Chapter 7 - Data, Data, Da—

"John, look at this."

Sherlock had been studying a print-out of the data from a GC-MS scan, but now he leapt to his feet, pages thrown carelessly onto the table as his fingers flew across the keys of the computer attached to the mass spectrometer.

John hurried over. "What is it?" He leaned around his friend, trying to see. In answer Sherlock shoved the pages at him.

"Computer error, but the data doesn't add up." Sherlock didn't look up as he tore through the read-out. "I need a different sample."

John felt his stomach drop a little at those words. As if it hadn't been hard enough to get the first one? A glance back at the client confirmed that, yes, the little bloke had heard, and was staring at John in alarm, pen poised in mid-air.

"O..kay." Sherlock was already unbuttoning his cuffs impatiently and rolling up his sleeves. John hurried to stop his manic friend. "Hey, I'll get it, thanks."

"Of course you will," Sherlock returned. And he laid out his bare arm as one would when giving blood.

John was stymied. "Wait—you?"

Sherlock scowled. "Of course me!" he snapped. "I need a blood sample with known identifiable qualities to ensure that the machine is still working correctly before I run any more tests."

"Didn't you run the pre-test? I thought—"

"Of course I did, John, I'm not one of those morons from the Yard!" John winced a little at the harsh, and very unfair, pronouncement. "No," Sherlock analysed. "Either the current sample has been contaminated by an unknown substance, or the machine is broken. Contaminant is looking more likely; initial screening shows unusually high amounts of potassium and hydrogen in the body, but we must rule out the possibility of machine breakdown before investigating further."

"And you're going to use your own blood to do that."

"Why not? I know the composition of my blood and can easily use it as a test."

Well, when he put it that way...

A few minutes later Sherlock was busily testing the "composition" of his blood and John decided to check on their client (who, Sherlock had smugly informed him, had watched the entire process with an appalled fascination).

The little bloke spoke first:

"Master Watson?" his voice was low and worried. "Did he just mix his blood with mine?"

John blinked at the unexpected question. "...N-o."

Those sharp blue eyes scanned his face rapidly (and it was funny, but John could almost have sworn that their client was looking for lies) before he nodded, but he still watched Sherlock with mistrust.

John grimaced a little at that. "Look, can I ask you something?"

"You may ask..." the young man returned doubtfully.

"Why are you so worried about your blood?"

The wary glance that the client flashed over him almost looked involuntary; as if it had been honed by months of fear and was now automatic despite being out of danger. It startled John. Then those eyes locked on the paper in front of him.

John followed his gaze. A half-finished drawing of a horse galloped across the page. He waited.

When it became apparent that the client had no intention of speaking John decided to switch tactics. Gesturing to the drawing he commented, "That's really good." Which it was.

"Thank you," the young man murmured, still not looking up.

The doctor glanced curiously at the other pages beside the young artist. "D'you mind if I look?"

At a shake of the artist's head he picked up the drawings, examining them with interest. The first page had apparently been divided in half, the client drawing a swan on the top half and what looked kind of like a Viking longboat on the bottom. Neither were drawn with great detail and both were rather stylised.

The next page held a drawing of a stylised tree topped by seven stars on a blackened background.

The last page, though, took him by surprise. Where the other drawings had been of one or two straightforward figures this was a sketch of a full-page landscape. At first glance it appeared to be a castle of some sort nestled amongst some mountains, but the longer he looked the stranger the castle seemed. For one thing, it was round instead of the customary square-ish with turrets. He could count seven round layers, stacked one on top of the other like concentric circles, with lots of little towers and house-looking things sitting along the walls. In the bottom layer there was a broken gap with a barricade across it where a gate would normally belong. On the top layer stood a single very tall tower rising high into the air and a banner waved in the breeze at the peak of the roof. And then through it all sliced what looked like a sheer cliff, running from the base of the tower down to the very bottom of the 'castle'. The picture was good, if odd; very good, in fact, and confirmed what Sherlock had said about their client being an artist.

