did."
Sam looked stricken at the words, and Frodo quickly added, "Please let me explain."
"O' course, sir," Sam nodded, but with the immediate reaction of a servant bred to say yes to his employer rather than an incredulous friend hoping for an understandable explanation. Frodo winced, but tried to give Sam an encouraging, or at least grateful smile. It felt as if it came off as weak as the one Sam returned.
After taking another moment to gather his thoughts (and set aside his own reservations) he began: "First of all you must understand, Sam, that neither Mr Homes, nor Doctor Watson, believe in magic. They are quite as sceptical as - anyone back home."
Sam snorted at the comparison, and for the smallest instant an impish look of, oh really? flitted across his face. The look was gone at once, but Frodo felt his spirits lift and an answering gleam flashed through his own fëa. What if they were the only ones in this strange place who believed in magic? They were two, not one and both knew the truth. And, o! He had so much to tell Sam, as soon as he possibly could! ...Which would not be before his explanation was finished.
"Yes," he answered the look. Then, "And because of this, giving those... items to Mr Homes does nothing more than were you to give them to your gaffer, or Healer Brownlock."
"My gaffer wouldn' ask!" Sam retorted. Then he immediately looked contrite at the interruption.
Frodo just shook his head, unconcerned. "I don't know of any hobbit that would," he agreed. "Other than perhaps Healer Brownlock; but my point is that Master Homes cannot harm you by using those - things."
Sam nodded, but pursed his lips a little, thoughtfully. Frodo's spirits lifted a little further. There was his own dear Sam. He would have done the same were they back home in Bag End's beloved study!
"Beggin' y'r pardon, sir, but what's he want 'em fer?"
Frodo grimaced. Now they came to it, and he braced himself. "He wants them so that he may reassure himself that you are well, sound of mind, and not drunk."
"What?!" Sam yelped. The pitch strengthened the slight pounding in Frodo's head and he grimaced at his best friend.
"Apparently they have some very strange tonics here called 'drugs'," he explained. "These 'drugs' will apparently make you believe and say the maddest of things whilst somehow still appearing to be sound, other than your strange words. Master Homes wants to reassure himself that you've not—" he broke off, trying to think how to even begin to describe the many processes by which 'drugs' could enter a person. Sam waited patiently. Sherlock did not; but at least he remained silent and apparently contented himself with glaring at the back of Frodo's head. After a few attempts to make the words fit Frodo gave up and tried again. "Master Homes wants to reassure himself that no 'drugs' have somehow found their way into your body."
Sam gave him a suspicious frown. "An' how are they s'posed t' do thet?"
Frodo grimaced again. "Chiefly through deception or force, if I understand correctly, for I know that you wouldn't willingly - eat such things."
"No, sir; I reckon not," Sam agreed.
Frodo nodded. "So then, through deception I suppose."
"Decep'tion from who?" Sam demanded.
"I'm still not certain," Frodo admitted. "But I do know that Mr Homes will not be content until he is certain that you are not mad with these 'drugs'."
Sam's scowl deepened. He gazed thoughtfully at Frodo, and then finally muttered, "Y' give 'em t' him?"
"I did."
"Beggin' y'r pardon, sir, but why?"
Frodo sighed. Why indeed? "Because I trust Jon Watson, and he in turn trusts Mr Homes not to harm us," he admitted.
Sam's look of suspicion changed at once to shock and...was that a hint of relief in his eyes? "Y' trust him?" he echoed.
"I do."
Sam nodded, still thinking. Behind him Frodo could sense the detective growing more impatient, but thankfully he still remained silent. At last Sam murmured, "If'n y're sure, sir—"
"Now that that's taken care of!" Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, practically thrusting a cup into Sam's face. "Go into the loo, urinate into that, set it on the back of the stool, and come back out."
Both hobbits cringed away from the quick movements and abrupt appearance of the long arm. Frodo felt his own cheeks go red for Sam's sake, and poor Sam was scarlet. Hesitantly he took the cup, and Sherlock added, "Through the kitchen, down the hall, and first door on the left." He then strode off to the kitchen himself.
The pair watched him go, and then looked back at each other. That was, Frodo gave Sam a cautious look of concern. Sam, on the other hand, couldn't meet Frodo's eye for longer than a half-second and continued to blush darker and darker. Finally Frodo had to put a hand on his shouder and murmur, "Sam."
