A/N: Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! This year I'm grateful for all of you who seem to enjoy my plot behemoth and your encouragement, and especially for Nutathendofthebow, my sister, my beta, my friend (to shamelessly reconstruct Boromir's phrase). Without her vast amounts of assistance there definitely would have been no chapter this week. (Actually, without her pushing me this entire story would still be a cheesy plotline trapped in my head, so I'm very grateful to her.)

Chapter 6 - Drugs Test

John hurried to match his pace to Sherlock's, and their little client had to trot to keep up with the great detective in his mad headlong rush at "having something fun to do". Lestrade they had lost to a date he would be having with his wife that night when Sherlock had pointed out (in rather blunt terms) that if he came with them he would be late, and multiple consequences of being late.

Sherlock, as always, breezed through the corridors of the St Bartholomew's hospital morgue, passing people as if they didn't exist, and dramatically threw open a familiar pair of double doors.

"Ah, Molly. Excellent."

The young woman spun around, startled.

"Sherlock! Hi! W-What are you doing here?" She hastily put down the saw she'd been using and hurried over, removing her face shield and subconsciously straightening her coat to a better fit as she brushed off bits of bone matter and tissue.

"Need to use a laboratory," came the brisk answer. "Throttled?"

Beside John their client stiffened.

Even when a person knew Sherlock and routinely worked with him it was still sometimes (usually!) hard to follow conversations. Molly blinked a frown for a moment before glancing back at the body on her table. "Uh... Yes."

"You didn't call me for this one." Sherlock was already moving toward the body.

"I—didn't think you'd be interested," she answered, eyes, as ever, only for Sherlock.

Sherlock eyed the man's body up and down for a few seconds, observing everything. "Has the killer been found yet?"

"He was caught in the act, from what I understand. Pub fight."

John heard a small noise from their client and glanced down. The bloke's eyes were closed and his face was taking on a greenish hue.

"Mm. Dull."

"Sherlock," John prompted, and when the detective looked at him he nodded surreptitiously down at their client. "Labs?"

It was always odd to see the brilliant Sherlock Holmes visibly pull himself back to his former task.

"Ah. Yes. My lab." He looked intently at Molly, waiting.

Molly's face had gone pale, her eyes wide as she stared at John. No. No, not at John. At their client.

"I-I don't— I don't think anyone's using it," she stammered.

Sherlock's gaze flicked between the pair. "You know him," he frowned, concentration burning in his eyes and voice. "No, you don't know him, but you know of him; you think you know who he is, which displeases you for some reason. A disappointment to some vague but cherished hope..." The man's frown deepened, his fingers subconsciously steepling together under his chin. "Why?" he mused. "Who is he?"

Molly looked back at him, her mouth slightly parted as if still in shock. A second passed, and then two before she managed, "I-I don't know. I've never s-seen him before, I think." She turned back to look at the young man again.

Sherlock's frown became one of puzzling something out, but before he could say anything a high voice responded, "Nor have I seen you, mistress, unless you were perhaps in Camden Market earlier this afternoon?" Their client gazed back at her with his own puzzled frown.

Molly's gaze darted between the dark-haired duo again. "No," she answered, her voice a little bit firmer this time. "I've, um, I've been working all day."

"Ah," the client nodded a little apologetically. "Then I could not have met you. But please allow me to introduce myself. Frodo Baggins," bow, "at your - service." The last word was hissed a little more than necessary, and John glanced down to see the 'hobit' gingerly straightening himself, a look of discomfort on his green face. He wobbled a little before regaining his balance.

The forensic pathologist gaped at him for a moment before starting forward saying, "Oh, sorry. Molly Hooper."

"A pleasure, Mistress Hooper," the 'hobit' nodded again. His voice was becoming fainter, more breathy. "If you all will excuse me, I— fear that I need to wait outside. Forgive me." He nodded one last time at the room in general and then left, the doors hardly moving as he slipped out.

John watched him go and then turned back to the others. "Right," he nodded, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"Weak stomach. Didn't like what he saw. Nausea." Sherlock observed.

"Yeah," John agreed. "That's about right." He left the comment, that's how most people react when they interrupt an autopsy, unspoken.

"Who is he?" Molly managed.

"Client," Sherlock returned, a predatory smile coming to his face. "And one of the most interesting ones I've had in a long time." He began to stride toward the doors.

