Chapter 2 - Camden, Gondor, or Where Exactly?!

As he eased into the Camden traffic Lestrade casually adjusted the rearview mirror until he could keep an eye on his passenger, just in case the 'kid' got any funny ideas. He had to stifle an urge to laugh at the almost comical look of alarm on his passenger's face. And we're barely moving, he thought. What will happen when we reach central London?

After a full minute of absolute silence from the back seat he glanced in the mirror. His little passenger was stark white and was staring out the window, jaw tightly clenched. One arm was stiffly braced against the seat, as if to hold him in place.

Lestrade grimaced a little. "You all right?"

The question hung in the air for a few moments before the boy answered slowly (and probably untruthfully), "Yes."

Lestrade raised a brow. "First time in a car?"

"Yes." The answer was somewhat stiff, and silence reigned for another full minute before the detective inspector heard the high voice from the back seat again. "How are we moving?" The question was filled with both wonder and alarm.

Lestrade groaned inwardly, thinking hard. Of all the things he could have asked...

"Okay, well... under the bonnet is the engine. I told you about that before, that it's what makes the cars go?"

"Yes, but how?" the boy repeated, still sounding like he was in awe.

The police inspector grimaced. Apparently he wasn't one to take the short answer. "Okay... there's the engine first, right? And the engine is turning. All the time. And... there's some fuel that powers the engine and makes it turn. The engine is connected to a crankshaft, which is connected to the axles of the car, and the engine turns the crankshaft, the crankshaft turns the axles, the axles turn the wheels, and we roll down the road." And please don't ask any more questions about cars, he added mentally.

"Oh," was all the boy said.

There was blessed silence for twenty seconds.

"And you are certain that the dwarves do not make them."

And there was the university-level English professor asking children's questions again.

"Yeah. Humans make them..in..automotive shops."

Please don't ask.

"Astonishing," the kid murmured, gazing out the window again. "It is merely that my friend Gimli, he is a dwarf," he explained, "and this is the sort of thing he would likely be very good at making." The boy chuckled a little. "It's well that he is not here, for he would likely ask you a thousand questions about the engine. But I haven't a mind for mechanisms, and do not know what to ask."

"Well, that's all right," Lestrade returned, relieved. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of silence."

The little one nodded, and then his attention was caught by something else. "What is that with the numbers on it?"

So much for that silence. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder. The little bloke was staring right at the radio. Oh, great. "It's a— It's a clock."

The kid started. "What?"

"It's a clock," Lestrade repeated, trying to be patient. Then he glanced at his guest. "Do you know what a clock is?"

"Yes, I'm rather familiar with them," the boy answered. "Indeed, I have one which has sat on the mantle shelf for years, but I've never seen one like that before."

"Yeah, this one's digital," the policeman returned.

"Dij-ital?" the kid echoed uncertainly.

Lestrade wanted to hit his head against something hard. "Don't ask," he groaned.

The kid gave him a very sharp glance, but only said, "Very well," and fell silent.

It wasn't long before Lestrade heard shifting and rustling noises. He threw a glance in the mirror. Apparently his passenger must have been growing more comfortable with the vehicle because he'd turned his body toward the window. Then he heard a sharp "Oh!" as the air pressure changed. This was immediately followed by struggling noises against glass.

"What's wrong?" Not that he really needed to ask...

"I'm sorry," came the apologetic reply. "The glass just - fell down. I cannot get it back up."

"You've probably just bumped the button. Push it the other way and the window will roll back up."

"Button?" The boy sounded startled.

"On the door," Lestrade prompted. "There's a little toggle button. Just push it the other way..."

"What is a toggle button?" came the very serious reply.

Lestrade glanced at the control panel beside him and considered rolling the window up himself. But this was something which the kid needed to learn. "On the door," he returned. "There's a little switch; you can bend it back and forth. Push it up to roll the window back up."

After half a minute the child announced, "There is nothing resembling a switch anywhere near this door."

Patience, patience.

"And you still haven't answered my question," the boy added thoughtfully. "What is a toggle button?"

The policeman sighed. Give me strength. "In this case a toggle button and a switch are the same thing. It's a little piece of plastic attached the door that bends back and forth. It you bend it one way the window rolls down. If you bend it the other way it'll go back up. Can you find it now?"

"Perhaps," the boy answered quietly.

Within a very short span Lestrade heard the window moving and a noise of quiet surprise from the boy. And then finally the cabin pressure changed as the window rolled up all the way. Lestrade quickly locked the controls so that they wouldn't go through that again, but once the window was back up the boy put his hands in his lap, seeming to have learnt his lesson. Lestrade, meanwhile, began searching his brain for something that would keep the kid from asking any more strange questions.

"Would you like a doughnut?"

"A what?" came the startled reply.