"You're sure?" Sam choked.
"No," Frodo murmured.
Sam's head came up with a start at this and he gazed hard at Frodo. After a minute or two he nodded, a look of determination glinting his eyes and squaring his shoulders and jaw. Then he turned and marched into the kitchen. As he disappeared into the indoor privy Frodo gathered his own thoughts together and marched into the kitchen himself.
He found the detective laying things upon the dining room table in an orderly fashion; several of which he recognised from the lab yesterday. Frodo felt his heart twist again for what Sam was about to face.
"Took you long enough," the detective grunted.
Yet another stab of irritation dug into the hobbit. He had to somehow make this Man see reason! Or, at least, perhaps, see with a little more clarity. Politely he began, "Forgive me, Mr Homes, but you must understa—"
"Sherlock!" the man barked, not looking up from his work.
Frodo paused, confused. "Excuse me?"
"The name is Sherlock Holmes; that's H-O-L-M-E-S. If you're going to stay here you may as well use it!"
Frodo stared, feeling the throb in his head grow stronger. It wasn't possible. It truly was not... "How could you possibly know how I am spelling your name in my head?!"
"It shows in your pronunciation," the man said briskly.
"My pronunciation?" Frodo echoed.
"You have heard my name pronounced, 'Homes', and it's not. It's pronounced 'Holmes'!" he explained, swiftly lining up small papers into a tidy column as he spoke.
Frodo personally couldn't hear any difference between the two, but so be it! If Mr HoLmes desired his name to be spelt with an 'L' he would spell it with an 'L'!
"Very well," he agreed. "I do apologise for offending you; it was unintentional. I must return the favour and ask that you call me Frodo." Truly, he must. Good manners dictated that he had to follow the gesture with a similar one (whether he truly desired to or not). But.. one good spelling turn did deserve another... "F-R-O-D-O," he added.
"Yes," Sherlock muttered.
Frodo paused. "And Baggins?" he challenged.
"If I'm calling you 'Frodo' I'll hardly need the 'Baggins', will I?" the other returned snidely.
This man was rubbing his foothair every wrong direction possible. No, not rubbing: combing his foothair the wrong direction.
"Very well," he returned quietly. "But to make things fair, B-A-G-G-I-N-S."
"Yes, I know," the detective returned smugly.
Frodo could feel a dangerous throbbing in his temple as his temper mounted higher. A gleam of triumph in the man's eye told the hobbit that Sherlock HoLmes also knew exactly what he'd just done, and Frodo clenched his hands tightly to keep himself from lashing out. Thankfully, two things happened at once. First, Sherlock's triumphant look melted back into concentration on his work, and secondly, as the hobbit's right hand clenched he felt the gap of his missing finger. A bucket of icy shame instantly quelled the fire as he remembered his own pride and folly, and he took a moment to step back and regroup.
When he came forward again Sherlock HoLmes was carefully labling several small bottles and placing them neatly in a row. Frodo looked at the labels (S. Gamgy. Mr HoLmes didn't know everything it seemed) and swallowed hard. "Sherlock?"
The man ignored him.
"May I explain something to you about the - the blood?"
Sherlock HoLmes rolled his eyes. "It's a basic necessity of the body; nothing to be hesitant over."
"Yes," Frodo agreed, "but... But do you understa—"
"Clearly it has something to do with your ridiculously archaic belief in the supernatural," the detective shot back.
Frodo paused again, trying to sort the words in his mind. Ridiculous was obvious, as was natural, but supernatural? And what of are-cai-ic? After a few seconds he gave it up. Unfortunately, with the word 'ridiculously' used at the beginning it was likely that the man was insulting him again, and other matters were far more pressing at the moment.
"Master Sherlock, I need you to understand how this seems to Sam and I. We are not from a culture or realm of si-ence—"
"No," Sherlock scoffed.
Frodo paused again, pushing his temper back down. "No," he agreed quietly. "And we only know of the giving —or the taking— of blood for two purposes." The man's half-lidded eyes slid lazily his direction giving a semblance of paying attention. Desiring to keep the man's attention Frodo hurriedly explained, "You do not seem familiar with the ways of dwarves, but back where we come from they are master craftspersons of all metalworks, and when creating a weapon or an item to be used as an heirloom they will at times use a few drops of blood or a few hairs to bind an object to that person's family line. And then..." he faltered as the memories rose up again, threatening to choke him. "S-Sauron," he forced the name out, "used the taking of blood as a way of strengthening his power, and - spreading the fear of himself."