"You drew these?"

"Yes," the boy nodded. "I thought that they may help you to know of what I speak."

"How's that?"

The client took back his pages and laid the stylised tree on the table. "This is the standard of Gondor," he explained. "This one is the standard of Dol Amroth, by the sea," he placed the swan and ship beside the tree, "and this is the city of Minas Tirith, as one approaches her from the Fields of the Pelennor." The sketch was carefully laid down. John gave him a look of surprise.

"That's a city?"

"Yes."

"The one that we're looking for?"

"Yes."

John studied the sketch a little more closely.

"That is a - different looking city," he finally muttered.

"Aye," his companion smiled. John glanced down at him. Aye? "I've told Aragorn as much, but he just laughs at me. It is built around and delved into a small mountain, you see, and because they were building around it they had little choice but to go up. I don't know why they left that in, though," tapping the cliff with a finger. "It may have been for the beauty or strength of the city, it may have been because the Númenóreans were a seafaring people and it looked like a ship's prow, or it could just be that the builder had a good head for heights and thought that would be an excellent joke to play on everyone else. There are a dozen opinions on the matter, really, for it's been so long ago since it was built that no-one truly knows any longer."

"Yeah?" John cocked a brow at the chap. "How old?" Old was relative to the person talking, after all.

"I'm not certain," his companion hesitated, "but more than three thousand years."

Three thousand. Okay, not a bad numb— John froze, staring at him. "Three thousand?" he managed.

"Yes," the client returned calmly. "It has stood throughout the Third Age, and I believe that it was built at least a hundred years before the Second Age ended, although I will admit that I have not asked. It does not seem too great a stretch though. The Men of Númenor were very skilled." He finally looked up at John and his expression changed to confusion. "What is it?"

"Three thousand years."

"Yes."

"So, we're talking on par with..Kabul or Jerusalem, or some of those ancient Greek or Chinese cities..."

His companion was shaking his head hesitantly. "I'm - not certain. I know relatively little of the lands of Men other than what I and my uncle have traversed."

"Oh." Well, wasn't that helpful.

Another thought came into his head. "How do you know it's so old?"

"I don't," the client gave him a wry grin. "But it was the stronghold which Anárion took as his home back in the Second Age, so I assume that it was built before the fall of Númenor. Had you ever seen it, carven of stone as it is, you could never doubt that it took a long time to build. At times I look at that cliff and have to wonder if some dwarves were not secretly employed in the building, but everyone claims that the city was built entirely by men."

Second age? Numenor? This delusion or whatever it was had history?! And not just a little history; this bloke was seriously discussing 1000 B.C.!

"You've seen this cliff?" he confirmed, tapping the image.

"I have seen it, stood upon it, looked off it—once, that is a dizzying drop; passed through the tunnels bored through it, and threatened to throw my cousins off of it. Yes, Ma— Doctor Watson, I am very familiar with it, the citadel," he pointed out the building at the top of the seventh tier, "the Tower of Ecthelion," pointing to the tall tower with the flag, "and much of the sixth and fourth circles. Although, I will admit, less of the fourth than sixth."

"Okay..." Now this tale was putting on some bulk. Standing on it and going through tunnels were pretty good indications that this thing was real. So, all of a sudden they were looking for an actual city, carved out of stone, ancient compared even to England... "1000 B.C. give or take a little," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" the client frowned.

"That's three thousand years ago," John explained. "It'd be.. right around the time of the Greeks, I think."

"Ah." The client eyeballed him thoughtfully. "You measure history differently than we do," he observed.

"Yeah? How do you measure history? Ages?"

"Yes."

John absorbed that information. "So, how long is an age?"

"This one has lasted three thousand nineteen years thus far. The Second Age lasted three thousand four hundred forty-one years, and the first age was six hundred and one years."

John raised a brow. "That's - precise," he muttered.

The client snorted. "When an age ends with some form of disaster and changing of power all tend to sit up and take note of when it happened," he murmured.

"Yeah? What divided your second from the first?"