That was nearly the limit. The policeman drew a deep breath to calm himself, grabbed a doughnut from the dozen he'd purchased, and shoved it over the back seat. "Try it."

The doughnut was taken. After a stunned silence the boy murmured, "This is a dough ring."

Lestrade glanced toward him. "Yeah."

"A fried dough ring," the boy repeated, sounding incredulous.

"Yeah, it is," Lestrade agreed impatiently.

"..Forgive me," the boy suddenly said hastily. "It's just that I've not seen fried dough rings since I left home."

"Well," Lestrade wasn't sure what to say to that, so he settled on, "enjoy."

The boy gave him a quiet smile of delight. "Thank you. I will."

It was the first smile out of the kid since meeting him, and seeing it was a bit like seeing sunshine suddenly break through the clouds after a heavy rain all day. Lestrade couldn't help but smile back. "No worries."

After that there was silence for a long time, much longer than Lestrade had expected, in fact. He checked the mirror a few times to make sure that the kid was all right and always caught him slowly savouring his precious "dough ring" bit by bit. How long had it been since he'd last got a doughnut to make him act like that? Poor kid.

It wasn't until much later (when the doughnut was about half gone) that the boy commented, "My. You men certainly do seem to enjoy tall buildings."

That was an odd thought. "What do you mean?"

"All of the buildings in Minas Tirith are tall too," the child elaborated. "Although I must admit, the ones in Minas Tirith were built very differently," he added with a level of surprise in his voice. "What are those made of? That building there?" He gestured out the window toward a very modern glassed-in skyscraper.

Lestrade glanced at it. "Steel, concrete, glass,"

"What's shining?"

"That'd be the glass. The windows, you know."

"Those are windows?" the child gasped, staring at the building in awe.

"Yep."

The boy gazed out of the window, observing the 'shining' buildings as they rolled by. "This is astonishing," Lestrade heard him mutter. He shook his head. This was getting ridiculous. Here was a kid claiming to be a..whatever—Alien-humanoid-thing, excellent vocabulary, crisp educated accent, running around Camden in medieval clothes, relishing doughnuts like he'd never expected to see one again, and giving every appearance of not knowing what glass was, sitting in the back of his car. It was like something out of a B film or maybe a Spielberg production, but it was happening to him.

I wonder what Sherlock would make of this.

He immediately shook off that thought and then glanced at the little bloke again. "So, what's your name?"

The boy looked at him for a moment as if he was puzzled at the question and then two spots of pink appeared in his pale cheeks. "Oh," he murmured, "Please forgive my poor manners. I was so bewildered by..by Cam..den Market that I didn't realise how shamefully I had neglected them." He sat up very straight and then bent over as far as he could, intoning, "Frodo Baggins, at your service."

This time Lestrade turned his head briefly to give his companion a puzzled look before quickly returning his attention to the road. "At my service?"

"It's a polite introduction where I come from," the child explained.

"Oh, okay." Each to their own. "It's nice to meet you..Frodo."

The boy smiled a little as Lestrade hesitated over the odd name. "And you as well," he returned. "I do thank you for taking the time to help me. I truly did not expect you to."

"It's fine," Lestrade shrugged. "I mean, it's kind of my job anyway; if I didn't stop and help you now I might end up helping with your case later, so I figured I might as well do it now."

The boy looked puzzled at this. "What do you mean, 'helping with my case' later? I don't have a case with me."

Lestrade cringed. He had not—

"Nothing," he hastily returned, searching for a new subject. Finally he said crossly, "Haven't you got a coat? I can't believe that your parents let you go out wearing just that! It doesn't look warm at all."

The boy stiffened. "My cloak is far warmer than you realise," he returned coldly, "and my parents really have no say in the matter since they've been dead for nearly forty years. I told you this earlier."

Lestrade cringed again. That's it. Avert one disaster by causing another. "Sorry."

The boy gave him a knowing look, but inclined his head graciously.

Well, regardless of what age he was he certainly had adult mannerisms down.

Silence descended on the car like a smothering wet towel, and the inspector once again frantically searched his brain for a different subject.

"So, what about this shire place, what's it like?"

"Green," the boy replied promptly, sounding a little wistful. "With rolling hills, and grassy plains, and fields full of crops. Trees..."

"Farm land, then."

"Yes."

"Do you live on a farm?" the man hedged.

"No," the child answered sheepishly. "I live in—" He stopped abruptly, his already pale face going white. After a few seconds he continued, "I own a small house near the river."

And they were back to his persistence that he was an adult. Well... maybe he was?

Lestrade decided to let that one go and they drove on in silence for a few minutes.

"Master Guardsman," the clear voice suddenly piped up again. "I know that you keep insisting that I am in Camden, but where is Camden?"

"Are you kidding?" How many times would he answer this today? "We're not actually even in Camden now. We're just in London."

