Chapter 3 - The Doctor and the Detective
"I am so sorry," John Watson said solicitously as Sherlock Holmes's latest would-be clients pushed their way out of the flat. "If you want to give me your number I could call you if he changes his mind." Maybe he could talk some sense into his stubborn, stuck-up, impractical—
"Don't bother," one of the men snapped. "Mr Holmes has made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want our business. Good day, Mr Watson."
"Doctor, actually," John muttered, almost reflexively, and then noticed a very familiar policeman standing on the pavement, a wary-looking kid with a wild head of dark curls and a grey cape at his side. The other client was giving the pair a haughty once-over.
"Unless you're bringing news that the crown jewels have been stolen I wouldn't bother," he snarled, and the rejected duo flounced away to summon a cab.
"Greg." John almost sighed with relief. Surely Sherlock would take something if Lestrade offered it.
The inspector turned back to him with a wry smile. "Hello, John," he returned. "Was in the area, thought I'd drop by." He gestured at the two men now entering a cab. "What was that all about?"
"Stolen files." John smiled tightly, and the DI arched a brow sympathetically. "You know Sherlock. Not worth his time." He watched as the cab pulled away and then turned back to his guests. "Come on in?" he offered. "I'll warn you though," he added as the pair stepped inside. "He's in a temper." His tone became sarcastic. "Nothing less than 'an unsolvable triple murder' or another note from Moriarty or something like that is going to do right now."
That brought Lestrade up short. "Moriarty?!"
John glanced away, still uncomfortable with the subject even after nearly seven months. "Yeah," he nodded shortly. "Like I said, he's in a temper."
Lestrade drew a deep breath. "Actually, you're the one we came to see."
John stopped short, looking back to the policeman in surprise. "Oh?"
"Yeah, it's..more your field than his," Lestrade admitted, eyes barely flicking to the boy at his side. The child looked up at him suspiciously.
John eyed the kid's thin face, the pallor, noted the look of pain hidden behind the suspicion in his eyes (and, truth be told, did a double-take at the vivid blueness of them), and nodded. "Doctor?" he confirmed.
"Yeah."
Now the boy eyed John suspiciously as the ex-army doctor quickly assessed his potential patient. He wasn't very big - barely came up to Lestrade's chest - and painfully thin bordering on anorexic. At first glance he had looked young, maybe thirteen, but now that he was looking straight at John the doctor found himself changing his opinion: between twenty and twenty-five looked more accurate, despite the height. (And the cape!) So, just really short, and in a lot of pain. Dark shadows rimmed his eyes and a crease in his forehead indicated that he was used to pain and sleepless nights, not to mention that the thin face had lost any trace of baby fat it had ever known—
"Actually," the young man spoke with a high, clear voice, polite but firm. "We came to you because Master Lestraad indicated that you may know something of Minas Tirith. Is this true?"
"What's that?" John was a little distracted.
The youth tipped his head sideways and gave the man a stern look... yeah, definitely not a kid. He was a little too good at that look for a child.
"Minas Tirith," the young man repeated precisely. "It is a city, and from where I am come. Master Lestraad indicated that you may know something of this place." He stared at John for a second as if trying to read his face before adding more quietly, "Do you?"
John mused on the name for a moment before shaking his head. "I don't think so."
"I see." The young man gave Lestrade a dark look as he said this, and the DI gave John a tight smile.
"John," he nodded at his small companion, "this is Frodo Baggins, a kid I met in Camden Market."
John nodded, extending a hand in greeting, but 'Frodo' was giving Lestrade a hard stare.
"A 'kid'?" he echoed irritably.
"A person," Lestrade hastily corrected himself. "And, Frodo, this is Dr John Watson."
The young man nodde—bowed to John. Actually bowed. From the waist. As if John were the Queen.
"I am at your service, sir," he murmured.
John gaped a bit at this, absently withdrawing his hand as his gaze flicked from the odd display to the resigned-looking Lestrade just behind it. "Thanks," he finally managed, then quickly turned to Lestrade. "Right. So.. what's the problem?"