"The War of Wrath, the destruction of Angband and Beleriand, and the chaining of Melkor." The young man counted on his fingers: "Great destruction, change of power." Then he shivered violently.

Nothing that John was familiar with, but okay. "What about the second age from the third?"

"The destruction of Númenor and reshaping of Arda, the founding of the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor," the little bloke spoke mechanically, "the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, the taking of.. Mordor," his voice grew softer, until John could barely hear it, "the downfall of... Sauron."

Whatever those were John could see that he needed to remember them. They had a bad effect on the bloke, similar to the volcano discussion earlier. Surreptitiously he pulled out his notebook and jotted a few of them down.

Their client's gaze whipped to him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Whatever had bit this poor sod had bit him hard.

"I'm taking notes."

"On the Second Age?" the client returned dryly.

John shrugged a little. "You see that man over there?" pointing to Sherlock, obliviously staring into his microscope. "Any thing that you say, even the least little thing, could be the key to solving your case. So, yeah. I'm going to take notes if I think that anything you're saying might be helpful."

"But surely your histories will tell you as much as I just did."

"Actually I get the feeling that you and I have very different histories," John returned. Which was putting things mildly.

A look of interest perked up the youth's suspicious gaze. "I should like to read your histories," he commented.

John wasn't sure what to say to that, so he let it slide.

With a lull in the conversation Frodo apparently decided to turn the discussion back. Tapping the drawings he asked, "Do you think that these will help you?"

John shrugged. "We can only try, right? I'll see if I can get Sherlock to take a look at them."

"But you do not recognise them yourself," the client confirmed.

"No, but I'm not exactly up on medieval heraldry, or - second ages."

The client tilted his head sideways. "Midevil?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah, you know. The time of the dark ages and knights and castles, King Arthur, feudal lords and their wars." At the client's blank look he continued, "the Crusades, the Black Plague," still blank. "Robin Hood?" As the client slowly began to shake his head John added dryly, "It's the time period that your clothes are from."

The young man glanced down at his tunic in disgust and then gave John a dry look of his own. "My clothing came from our new king and his perverse sense of humour."

"Oh." John side-eyed the client's tunic again. "So, you actually aren't interested in the medieval times?"

The young man snorted. "Forgive me, Master Wats— Doctor Watson, but I understood nothing of what you said other than 'knights and castles'."

"Well, we're even then because I didn't get even half of what you said about..Nu-me-nor and the second age."

Frodo gave him a thin smile and began to thumb through the dictionary lying beside his pictures.

"So, your king dressed you like this for a joke?"

Their client's ear—his pointed ear—twitched.

Twitched.

As in: visibly moved up and down. And suddenly John could see why Sherlock kept calling their newest client "the creature". The movement looked as natural on the little bloke as a yawn did on a cat, and for that very reason it seemed completely and utterly alien.

"One could say that," the creature agreed quietly. Client, John reminded himself, client. A lot of people can move their ears like that. This was just some sort of sick joke that someone was playing on them, or at the very least on the confused young man sitting beside him.

A joke which Sherlock Holmes was falling for. Completely. And that fact made no sense; Sherlock was the last person to fall for a hoax like this, especially such an obvious one! And yet..what had he said?

"Don't let your 'unshakeable beliefs' in the wisdom of your primary school teachers cloud your judgement! It is plainly obvious at first glance that he is not a human."

It wasn't like Sherlock at all to fall for such a lie, but the idea of the bloke sitting next to him not being human?! That defied all reason and logic!

"Master Watson? How do you spell that word?" the young man sounded frustrated as well, but for an entirely different reason.

o

A few minutes and one spelling assist later the young man put down the dictionary with an unsatisfied look on his face. John knew the feeling.

"Did you find it?" he asked politely, not really interested in the answer.

"In a manner of speaking," the boy answered. "Apparently it is anything related to the Middle Ages, which is a period of Ay-you-ro-pawn history between the ancient and modern times. Which tells me very little and answers no questions at all."

"A period of what?" John barked.