The detective actually looked him in the eye at this, his mouth set in a sardonic sort of smile. "Did he?"
Think of him as a hobbit! This is exactly how everyone back home is going to react!
"He did."
"Mm." The man leaned closer, almost looming over Frodo. "He certainly did a good job on you," he sneered.
Frodo's ears twitched at this and his lips parted... But what could he say?
"What about blood-letting?" the man now challenged, returning to his work (moving the mycrowscope).
Frodo almost welcomed the turn of subject, and would have whole-heartedly if not for that he once again had no idea what Sherlock HoLmes had just said. "Blood-letting?" he echoed.
"Yes."
"L-etting the blood do what?" The question sounded weak, even in his own ears.
"Letting it out, of the body."
"What?!"
Master HoLmes seemed viciously pleased with the reaction he recieved. "Well, I would presume that as someone coming from a medieval mindset you would be familiar with your leechcraft, your healer's methods."
An extended period of recent bed-warming darted through Frodo's memory as he protested, "Yes, I am very familiar with healers and their ways, but I have never heard of such a thing before this!"
"No?" Sherlock purred.
"No!" The hobbit couldn't keep the horror out of his voice, "Making one's patient bleed? Why? What purpose could it possibly serve?"
The detective's eyes were fixed on him again, the gaze seeming to pierce through Frodo's carefully built shields as he stared. "Eliminate the bad blood from the body; balance the humours."
"Humours?" Frodo echoed.
"Surely you at least know of the four humours: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, black bile?"
"Beggin' y'r pardon, sir, but anyone what's got black bile 's got t' be deathly sick," Sam's voice interrupted from the privy door. Sherlock's head shot up at once and he fixed Sam with that piercing look of his for a few seconds. Then he barked, "Good," pulling a chair away from the table in an unmistakable gesture as he spoke, and promptly returned his attention to the items on the table.
Sam flushed again at the clear summons and shot Frodo an apologetic look as he obeyed, but then stopped abruptly. "Beggin' your pardon, but - where's Mr Frodo t' sit?"
"Does it matter?" Mr HoLmes returned carelessly as he donned a pair of what Frodo had learnt yesterday were referred to as lay-tex gloves. (ridiculous word! What was it even supposed to mean?).
Sam looked aghast. "I can't be a-sittin' whilst m' master stands! T'wouldn' be proper!" he protested.
Master again.
Frodo tried to keep the irritation out of his voice as he pointed out, "You sat when I was on watch, didn't you?"
"Well, I..."
"And slept."
Sam choked a little and muttered something unintelligible at the floor.
"Well, stand there if you'd rather, but hold still!" Sherlock interrupted, taking up one of the small clear bags and a tiny pair of tongs from the table and leaning over Sam.
The gardener looked up at him in alarm. "What 're y' doin'?:" he demanded.
"Taking a sample of your hair. What do you know about blood-letting?" The detective began to pluck at Sam's curls.
Sam winced, but held still. "Jus' what y' were a-tellin' Mr Frodo jus' now. I never heard o' no such thing afore though, an' don' reckon as I'd want to, neither."
"A double-negative, inferring that you have, in fact, both heard of the process and would be interested in hearing all about it," Sherlock returned immediately, but in a preoccupied manner, almost as if he didn't have control over the words he'd just said. Sam bristled regardless, but the detective didn't seem to notice as he dropped his selected hair into the bag. Then he snatched a small dish from the table and commanded, "Spit."
Sam pursed his lips a little, but dutifully did as ordered, perhaps with a little more vehemence than necessary. Frodo hid his smirk behind a well-practiced clearing of the throat.
As Master HoLmes turned to place the dish back on the table Sam threw in a question of his own: "These 'humours', an' th' bleedin'; how're they s'posed t' heal a body? Do they do any good?"
"No," the detective returned immediately, still with his back to them. "At best they seemed to have a placebo effect, at worst the 'doctors' bled their patients to death. I need you on the chair now; I don't care whether you sit or stand."
The two hobbits stared up at the man in horror.
Sherlock rolled his eyes when he turned back around and saw them. "Chair!" he barked.