"Yeah, well..." the policeman's voice drifted off, then he abruptly turned to the client, who was watching the pair expectantly.
"Look, do you mind if I speak privately with Dr Watson for a minute? You can sit down and catch your breath if you want. I'll only be a few minutes—"
The little bloke was shaking his head slightly. "I caught my breath in the 'car', Master Lestraad," he returned—
Master Lestrade?!
—"But if you've business to care for, please, go ahead." He gave them both an odd smile and another deep nod —practically another bow— then moved to the the chair Mrs Hudson always had set up to entertain guests, quietly removed his cape to reveal a bluish-green medieval tunic, and carefully perched himself on the edge of said chair. His furry toes barely touched the— furry toes? John stared. How had he missed that? His feet were four sizes too big for his body, at least, and covered with thick curly hair like on his head. What sort of— Lestrade drew John off to the side.
"Hairy feet," John commented by way of an intro.
Lestrade glanced at them and then sighed. "That's not even a start," he groaned.
John raised an inquisitive brow.
"I don't know what's going on in his head, but he needs help," the DI muttered. "I met him in Camden Market about an hour ago. He didn't know where he was or how he got there. Claims he sat down on a bench. He claims that he's not human, he's a hob-something."
"Wait, what?"
"He's very well-spoken, sounds like a bloody English teacher until all of a sudden— He doesn't know what a phone is, or a car, or drugs, or even a bloody switch on a car door. I had to tell him what London is!"
"Seriously?"
"Yeah." Lestrade shook his head, then hesitated. John waited, eyeing the strange young man thoughtfully. The young man was looking around the passageway with undisguised interest, but every so often his gaze flicked back to the pair.
"...I was wondering if you could.. look him over for me."
John's gaze whipped back to the policeman. "...You mean like a drug test?" he demanded incredulously.
The DI rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Yeah..."
A practised doctor's eye wandered over the young man again. "Or are we talking psychosis?"
"Possible head trauma, even?" Lestrade shrugged. "I don't know. Something that would lead to this."
"Yeah, I could do it," John returned. "If he'd let me."
Lestrade nodded a little at this.
"The Yard could do it too," John added reluctantly.
"Yeah, well... that's..not my division though," Lestrade muttered.
John glanced at the police officer in surprise, catching the undertone. Was Lestrade worried about the little bloke?
"Okay..." he nodded, and then more firmly, "Okay. "I'll talk to him at least. If he lets me, I'll do it."
Lestrade let out a heavy breath, as if he'd been holding it. "Thanks, John."
The doctor nodded, already studying his potential patient and wondering how best to broach the subject.
The young man actually rose at John's approach, and stood silently, waiting.
John quirked a bit of a smile at him, unsure where to start. "Hello," he tried.
"Hello," the young man nodded, almost in a sort of bow.
"So... You said your name is Frodo, right?"
"Yes, Frodo Baggins." Another single nod-bow.
"Okay. Uh..." John looked him up and down, then asked suspiciously. "Did Lestrade tell you I was a doctor?"
"Y-es.. He did mention that." The patient glanced warily up at the DI.
"And you're okay with that?"
The bloke gave him a somewhat stern look. "I am unfamiliar with what that term means," he returned.
John frowned a little. "Which term?"
"Both," the strange fellow answered. "I've never heard of a 'doctor', and although Master Lestraad has used the term 'okai', it appeared to have several meanings."
Both men started at that.
"You.. don't know what a doctor is..." Lestrade mumbled slowly.
"Not by that term, at least," the stranger returned politely. "Perhaps if you were to explain it I would."
"So, no policemen, no doctors," Lestrade sounded tired. "What about a detective? D'you know what those are?"
"Not by that term," the young man repeated patiently.
"Right," John sighed. Then he squared his shoulders, nodding briskly at the very confused young man. "Okay. Do you have a term for the person who takes care of you when you're sick or injured?"
The young man's eyes abruptly hooded with suspicion. "A healer," he returned.
Healer? Now there was an old word. "Alright," John agreed. "I am a - healer, then. Your friend Lestrade is a little worried about you—"
"Yes, well, I am a little worried about him," the fellow retorted sharply.
John frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing," the young man shook his head slightly. "Continue. You are a healer and... You wish to examine me?"
"...Yeah."
"Ah," the young man nodded. "Thank you, I decline. I've already been examined by some of the finest healers in the land and know what they will say. Thank you for the offer," he nod-bowed again as if that dismissed the idea completely.
Almost before John could respond Lestrade snapped back, "Have they examined you today?"
"No," was the cool response.
"Then how do you know it's not something you ate?" the DI demanded.
In answer the little fellow looked at them quietly for a few seconds and then said calmly, "And if it is, what good will an examination from you do?"
John's mouth opened, but the bloke held up a hand in check. "Master Lestraad," he addressed the uncomfortable policeman, "I know that you claim this is not a dream, but this place is.. so unlike anything I have ever experienced that it cannot be anything else."
Lestrade opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again, apparently at a loss.
"And what good will it do for a healer to examine me within a dream? So forgive me for rejecting your offer, but no."
"You.." The concept was so bizarre that John had to clarify it. "You think you're dreaming?"
The little fellow looked up at him. "What other explanation is there?" he countered.
"You're drugged," Lestrade snapped. "You ate something bad, you had a sunstroke.. There are a lot of things that could explain this. So, if you let John look you over he'll make sure that you come out of this all right."
The young man looked from one man to the other. "You are both real?" he challenged.
Both men affirmed that fact.
"Then could you please state your names again? I fear that I keep hearing Doctor John Watson and Detective Inspector Lestraad, and neither of those names sound very Gondorian."
"No, you have the right names," John answered quietly.
"And London?" the strange man pressed. "Am I hearing that correctly as well?"
A thin, worried smile quirked at John's lips briefly, then was gone. "Okay, mate," he said softly, trying to calm the slight hysteria he could almost hear brewing, despite the bloke's apparent control. "Okay, I get it. You're seeing and hearing a lot of strange things today, right? Things that you don't understand."
"...Yes," came the reluctant answer.
"Alright," John continued, trying to convey all of the trustworthiness and steady reassurance of the medical world, despite what he was about to say. "I don't know why so many things are so strange. So, may I examine you? Maybe together we can figure out what's wrong, and then you'll be able to tell your healer" the word felt unfamiliar on his tongue "when you get home. Okay?"
The young man stared hard at him for a few moments. Then he finally demanded bitterly, "How thoroughly?"
John frowned at that. "What do you mean?"
"Will I be forced to remove my clothing?" was the immediate return.
The question made John pause for a moment, concerned. Sexual crime victims were at times known to disassociate themselves from the real world, or to build their own imaginary world to cope with the trauma of their ordeal. Or, he could just be shy of a stranger seeing him without a shirt. The question was, which was it?
"Of - course you don't need to take off your clothes," he answered quietly. "Did someone make you do that?"
The little fellow stared at him for a moment before looking pointedly away, mouth set in a firm line.
Right. That would need some investigation. For now though... "Well, all I want you to do is roll up your sleeves, okay?"
The young man gazed at him with an unfathomable expression for another few moments, and then abruptly pushed the loose sleeves of the shirt back to his elbows, revealing a pair of painfully thin white limbs.
"My arms, gentlemen." The words were crisp, maybe even haughty, but coupled with his concern about the clothes, maybe it was understandable.
"Do you want to go somewhere a little more private to do this?" John offered.
"More private than here?" the young man returned sharply.
"Well, there's Mrs Hudson down the hall."
Down came the sleeves in an instant, the icy demeanour melting into an embarrassed flush in the centre of his pale cheeks. "A lady?" he asked, his voice barely more than a murmur.
Interesting how that changed everything. "Yeah."
"..Someplace more private would be an excellent idea."
-0-0-0-
Bored, bored, bored! Why would anyone ever think that he would be interested in a case where there was no challenge? Stolen files? Please. It was plainly obvious that the one on the left knew where they were. Hardly a challenge worth bothering the consulting detective over.