Molly started. "A client?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "He's— yeah, he's a client," he laughed incredulously, still finding it hard to comprehend Sherlock's fascination with the stranger's wild story.

"Might need your assistance," Sherlock tossed back over his shoulder as he threw the left door open.

"I'll just get rid of these." Molly was removing her gloves and spattered coat as she spoke.

"Good idea," Sherlock fake-smiled back at her. "Might be what put him off." And he was out of the room before she had time to react.

"...Okay," she squeaked.

John flashed her an apologetic smile and hurried out as well, not wanting to leave Sherlock alone with a nauseous, possibly delusional, person.

He found his patient leaning against the far wall several metres away, breathing hard and glaring at Sherlock, who was staring back with concentration. John was surprised to notice that if not for his dark hair the kid would have been almost invisible. His cloak blended perfectly against the grey wall.

John approached with concern. "Are you alright, mate? Do we need to slow down?"

"No," the young man shook his head. "I'm - fine; the air was simply getting too close for me."

"No, that had more to do with your past than with the smell," Sherlock observed.

"Master Homes!" the client snapped. "Would you please refrain from speaking your every observation about me!"

Sherlock gave one of his smug fake smiles. "I don't." And he turned and swooped up the corridor, his long coat billowing out behind him like an exclamation point underlining the cockiness of his statement.

John watched his flatmate go, and then turned to gauge their client's reaction. Frodo's lips were pressed tightly together and his breath was almost snorting through his nostrils.

Unsurprised at this reaction (well, maybe that it was so mild) John raised a brow. "You okay?"

With one more deep inhale the young man squared his shoulders, head lifting, and answered shortly, "I will be."

This kid was doing a remarkable job of keeping it together. John stifled a smile of sympathy. "C'mon." He nodded toward the disappearing Sherlock and started walking. After a few seconds he heard the clomping sound of poorly-worn trainers behind him

For a while the pair walked through the halls in (relative) silence. Then footsteps rapidly tapping up the hallway behind them finally broke the awkward tension. Both men turned to see Molly Hooper, breathless, a little pink in the face, and much cleaner as she ran toward the pair. They paused until she could catch up.

"John," she puffed in surprise. "I thought you'd be in the lab by now."

"Yeah, I'm sure Sherlock is," John nodded agreeably.

"It's my fault, mistress," the little client said almost apologetically. "I was unable to keep up with Master Homes, and Master Watson was gracious enough to match his own pace to mine."

"Oh." Molly looked flustered, and John really couldn't blame her; the little bloke looked so much like a kid (traumatised and war-weary, yeah, but still a kid) that it was really disconcerting to hear this precise, overly-formal dialogue come out of his mouth.

"If you wish to go ahead of us you may," the client added with a little smile.

"No. I'll—I'll walk with you if that's all right."

"As you wish, mistress." He nod-bowed again, somehow a bit more deferential than he had been up till now, though John couldn't put his finger on how.

Molly blushed. "Just Molly, thanks. It's-it's fine. They began walking again.

"Mistress Molly?"

"Miss," she hastily corrected. "Or you can leave off the 'miss' and just call me Molly; everyone does."

The young man looked a little shocked. "That would - scarcely be polite, and seems quite familiar."

"Well, I-I don't mind familiar, really. In fact, I prefer it. S-sometimes." She ended on a softer note that made John wonder if she was thinking about Sherlock and his overly-familiar habit of using her to get what he wanted.

The client still looked very uncomfortable, but he nodded in agreement. "Very well, Miss Molly. Forgive me for causing you..discomfort."

Right, he even apologised for that? Where was this bloke from?!

Molly too seemed uncomfortable. "Oh, that's all right..um, Frodo, you said?"

Yet another half-bow. "Yes, Frodo Baggins."

Silence for a few paces.

"So," Molly laughed nervously, "How did you meet Sherlock?"

"We were introduced by a guardsman," was the polite answer. Which John noted actually told her nothing.

"A guardsman?" Molly echoed, surprised.

"Forgive me," the young man hastily corrected himself. "A..po-liceman," he glanced at John as if to make sure he had the right word.

"Yeah, Lestrade," John nodded.

"Oh!" Molly's face twitched into a sickly-looking smile. John frowned a little at that. Was Molly okay? "So you, um, you... Wh-what's your case?"

The client returned her smile with a tired one of his own. "I simply have become lost in your city and Master Homes is trying to help me return home."

Simply! John had to laugh at that one.