"Ayuropan history." This time he rolled the 'R' a little.

"And what's that?"

"A period of history," the young man repeated, "although not one with which I am familiar."

A-U-rOp-an? "How do you spell that?"

"T - H - A - T."

John blinked. Had he just— Had the creature just— "Ha, ha," he returned dryly.

Their client raised one eyebrow in a wry look that warred between amused and mildly reproving. "You did ask," was the calm retort. "E. U. R-o-p-e. A-n."

". . . European?"

"I assume that you know how to pronounce it better than I."

John leaned over so that he could look the boy in the eyes and carefully pronounced, "IT."

The client stared at him for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter. The sound was surprisingly light and John smiled a little with the bloke. "Doctor Watson," the boy giggled, "I believe that you would get along with my cousins rather well."

"Shut up!" Sherlock bellowed. "Impossible for a person to think with the noise you two are making!"

John ignored this because the little client had physically flinched at the first shout. He studied the pale face and rapidly darting eyes and privately sighed. And the bloke's problems just keep mounting.

-0-0-0-

A while later...

"Doctor Watson?"

John sighed inwardly at the soft words. "You know, you really could call—" he looked up from his reading to find that their client had somehow soundlessly crossed the room, and now stood only a few feet away. John blinked at him, and then at the table where he could have sworn the bloke was still seated.

"How'd you do that?"

The client frowned back. "Do what?"

John stared at him for a minute before: "Never mind," he shrugged. "You wanted something?"

"Yes. I was wondering if you would have access to a map of Middle-Earth."

"...Middle Earth?" John echoed slowly.

"Yes," the boy nodded. "As you likely realise I am..something of a scholar and am familiar with maps and their ways. I thought that if you could provide one I would at least be able to find out how near I am to Gondor..or - whatever outlying regions we may be near."

John thought about that. "It's not a bad idea," he acknowledged, "but there is one problem."

The client tilted his head inquisitively, waiting.

"I don't know what middle Earth is."

As he expected, their strange client straightened in shock, barely managing an ineloquent, "You - what?"

John gave him a grim smile. "Yeah."

The client just stood there, staring at him as if John had suddenly grown a third ear.

"Now, I have heard of Earth," John offered, "and we've got maps of Earth, but I don't know where this middle comes in."

"Earth," the client muttered softly, brow furrowing again.

"Yes."

"..Perhaps it is similar to 'doctor' and 'healer'," the young man finally suggested. "What is 'Earth'?"

Even though he was expecting the question it was still jarring to actually hear it voiced, and he had to take a few seconds to regroup. "Earth is..the planet we're standing on." Nope, no good; he could already see the brow wrinkling. "It's eh.. It's all of the land and the seas." Better. "We..we lump it all together..under one - title, and call it Earth, or the world."

Now the client was nodding. "That is what I need," he smiled. "We also call it 'the world' and I need a map of the world."

"Okay, that I can help you with," John smiled back, rising as he spoke. Then he paused. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" the client echoed anxiously.

"Well," John grimaced, "we're in a hospital, in a laboratory. I don't know that we'll find a map around here."

"O." The client's erect posture slumped a little, clearly discouraged.

"Let me ask Molly; maybe she knows," John added quickly. The client gave a single nod (whether of agreement or permission John wasn't sure), and the doctor hurried over to the young woman busy with the urine analysis.

"Molly?"

"Yeah?" she smiled up at him.

He quirked an awkward smile back. "Do you know if there's a map of the world anywhere in this building?"

She bit her lip thoughtfully. "I don't know for certain, but you might try the library upstairs. They - they might have something, but I don't— I've never looked for a map here," her smile became a wince.

"Yeah, me either," he nodded. "That's - not a bad idea. Ta."

"No problem," she returned as he went back to the client, who seemed to be staring through John's soul as he silently waited.

"Okay, here's the plan." A: you stop looking at me like that! "Since you're the client Sherlock might need you for something yet, so I need you to stay here while I go check out the library. If they don't have anything we'll see about heading back to the flat because I know that we've got a map there. Does that sound like it would work?"