Frodo was the first to find his voice. "The people just - sat there and allowed themselves to by killed?!"
"Well, they didn't know the result until it happened," the detective shrugged.
Frodo was reeling. "How— Why did the free peoples allow this?!"
Sherlock gazed at him with an oddly blank look on his face for about two seconds and then said carelessly, "I don't know, you'd have to ask John."
"Jon?" Frodo started.
"He's a doctor." The man's lips stretched upwards into a superior and truly cruel smile. For the first time that morning Frodo felt a small curl of fear within his belly, but before he could react the detective was again barking at Sam to get on the chair.
Sam found his own voice. "Why?"
In answer Master HoLmes brandished a comb which Frodo now realised must have been in his hand since he turned away from the table. Sam turned bright red again. "Oh, no!" he barked. "Y' ain't— Y' can't—"
"I can," the detective returned sharply. "I need to compare it with his!"
"Y' can't comb m' hair! T'wouldn't be proper in the least!" the poor gardener yelped.
Frodo could feel his headache intensifying as he began to try to calm his friend. "Sam - it isn't like that—"
"Fine. Then he does it," Sherlock retorted. Again, there was no mistaking to whom he referred.
The words seemed to dry up in Frodo's mouth, and Sam's blush deepened. "I can comb m' own hair!" His voice was shrill with embarassment.
"No, you can't." The tone was dismissive. "Wrong angle. Your arm won't bend that way. It either has to be him, or me."
Dismissive, and perhaps a little mocking.
Poor Sam continued to blush darker and darker, until the shade no longer resembled the carpet Mr HoLmes had in the parlor-study as much as it did a plum. His gaze darted from one male to the other, muttering under his breath all of the things that Gaffer Gamgee would have had to say to Sam if he'd known the position his son was in—none of them flattering. Frodo did his best to give him another encouraging smile. Finally, after what felt like five minutes (but was, in reality, less than one) Sam muttered, "You," and mounted the seat. He stood there as straight and tall as he could manage, arms crossed, face still that odd shade of purple, and glared up at Sherlock HoLmes.
Even with the chair he still only came to the man's chest.
With a satisfied smile which caused Frodo to turn away lest he strike the man Sherlock thrust a 'cotton bud' at Sam and commanded, "Rub that against the inside of your cheek," and sat himself on the floor before the chair. Sam started as the comb began to run through his foothair and looked down in surprise. Frodo noted with interest that Mr HoLmes had a piece of paper beneath Sam's foot, and seemed to be catching all of his combings on this, similar to what he'd done with Frodo's foot yesterday. Before either hobbit could speak though Sherlock cut in with, "Another discrepancy in your alleged time position."
The pair looked at him, then at each other, and then back at him. "Excuse me?" Frodo tried.
"Blood-letting is an ancient medical practice dating back more than three thousand years with ties to Egypt, Greece, and Rome. By the Middle Ages it was the first remedy a doctor would consider for anything from mild fever to smallpox and the plague. Common practice didn't end until the 1800s; it's unfathomable that two knowledgeable gentlemen fresh from an authentic medieval setting would know nothing about the practice." He straightened up and looked down at Frodo smugly. "And yet here you are."
He turned to Sam. "Sit."
"I ain't a dog," Sam muttered rebelliously.
"I'll sit with you, Sam," Frodo quickly offered. Then as Sam looked down at him in surprise: "I'm certain that chair is large enough to hold both of us," he smiled.
"Aye, sir." Sam looked relieved as he lowered himself to the seat, carefully ensuring that Frodo still had more than half of the chair. The older hobbit shook his head a little as he perched himself beside his friend.
"What does that prove?" he asked Master Holmes. "We are not from 'an authentic medieval setting'."
"No, but that begs the question: what are you from?" the man returned, back to them, doings things at the table again.
"Why does that matter?" Frodo pressed. "We are come from Minas Tirith, as I said before this."
"An' I'll second it, sir," Sam added stoutly, and Frodo flinched, remembering why he wasn't supposed to be talking with —or around— the witness.
Mr Holmes seemed unconcerned though. "Yes, a medieval city allegedly built more than three thousand years ago, yet with no knowledge of basic medieval medical practice." He turned back to them with an evaluative look.
"True," Frodo had to agree, "but again, you have not heard of Minas Tirith, and I have never heard of Eegipt, Grease, or Roam." Well, actually he had heard of grease, particularly when cooking. And, too, he had heard of Roam. In fact he frequently roamed the Shire.