Molly frowned a little. "Sherlock doesn't take that sort of case."

The little client looked surprised. "He doesn't?"

"Well, not normally," the pathologist hastily corrected herself. "He usually prefers something - more difficult."

"Ah." The young man looked thoughtful at this whilst another laugh escaped John at that understatement.

"So, i-if you don't mind my asking, what, em, what makes your case so— so different?"

The client gave her a quizzical look and instead asked gently, "Why are you nervous of me, Miss - Molly?"

"Nervous?" she echoed as if trying to fake surprise that he would suggest such a thing.

In answer he gave her a small, almost sad smile. "Your wariness is understandable, mistress, but please allow me to assure you, my people are a peaceful one who rarely even pick up a weapon, let alone attack another. You have nothing to fear from me."

"No, I wasn't— I mean, I didn't—" she paused. "Your people?"

They entered the lab.

"I need saliva, blood, and urine samples, and five more hairs, preferably from the head," came the bark of a man who was already very busy and couldn't be expected to bother with his own errands. The abrupt command stopped the trio as thoroughly as a brick wall would have.

"What for?" John frowned.

"Drugs testing."

Molly's eyes were huge. "You think he's drugged?"

Sherlock straightened up from whatever he was doing and gave the client a quick scan. "Possibly." He returned to work.

Yeah, John had to agree that it was a possibility. In fact, it was the only one that really made sense to John. He turned to their client—and immediately read the signs of impending battle. The young man's cheeks were flushed, his hands were curled into fists, his stance was defensive, and he glared up at John as if daring him to touch anything.

"I have already been over this with Master Lestraad," he began.

"Yeah, and we agreed that you don't actually know what you've put into your body today," John quickly interrupted.

"Master Watson, I have not been given these drugs!" his voice rose in irritation.

John deliberately pitched his voice lower, trying to calm the patient. "Okay, but then how do you explain that you were in a tower one second and in Camden Market the next?" Molly gave them a surprised look.

Their client responded to the tone, calming down but still tersely admitting, "I cannot."

"Okay," John nodded softly. "Can we please just try this so that we can rule out drugs for certain?"

The client still glared. "And what would he be doing with those things?"

Knowing Sherlock, anything is possible.

"Molly, start processing these for soil analysis," Sherlock interrupted.

"Right," Molly nodded, sidestepping the pair.

John sighed. Okay. It was up to him to explain. "Each of those 'things' are good indica—ways of knowing what is currently going on inside your body. When we look at them together we'll be able to get a really good picture of what's happening internally, and after that we won't bother you about the drugs again."

"Water. Beef pasties. Carrots. Strawberries. Bread. Eggs—"

John was feeling that familiar urge to hit his head against something hard (usually induced by Sherlock rather than the client). "Look, mate. If you're worried about the pain, I'm a doctor and I know how to take blood withou—"

"You are not touching my blood."

John pulled back a little, surprised at the steel in the client's voice. "...Okay." He paused briefly to regroup. "Do you mind if I ask why not?"

A long, icy look was levelled at him before the client finally said, "That is my own personal affair."

Right. Well, personal affairs didn't exactly stay personal around Sherlock.

"What about that urine sample?"

"Master Watson, I am not inclined to—"

"Then get out," Sherlock snapped.

The young man looked up, startled. "What?"

"I need those to complete my analysis. If you refuse to give them then clearly you don't want my help. If you don't want my help then leave." Sherlock glared at the little bloke. "But you'll be lucky if you make it through a police interview without being committed, and if they should try to help you they will start with blood and urine samples. But they won't help you."

"And why not?" the young man demanded.

"Because Minas Tirith doesn't seem to exist. The police will dismiss your case as insanity, or decide it's too difficult for them and bring you back to me." He gave the youth a shark-like grin. "I am, after all, the only consulting detective in the world."

"And if I were to refuse to give them my blood as well?"

"They'd turn you out on the streets and let you find your own way. Obviously." He gave the young man another glance of appraisal. "You should last three days. Clearly you have some internal strengths that would help you a little, but with no knowledge of London or how the modern world works, vulnerable size, and your frankly striking looks marking you as a target to any pimp out there I expect that within three days you will have vanished so effectively that only I and the London crime life will ever be able to find you."

"Are you attempting to scare me, Master Homes?" the young man's voice was low.

"No," Sherlock returned, with another predatory smile. "Why would I do that?" His voice turned hard and dead. "I'm just stating the consequences of refusal."