"Yes," the client agreed, but another wary, almost involuntary dart of the eyes towards the detective told John that the poor bloke was still nervous about Sherlock. And honestly? Who wouldn't be? (Besides himself, of course)

John sighed. "Look, mate, if he says anything to you try not to take offence at it. He doesn't—" John broke off. Generally he did mean it; John couldn't say that...but... "He's not very good with social cues," very true! "and..he, um, he forgets that there's a proper way to ask certain things, and he also forgets that there are certain things you don't ask." John was convinced that most of the time Sherlock just flounced the rules because he wanted to, but there were times that the detective would turn on him with such bewilderment, as if he couldn't comprehend what he had done wrong. "Just, uh, just stay in your corner and keep quiet and he'll probably forget all about you. Okay?"

"Very well," their client nodded deeply.

Couldn't he please just quit doing that?!

o

Several minutes later John returned triumphant. Or, at least...

"Okay, I've got one. It's not middle Earth, but it is a map of the world. Think it'll do?"

"It will do at least for a start," the youth nodded, clearing away his papers. "Thank you, Doctor Watson," words accompanied, of course, by yet another polite nod-bow.

"Yeah," John grunted, hefting the large book onto the table. He smirked a little as the client's eyes widened at the sight of it: more than half the size of the little bloke. Still smirking, John began thumbing through the pages to the one he wanted. "Here you go: a map of the world." A very nice fold-out map, showing both political and geographical features, the sort of map that would be a joy to steal out of the book and blatantly display on a wall. John made a mental note to be certain that his pick-pocketing flatmate didn't get his hands on the book before it could be returned intact.

The client clambered back up on his stool to see. And then stared silently at the map. John glanced at him. The little bloke's eyes were the size of saucers as he took in the mass of land and sea.

"If it helps, here's London," John offered. pointing out the city's dot. That seemed to snap the young man out of his 'trance'.

"Thank you," he murmured. "And the legend is..."

"Here." John pointed it out.

"Ah, thank you." And the client proceeded to study it. And then paled, his eyes scanning the land masses again.

John waited, fingering the notebook in his pocket. Anything that the bloke said could be the clue that was needed to crack the case; he wanted to be ready. As the seconds turned into minutes though the silence stretched on. The little chap was apparently very good at being silent. He carefully studied the map from above, then braced himself against it to study the land in-depth, and then took a brief break to draw a few lines (to scale apparently: he kept comparing them to the legend) on the back of one of his pictures (an old man with a rather large brimmed hat and more medieval clothes). When, however, their client ended up half-climbing on top of the book trying to compare his lines to various mountain ranges in the Americas (well, it was a large map even to John), the doctor decided that it was time to intervene.

"Can I help you find anything?"

There was a pause and then the client hesitantly replied, "I'm - looking for the Misty Mountains."

"Is it a couple of mountains, or is it a whole range?"

"A range of mountains some seven hundred miles long, dividing the East-lands from West."

"Okay." So, not a big range, but still easy enough to find. "And it goes North to South?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't we try a topographical map?" he suggested

"Topograficle?" John could hear the confusion lurking behind the polite query.

"It shows what the landscape is like," he answered.

"O." Frodo seemed to think that through briefly. "Will it show all of the land that there is?"

"Yeah, mate," John chuckled.

"..We could at least try that," the young man nodded, climbing back to his stool. John folded the map back up and flipped through a few pages. "Here," he paused, laying open the page. "Best I can do."

The pair studied the map for a few moments, but soon Frodo straightened back up.

"Doctor Watson," he began cautiously, "I am sorry to tell you that this map is incorrect."

John's brow rose. "Yeah?" he returned. "How so?"

"It is missing much land."

Well, there was another new claim. "Really?" he returned.

"Yes."

"Like what?"