Now is not a time of word games, Frodo Baggins!
"Yes. Again, three ancient kingdoms known collectively across the conjoined continents except for the furthest corners, leading one to assume this 'Minis Tirith' was isolated, supported by your own discriptions of both The Shire and the war." He seized the chair and dragged it closer to the table, startling both hobbits who scrambled to grab hold of the seat. "And yet there's the Map."
Ah. He was listening yesterday. Frodo glanced at the table, and then felt all of his senses jump painfully. There, nearest the brother of his heart, sat a blood-needle*, waiting for a victim to stick.
"W-what map?" Sam stuttered. Frodo looked up to see his friend's eyes locked on the needle and felt his heart twist again. This wasn't kind or fair to Sam. Jon should be the one explaining things to him; Jon at least understood how these things worked; what Mr Holmes wanted and why he wanted these things. Frodo knew so little. How could he ever comfort his friend—when he himself was still so unsure of Mr Holmes' intentions. Jon he trusted. Sherlock...
Sherlock Holmes had not yet earned that trust.
Nor was he about to as he ordered Sam to place his arm on the table without any kind of explanation or kindness; only the calm expectance of one who knows he will be obeyed, and Sam rather instinctively did so.
"Should we not wait for Jon, or perhaps Miss Hooper?" Frodo interrupted quickly.
"No," the man returned. "If the half-lives are expiring now then waiting is pointless."
Sam bristled. "Look here," he snapped. "I reckon y' can take thet tone wi' me, but Mr Frodo didn' ask f'r it, didn' earn it—"
"I'm fine, Sam," Frodo tried to interrupt, feeling his ears begin to heat. "He shouldn't—
"—an' y've got no call t' go talkin' as such, t' him n'r any other person arount!" Sam continued hotly.
Sherlock Holmes ignored this and began to paint Sam's arm with the yellow fluid. Sam balked and tried to jerk away, but Mr Holmes had apparently anticipated this (why not? He seems to anticipate everything else) and seized Sam's wrist at once, pinning his arm in place and placing a ball to squeeze in his hand at the same time.
Sam's eyes widened and Frodo winced. "Mr Holmes, please explain it to him," he tried.
"You do it," the detective mumbled, still tracing an egg-shape on Sam's arm.
Sam looked at him anxiously and Frodo felt his head again throb with irritation at Mr Holmes and his presumptive ways.
"He's cleaning your arm," he began.
Sam's brows shot to his hairline, but all he said was, "Cleanin' it?"
"Apparently that yellow fluid is supposed to clean your arm. How, I do not understand. Jon said something about germs, but I didn't understand it." Frodo took a breath. "He's preparing to take a sample of your blood."
Sam jerked away so quickly that his arm would be sporting a trail of yellow fluid from the egg to his wrist until he washed. He cradled the limb close to his body, eyes round with horror as he stared at the man.
The detective rolled his eyes. "They did end the practice almost two hundred years ago," he scowled.
Sam's eyes bulged further and he even reared back a little, spluttering in shock and outrage.
Frodo sighed and resisted rubbing at his temples. How could this already long day possibly still be getting longer?
*blood-needle - syringe for taking blood
A/N: credits for dwarves using blood and such go to Larner and her fantastic story In Empty Lands and the chapter Reforging. Larner, if you are reading this, that chapter was fantastic and will always be how I see the reforging of Narsil.
The brother of his heart - credits are due to Larner for this also. I feel that it's a perfect way to describe the bond that Frodo has with Sam, Merry, and Pippin, but especially Sam. It's beautiful, Larner.
2: information about bloodletting came from the BCMJ (British Columbia Medical Journal), vol. 52, No. 1, January-February 2010; and history. com, A Brief History of Bloodletting by Jennie Cohen
3: because I want us all crystal clear on this matter: Sherlock might be a genius, but this is season 2 and he is also a verbally abusive jerk if he doesn't like you right now, or thinks that you're irritating. Frodo has a very poor self-esteem at this point, and so he's taking it, and Sam as a child was carefully trained to take whatever is thrown at him. There is really no excuse for what Sherlock is doing. (I think that he's being physically abusive too; he's certainly abusing his power over them.) Please, if someone is treating you this way, get help.