Sherlock must want this case pretty badly. John had never seen him actually pursue a client who was trying to leave. The man only ever chased them away!

The youth continued to gaze steadily at the detective. "And what are the consequences of agreeing?" he countered quietly.

"I solve your case and you're home by Tuesday."

The young man was silent for a minute or two, clearly thinking. Finally he asked, "What would you do with these..items?"

"John already—"

"Master Watson did, yes," the client interrupted firmly. "I should like to hear your answer."

Sherlock stared down the little bloke for a second or two before launching into a long, fast-paced, technical explanation of what he intended to do. A look of confusion came to the young man's face almost immediately and remained there as Sherlock detailed what chemicals would be used to identify the drugs, steps that would be taken to process the dirt procured from the hair on his feet, how much time each process would take, etc. Every time he seemed to stop the young man would prompt, "And is there anything else?" And off Sherlock would go again.

At last he came to a halt for a fourth time and when the young man prompted him again he exploded, "Of course there is, but given that you don't understand any of what I just said there's no point in continuing!"

The young man paused, nodding thoughtfully. Then he asked calmly, "And how would this affect me?"

"It wouldn't unless you're one of those types that gets light-headed when you give blood," Sherlock snapped back. And then, "Oh. Don't be ridiculous! Just because you believe in magic doesn't mean I do, making it impossible for me to perform whatever absurdity you're thinking! It is, in fact, impossible for me to hurt or in any way harm you by taking a few samples for a drugs test!"

Their client looked surprised at having his thoughts correctly deduced, but he just said calmly, "Is it?"

"Completely, other than the initial drawing of blood!"

"And these others?" He turned politely to John. "What think you, Master Watson?"

John blinked, but quickly nodded. "Yeah, he's right."

"About what?" was the rather annoying return.

The doctor sighed. This bloke really didn't like to take the easy way out, did he? "All of it, really." He tried to take a different tack. "I'm guessing you believe in magic?"

Sherlock scoffed at the seemingly inane start, but the odd young man said quietly, "I've been given many reasons to over the course of my life."

Not exactly the answer John had expected.

"Okay... Well, here, in London, we don't really believe in magic—"

"Everything in the world can be explained by a logical outcome if one takes the time to actually stop and reason through what happened instead of ignorantly assuming that the supernatural has occurred," Sherlock snapped. "Sample?"

"Just give us a few minutes, Sherlock," John countered.

"How do you explain then that this is a windowless room, yet it is filled with light?"

John nearly swore. This bloke didn't even know what a doctor was; how was he supposed to explain this?

"It's electricity," Molly's soft voice was laced with confusion. "You don't know what that is?"

The young man turned to her. "No, mistr— miss Molly. Would you explain it to me, please?"

Molly was flustered. Of course she was. Who wouldn't be, trying to explain modern concepts to a ghost from the medieval times!

Sherlock actually growled aloud. "If you insist on understanding everything about modern England before you comply then get out!" he snarled. "There's a library ten minutes walk that way!" jabbing a finger towards the door. "Reading every book in there should only take you fifteen years if you get started now. Come back when you understand what you want!"

The young man's gaze flicked to the detective. "I want to go home," he returned simply.

"Then work with me!" Sherlock commanded.

"Sherlock..." John groaned.

Instead of responding the little bloke stood motionless, studying Sherlock with a level of scrutiny that usually only came from the detective. Sherlock stared back; sharp grey eyes rapidly analysing and deducing every nuance of movement or thought (which was surprisingly little).

After nearly a minute of tense silence their client abruptly dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Very well, Master Homes," he said quietly. "I shall comply with your wishes." And without further preamble he turned to John and said, "What must I do?"

After all that fuss the actual taking of the samples was almost anti-climactic. Of course the client was asking questions at every step, and he was naturally disgusted when he learnt how they would obtain some of those samples, and John and Molly were translating every third word (it seemed) into simplified English just so the bloke could understand, but, yeah, that was all sort of to be expected after everything else that they'd been through that day. Finally though, Sherlock had his samples, the client's ruffled dignity had been soothed, and finally: they could get on with the case.

Time passed slowly as Sherlock (and Molly) processed the evidence. John did what he could to help whilst their little client sat quietly, alternating between watching the proceedings around him and studying the dictionary. After an hour or so of this though, with an engrossed Sherlock apparently no nearer to solving the case than before, he caught Molly's attention as she brushed by and asked if it was possible for him to obtain some paper.