Their client started, staring at John in shock. Then he began listing: "Gondor, Eriador, Lindon, Rohan, the Misty Mountains, the Anduin, Mirkwood, Fangorn, Rhun, Harad—"

"Cities?" John ventured, cutting off what sounded like it would be a very lengthy list.

"Lands!" the client protested. "Wide realms of land!"

Okay, troublesome, but not the worst that John had heard this afternoon.

"Maybe you need something more local?" he suggested.

The client looked at him askance. "How can a chain of mountains stretching some seven hundred miles be considered local?"

Well, maybe John hadn't thought that through completely...

"I meant the lands," he corrected himself. "Maybe your lands are a little smaller than you think."

The young man huffed at him. "Even were that so it does not change the fact that Lindon and Gondor are both bordered by the Sea, nor does it change the length of the Misty Mountains. I do not see either of those boundaries on this map!"

"Okay, which sea?" John was already looking. "West side or East?"

"The Sea is to West of the world," was the wistful answer. "Mordor to East, the Great Sea to West. And in between lie the Misty Mountains!" he added more forcefully.

Right... "And you're sure it's a sea and not something else?"

The look he now received reminded him of the sort a professor would give a particularly stupid student. "Doctor Watson, I speak of the Belegaer."

"And that is?"

Their client nearly gaped at him. "The Belegaer," he repeated more emphatically. "The Great Sea which lies in the west of the world, which once separated Valinor from the lands of Middle-Earth!"

John blinked. "Yeah, not ringing a bell, sorry."
"I speak of the west-most sea—"

"Yeah, I get that," John agreed. "But I'm starting to think that our geographies are as different as our histories." Maybe if he included himself the reaction would be less dramatic?

The young man studied him thoughtfully. "Perhaps you have a different name for that as well," he suggested, but the doubtful look in his eyes seemed to negate the words.

"Maybe," John nodded.

The client was silent for another minute or two as he studied the map. When he spoke again the clear voice seemed muted, heavy almost, and lower than before. "Very well, Doctor Watson. I am looking for a land enclosed on three sides like a box. The northern mountains span some five hundred miles. To West the Ephel Dúath stretches more than three hundred miles before turning South for five hundred miles farther. The mountains are nearly unassailable and the land within has a dread reputation."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling thoroughly tired from riddles. "Does it have a name?"

"If you know not the Belegaer by that name why would you know the Black Land as Mordor?" their client returned quietly.

Alright. The kid had a point, and John had a name, and maybe it was a useless name, but still, if they needed it John had it. He turned his attention back to the map. "Black land," he muttered to himself. Could that be something in Africa? Or maybe the Americas? Or could it refer to oil and the Middle East? John paused, mentally weighing the two. Middle East. Middle Earth. They did sound fairly similar. And the Middle East did have a lot of mountains, and even some volcanoes. One could even make the argument that the 'Cradle of Civilization' was the middle of the world. He couldn't remember that particular chain of mountains, but if it was something really local in, say..Saudi Arabia, then he wouldn't have known about it anyway. Of course, if there was actually something more...sinister going on it would also be easy enough to fake a map if the intended victim didn't get out much...

"So, can you tell me about this 'black land'?"

A stern look was levelled at him. "All we need do is find this box-like formation of mountains," the young man returned. "If this map truly shows all of the land then it should be here somewhere."

The words snagged on John's brain and he gave his companion a frown. "And - the Misty Mountains wouldn't?"

"They should be also," the client agreed, "but the Ephel Dúath and the Ered Lithui are far more - recognisable."

Okay, he was no Sherlock Holmes, but that little pause seemed to say that this 'Effel Doo-ath' was important, at least to their client, but more likely to everyone where he came from, and that he was expected to know at least this much because 'everyone' did. Mentally he jotted the name down alongside the information from earlier. Physically he nodded and began scanning the map for any sort of three-sided mountain range.

It wasn't long before John was ready to give up. There weren't a lot of ranges that fit the client's description, and of the few which John thought might fit the young man would quickly veto. The youth was clearly getting as frustrated as John too, which helped nothing.

"Okay," the soldier finally declared. "That's it."