And now John hadn't returned for the usual scolding over money. As if money was the important thing. It was the challenge! Why couldn't people see that? Everything else was pointless. Brainless. Useless.
John. Where is he? He could be out sulking. But his jacket is still on the hook. John is a military man and a creature of habit, he wouldn't leave without his jacket. Mrs Hudson could have stopped him in the hall.
Sherlock's head fell back listlessly, thumping onto the cushion. Bored!
Hm. Voices downstairs. Indistinct. More than one. No female.
Case?
Sherlock straightened up from where he was slouching in the chair, pulling the wrinkles out of his suit and looking attentive.
It wasn't long before he was up from his chair and stalking toward the kitchen, pulling on his lab coat as he moved. If it was a case John would have been back by now, and Sherlock was not going to sit around forever waiting for him to return.
o
It was the creak of the stairs that roused him from his work. John was coming back. Oh, good. Now would come the lecture. Which would it be over, money or the frying pan?
Two creaks. John was bringing his 'friend' up.
Three creaks. Sherlock paused at that, listening intently. He could hear two sets of footsteps now, one John's and the other certainly Lestrade; he knew that speech pattern, the particular pitch and tones of his voice, not to mention the step pattern as the policeman walked and climbed stairs. But the third party—
Clearly there was a third party: the broken step had creaked three times. Voice pattern was indecipherable, footstep completely inaudible, but as the group drew nearer he could hear another breathing pattern: laboured, struggling, trying to be silent about it. Unsuccessful, obviously. Diminished lung capacity, weak heart, inaudible footstep—
No one Sherlock knew personally. Potential client.
In record time the gloves and coat were draped over the dining table and Sherlock sat in his chair as if he hadn't moved.
John entered first and, after a brief glance at Sherlock, headed for the kitchen. Unusual behaviour.
He barely acknowledged Lestrade's greeting as the detective inspector entered the flat and completely ignored John's reaction to the pan, watching as the third party slowly walked through the door.
117 centimetres tall, about four stones, definite adult though: midget. Pale face, dark brown curled hair, right hand pressed against chest, struggling to recover breath: heart condition. Pressed lightly, fingers turned inward, watching Lestrade's back, forcing long, even breaths: trying to hide illness. Ligature marks around wrists, nearly skeletal frame, wary of others, assessing threat levels of each person: captivity; recent; less than six months ago. Medieval costume: Halloween. Silk, linen, heraldic embroidery, hand stitching: wealthy. Bearing: upper-class. Carrying swath of grey fabric over left arm - coat, possibly? NO, too much fabric, wrong period: cloak. Hairy fee—
Hairy feet.
"Where is Master Watson?" the newcomer asked.
Seconds passed as Sherlock stared at those feet, his mind racing.
Large unshod feet thickly covered in dark curls; very large, too large for the body. Obviously real though judging by the arch as he took a step, the way the ball led, the toes gripping the floor as his weight came down... What sort of creature had feet like that? A deformity, perhaps? But the hair, practically fur—
"Where is Master Watson?" the newcomer asked.
"In the kitchen," Lestrade answered.
"Kitchen?" the newcomer echoed interestedly, looking around as if searching for that room.
Sherlock nearly leapt out of his chair and was across the living room in two strides staring down those feet (and causing the creature to flinch backward). On closer inspection it was even more clear that they were real. The skin moved too freely and naturally for a costume when the creature took a step back. The hair —Sherlock threw a quick confirming glance at the creature's head, then back to the feet— yes, exactly the same as the head: weight, colour, curl, fineness, texture. Rooted into the skin: definitely natural, regularly washed. Neatly groomed toenails, again, regularly scrubbed, recent cutting: two days ago. A mixed dust had settled into the hair on the feet, indicating walking. Dust chiefly white with an overlay of reddish-grey.
"I beg your pardon, sir, what are you doing?" The creature was addressing him. Higher pitched voice than most men, nervous, cultured accent but not immediately recognisable, unusual syntax, older, indicating King's English, well educated. The right hand was now moving to the creature's side— no, further, disappearing within the edge of the blue tunic, fingers still curled inward...missing ring finger. Interesting. Birth defect or injury? Would need a closer look.