"London?" the fellow echoed in bewilderment. "When did we leave Camden?!"

"About fifteen minutes ago," Lestrade answered. "Camden's really just a tiny part of London, but you've been in London the entire time. It's just, now you're in Greater London."

The...person was silent for a long moment. "London must be very large then," he finally concluded softly.

"It is."

"Then why don't I know where I am?" he asked, fear edging his voice. "Where is London?"

The policeman groaned. "You really don't know?"

"I don't understand," the...boy clarified.

Lestrade sighed. He really did not want to keep answering this question all day. "London is in England."

"And that is where?" the boy asked sheepishly.

How full an answer did he want?! "London's in England, which is part of the United Kingdom, comprising England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. And the United Kingdom is part of the continent of Europe." And then for good measure, "Europe is part of the world. The world is part of the Solar System, the Solar System is part of the galaxy, do I need to keep going?"

"The world?" the boy echoed. "N-No, I-I suppose that would cover it all nicely." For a few moments silence reigned again as this information was digested.

"But I have never heard those names before," his guest finally spoke up again. "Where in Middle-Earth—?" At Lestrade's sigh he hesitated and then shakily corrected himself, "I-I know. You cannot explain it any further, can you?"

"I'd just be repeating what I already said."

"It makes no sense," the boy murmured. "Where is Gondor?" Then with a glance at the man he quickly added, "I know. You've not heard of it before." He stared at the back of Lestrade's head in frustration. "How could a dream be so elaborate?"

Well, here was some new information. Lestrade glanced at him again. "You think you're dreaming?"

"What other explanation is there for half a doze—" he paused abruptly and then corrected himself. "More likely a hundred things which I've seen merely since leaving Camden Market, let alone whilst we were there. Not to mention how I could have travelled between two places so quickly."

They were nearly to Scotland Yard and Lestrade was growing more unsure about his course of action every minute. Yes, the Yard would take the kid off his hands, but would this very confused person really find the help that he needed?

Wonder what Sherlock would make of this.

In the back seat the boy was still talking. "Yet it lacks all of the usual components of my dreams," he murmured.

"And what are they?" Lestrade wondered.

"You know nothing of the Shire, nor of Mordor," the child answered. "That," he added wryly, "is the extent of the components of my dreams."

"Well, for what it's worth we have got a lot of shires here in England," Lestrade offered, "places like Wiltshire, Berkshire, Lancashire, Cheshire; that kind of thing—"

"But what about the Shire?" the boy returned, a sort of desperation in his voice. "What about Hobbiton, and Bywater, and Tuckborough and Sackville, the Woody End and the Three-farthing stone? And," his voice fell softer, "and Buckland just beyond the Shire, bordered by the Brandywine." Suddenly his head came up, a gleam of hope in his eye. "Do you know the Baranduin River?"

"No."

The boy looked away again in frustration.

"Well, I've got some news for you," Lestrade said.

The boy glanced up at him. "What?"

"You're not dreaming. This is.. reality. This is what the real world is like."

"...Isn't that what a dream is supposed to say?" the boy asked wryly.

For a moment Lestrade was caught completely off guard. Then he returned, "Actually, I've never had a conversation in my dream about whether or not I was dreaming." He glanced at the boy in the mirror. "Do you want me to pinch you, and prove that it's real?"

The boy grimaced. "Not yet," he replied. "If it is a dream that will likely lead to some rather unpleasant experiences, I'm sure."

"This isn't a dream," Lestrade insisted. "Look, I'm sorry, but that's the truth." And if there was anything that this kid needed right now it was a dose of the truth.

The boy digested this in silence.

"Am I going mad then?" he asked shakily. "That I see women with blue hair and engines which move by themselves, and buildings made of glass." His voice trailed off. "I must be going mad," he whispered.

Lestrade winced. That was probably the same conclusion that the Yard would make too. Talk to him for ten minutes, get his history, and ship him down to the nut house. Or worse, stick him in a holding cell where he could just 'sleep it off'. It would be a convenient way to get him off of the case load.

And Sherlock is probably dying for a case like this. I've never known one yet that he couldn't solve either. Except the bloke in the car boot. If nothing else maybe John could examine him, and then I'd at least know what was going on

A soft but persistent noise from the back seat caught his attention and he glanced in the mirror again. The little chap had wrapped himself up completely within his cape so that the only thing not within the bundle was his head, which was bowed. His eyes were fixed on the floor in front of him, and his breath, while deep, was coming far too fast, as if he was trying to keep himself from panicking. It was barely working.

Somehow, that sight made up the DI's mind and, with a quiet turn down a side street, he skirted his workplace altogether and swung back toward Baker Street.

-0-0-0-

A/N: Thank you Bing Maps for the imagery and timing for this trip, and thank you Chamelaucium for suggesting it in the first place. ;)