"Paper?" she echoed, surprised.

The young man looked at her in dismay. "Yes... where I come from it is a flat sheet on which one would write or draw. If you haven't any though that's perfectly fine."

John and Molly both stared at him. Finally Molly said, "We - do have paper. Why did you describe it?"

The young man shrugged. "You know so little about my home and my ways that I thought an explanation might help," he reasoned. "Might I have a page or two, or is it far too dear for a bored hobbit to use?" He quirked a half-smile at them.

"No, I'll—" Poor Molly seemed to be floundering out of her depth. "I'll go get some." She hesitated. "Do you need a - a pen too?"

His smile turned into a look of quiet resignation. "Thank you, but I tend to carry one with me," he murmured, with a strange air of... well, almost of confessing something. Maybe not something shameful, but certainly something - telling? John found himself trying not to stare at this strange client again.

Molly awkwardly slipped away murmuring something about finding the paper and John decided to go calm Sherlock. In the brief space of time that their conversation had taken the detective had tensed and his movements now were becoming quick and savage. He was on the verge of an explosion, and John did not need the fallout that would produce.

"So, what are you finding?" he asked casually.

Sherlock glanced up at him with a sneer which almost immediately changed to his intense studying expression. "Not much," he clipped back. "Running a DNA analysis right now to determine what he is."

John paused. Blinked.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock must have noted the confusion in John's tone, for he actually looked up. His grey eyes flicked rapidly over his flatmate, reading his body language. "Problem?"

"You said—"

"Yes, and you heard me the first time. Don't let your 'unshakeable beliefs' in the wisdom of your primary school teachers cloud your judgement!" Sherlock returned haughtily. "It is plainly obvious at first glance that he is not a human. To assure you of this I am running a comparative test between his DNA and an average human."

"Yeah?" That was different. Leave it to Sherlock to test the bloke's story via chemical analysis. "What are you finding?"

"Tests remain inconclusive at this point." And the scientist returned to his experimenting as if dismissing the matter (and John) out of hand.

"And what do you expect to find?"

Nothing. Sherlock was once again absorbed in his own little world. So... No answers for John, but at least the crisis was averted.

It wasn't long before Molly returned with an armful of blank paper which she rather triumphantly set before the client. The young man's eyes widened at the sight.

"Are you certain that you can spare all this?" he gasped.

"Yeah, it's- not a problem," she smiled. "If I run out I can always steal some from the printers."

The client looked alarmed. "Ste— O, stars, I didn't mean for you to steal anything for me. I have a small book for my notes which I can use. You needn't—"

"No, sorry, no. I didn't mean steal," Molly corrected herself. "What I meant was, we trade paper all the time, back and forth, and when I run out I'll go to the printers to get some. B-But it's not really stolen, I just..I said that." She smiled at him anxiously.

"Ah." Their odd client gazed at her, clearly puzzled, and then a light of understanding broke across his face. "Ah, of course. Forgive me, mistress. I was not thinking. Of course you did not steal it. And I do thank you for bringing it, and so much!" He shook his head in amazement.

Molly laughed nervously. "It's - not a problem," she answered.

He fingered the top page. "And so smooth too," he murmured. "I've never felt better." He gave her a look of slight awe. "You are certain that you can spare this?"

"Yeah, like I said, it's not a problem at all."

"Well, I - do thank you, mistress, very much." He carefully lifted a single sheet as if it was made of gold and placed it before himself.

John couldn't stand the suspense any longer and came over to investigate. "What did you bring him?" He picked up one of the pages.

"Printer paper," Molly shrugged.

The young man looked from one to the other. "I take it that this is common paper," he observed.

"Yep," John agreed.

"Hope you don't mind," Molly added apologetically.

"Not at all," the client assured her. With a slight smirk he added, "I am grateful for anything which may keep me busy, and I'm certain Master Homes will be too."

John and Molly both had to smile at the truth of that statement.

Silence reigned again for a while, broken by the skritching sound of an actual calligraphy pen in the client's hand and, of course, the whirrs, hums, beeps, and other general noises of investigation and discovery (and an animated Sherlock) coming from the other end of the room.

-0-0-0-

A/N: skritching is taken from an old Peanuts comic, when Lucy informs Charlie Brown that Snoopy doesn't like to be scratched, he likes to be skritched.

Welcome to the Christmas season, everybody!