The sound of Lestrade attempting to bother him. He ignored it.
Hands: nails ragged, bitten off short. Toenails cut to a healthy length but the fingernails bitten to the nub? Nervous tic: anxiety? —his eyes darted to the face— yes, definitely anxiety. Nails were scrubbed though. Skin around cuticles: clean, healthy pink, on the left hand at least.
"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John's voice. Exasperated.
"An excellent question," the creature agreed quietly. "Can I help you with something?" Addressing him. Why would he need this creature's help?
The smells of the creature were as distracting as the appearance. Earthy, green, herbs, vegetables, butter: cooked recently. A sharper odour, pungent: urea, dye, ink: artist/artisan. Earthy, dirt, green, plants, unfamiliar ones. Soap, unfamiliar brand. A human smell underneath, but...different. Sweeter? More acrid? Sherlock took a deeper whiff.
"I beg your pardon!" The creature took a step away and Sherlock gave him a look of annoyance, then blinked. The creature had pointed ears too, nearly hidden among the thick curls.
Pointed ears, large hairy feet, small size, bare feet, obvious adult...
"What are you?" the detective demanded.
Lestrade grimaced and from behind him John made a noise which always meant, 'manners', but the mysterious creature blinked up at Sherlock, and then answered, "I am a hobbit." He took another step backward and swept the detective a low, well-practiced bow as he murmured, "Frodo Baggins at your service."
Sherlock blinked. "Why would I need your service?" People didn't offer him service!
Still coming out of his bow the 'hobbit' stiffened, his shoulders squaring and backbone tensing. He stood very straight and looked up at the detective with dignity. "Perhaps you wouldn't," he returned coolly. "But perhaps I could offer more than it would seem by my appearance."
"It's his way of introducing himself," Lestrade put in, standing unnecessarily near the pair.
"Hobbit," Sherlock muttered, wrinkling his nose as he processed the odd word. "What is a hobbit?" he probed.
"He's a potential patient of mine," John hurriedly cut in, putting a slight emphasis on mine as he handed the creature a glass of water, and effectively stepping between Sherlock and his puzzle.
"Thank you, Master Watson," the creature nodded to John as he accepted the glass with both small hands, displaying the maimed finger nicely for Sherlock. Recent injury. "As to what a hobbit is," he smirked a little, turning his attention back to the detective, "I can put it no more plainly than to say that I am one. We are the smallest of the free peoples, both in number and size, rarely reaching four feet in height. Our size and appearance are approximately the same as mine, although some are a little shorter — and most are a good deal stouter." He muttered the last bit, as if admitting it galled him. "We hail from the North and are farmers and gardeners, for the main part, and generally remain quietly in our small land, which is doubtless why you've not heard of us." He looked expectantly up from his recitation at the detective. "Does that answer your question?"
"Do you all have such large feet?" Sherlock immediately countered. He had to know...
The creature looked a little startled at this. "Yes," he nodded. "Some broader than others and some shorter than others, but yes."
John was looking disturbed, but Sherlock was fascinated.
"And what brings you here?" he demanded.
"Why don't we all have a seat before we get into that?" Lestrade suggested, dropping his own weight onto the sofa as he said it. "Maybe even a drink," he added under his breath.
"Good idea," John nodded, sounding relieved, and moved away toward his chair. Sherlock followed suit, indicating that the creature should sit in the client chair which was still out from the idiots with the computer. Warily the creature moved to the chair, hung his grey cloak (spot on, good,) over the back of the chair, and carefully seated himself.
"Now," Sherlock began again. "What is your problem?"
"I'm looking for the city of Minas Tirith," the hobbit answered. "Master Lestraad indicated that you may know something of it."
"Minis Tirith," Sherlock echoed, already delving into his mind.
"Yes. I was there but an hour ago, in one of th—"
"An hour?" The word halted the clockwork of Sherlock's brain like a pebble in the gears and he stood, irritable. "Here I thought you actually had something for me," he spat at Lestrade, jerking the hem of his jacket straight and then heading toward the kitchen, adding scornfully, "I told you before, Inspector, I don't do lost children!"
"Now, look, Sherlock," Lestrade started to protest, even as the hobbit indignantly echoed, "Children?"
"Actually, he's not your client this time, he's my patient," John put in.
Sherlock halted immediately, feeling somehow betrayed. Lestrade had chosen John over him? "What help would you be?" he demanded.
John raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, apparently more than you," he returned mildly.
Sherlock's eyes darted to Lestrade, who was nodding. "It's true," he agreed. "I thought John would be more help this time."
The hobbit-creature looked startled at this.
"With a mystery like that hanging about him?" Sherlock demanded.
"That you weren't even interested in two seconds ago," John muttered.
"Sir?" the hobbit was interrupting. "Do you know of Minas Tirith?"
"No," Sherlock shot back, immediately returning to Lestrade. "Why were you bringing him to John?"
"Jealous?" John smirked.
"I see," the hobbit sighed, rising and drawing all attention to himself. "Then please forgive me for disturbing all of you, particularly you, Master Lestraad," he nodded to the policeman. "Thank you for the offer of assistance. I'll see myself out." And the creature bowed low to them again.
"Hang on," John countered, clearly startled by the announcement even though the creature had obviously intended to leave from the beginning. "Where will you go?"
"With any luck, back home," the hobbit returned, picking up the cloak. "If I left it in two seconds, hopefully I can find it again within two seconds. Or perhaps I'll wake up," he muttered under his breath as he walked toward the door.
"Two seconds?" John frowned. He left his seat and hurried to stop the creature. Sherlock, meanwhile, stood motionless, turning the words over in his mind.
"Wait a minute— hang on, F-rodo." John stumbled over the strange name. "What do you mean, you left it in two seconds?"
The creature had reached the hallway, but he halted again and answered, "It is as I said. I was sitting on a bench in Minas Tirith, but when I stood up, I was in Camden Market. At least, that is where Master Lestraad tells me I was."
Sherlock unconsciously straightened, placing his hands together in his customary 'prayer' position as he processed the creature's words. "Say that again," he ordered.
The creature glanced up at Sherlock, surprise obvious in his overly-expressive face, then quietly repeated, "I sat down on a bench in Minas Tirith, and when I stood up I was in Camden Market."
Sherlock ran through the words several times in his head, then indicated the chair again.
"Explain."
With a sigh the hobbit seated himself again and then in an annoyingly reluctant tone began: "I am but recently come to Minas Tirith, and a friend of mine and I decided to explore the city today. We'd visited several places already and were currently—" he stopped abruptly, looking pained. "We were touring one of the guard towers," he continued, "and had just made our way to the topmost...courtyard."
Unsure of the word. Strange diction. Topmost, but recently come, it is as I said, more than the King's English. Who would say that these days?
"My friend began speaking with the guardsman about something - rather private, and I moved aside to..allow them that privacy."
The creature was talking too slow.
"I found an alcove with a bench in it and sat down, being tired from our walk, and..." The hobbit's voice drifted off and Sherlock glanced down at him in irritation. The creature was staring, unseeing, across the flat. "All that I did was sit down on a bench," he murmured, more to himself than the detective, "thought about luncheon for a few minutes, and then stood up - in Camden Market." The hobbit shook his head and then glanced up at Sherlock, seeming to remember the man. "I-I was bewildered and called out for Sam — my friend from the tower. This gentleman answered instead," he indicated the detective inspector, "and offered to assist me. At first he intended to take me to a place called - scot-land yard, I believe he called it, but we ended up - here."
The room was silence for a few seconds.
"I'll take the case."
-0-0-0-
A/N: I actually started this story during the Great Hiatus, long before I knew that Martin Freeman would be playing Bilbo Baggins. So, Bilbo and John share very little resemblance in this tale, although Martin's Bilbo has commandeered all of my other Bilbo stories. Sorry about that to anyone who wanted to see a Bilbo-John look-alike story.