The boy looked at him in consternation. "It cannot be," he countered.

John sighed. "Look, mate, we've been over the map twice. There isn't any more land."

"There is, though!" his companion protested. "You are missing large - portions of land!"

With a frustrated shrug John jabbed a thumb at the map. "Do you want to go over it a third time? We can, but I really don't think it'll help."

Frodo dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. "No, of course not. We need a different map; one of all of the land."

An incredulous laugh escaped the army soldier before he could stop it. There was no getting through to this bloke! "This is a map of all of the world," he retorted. "There's no more world to be discovered as far as.. anyone can find. We traced it with sa—" he caught himself mid-word and studied his odd companion. "Yeah, like you're going to know what a satellite is," he muttered to himself.

"A what?"

"Nothing. But this is all of the world—all of the land that exists."

The boy sighed, as if he was the one who had every right to be fed up. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but it is not."

"Well, maybe it's like I said, and you need something more local," John suggested.

"Master Watson, there is nothing 'local' about Mordor!" the client laughed bitterly.

"Well, we've been over this map twice," John growled. "I don't think it's on here!"

"No, I agree," the young man nodded. "We need a different map."

"Ki—" he broke off, pinching at the bridge of his nose again to try and calm himself. "Okay," he started again. "Let's take a step back and look at this from a different angle. Going by your map, how many of these lands have you visited?"

Frodo also paused. "Eriador, Rhovanion, the Misty Mountains—or the Hithaeglir, if that helps, the Anduin, the Emyn Muil, Mordor, and Gondor."

"And all of the land matched what was on the map?"

"Certainly."

No, there's really nothing 'certain' about this case.

"Okay..."

"John?" Molly's hesitant voice cut in behind them. "You might ask him about the date."

John glanced at her, puzzled at the odd suggestion, but a sigh from the client distracted him.

"Please, Miss Molly, not again," the young man muttered.

John's eyes darted between the pair. "Why?" he demanded. "What's the date?"

"It really has no bearing on the problem at hand," was the English tutor's prim retort.

"It might," Molly returned. "Please tell him?"

"Master Homes didn't seem to think so," he returned dryly.

"He's working," she explained. "He's like that when he's working."

Now John was getting curious despite himself. "What's the date?" he repeated.

Molly gave Frodo an imploring look. "Please tell him?" she coaxed.

With a frustrated sigh the client drew himself up very straight and returned, "It is the fourteenth of Thrimidge, which is May by your reckoning, Third Age, 3019."

John froze, running the words through his mind. Surely he had misheard that...

"May?"

"Yes," Frodo bit back irritably.

No. No, not yes. Not at all!

Slowly John turned towards Molly. "How did you—" he began.

"He mentioned that it was cold for May," she answered softly.

The words seemed to echo through John's mind. "..Did you tell him?"

"I tried."

John turned back to the strange client. "May...like spring?"

The young man sighed impatiently. "Yes, Doctor Watson, it is spring," he agreed. "The return of life to the plants, the warming of the sun, the birth of—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it," John hastily cut him off.

"Good." The client nodded. "Then if we could return to the matter of this map—"

"No, wait," John held up a hand, not about to let this go, and especially not to go back to the bloody map! The boy politely obliged, as John had known he would. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. The differences in maps were difficult to reconcile, but it could be done, but this?

"Why do you think it's May? We'll start there."

The client gave him a puzzled look, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then paused and closed it again, studying the man beside him. John (and Molly) waited.

Finally, what very hesitantly came out was, "I beg your pardon?"

"Why do you think it's May?" John repeated.

"...I - don't believe that I understand the question, Doctor Watson," the young man returned carefully. "I do not think that it is May at all; I know that it is May."

Did you honestly expect a different answer, John? demanded a scornful little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his flatmate. John glanced towards the real Sherlock, but thankfully he was bent over the table doing something with a pipette and kept his mouth shut.

He turned back to the client with a sigh. "Yeah, okay; but - what are the signs that you've seen that - tell you it's May?" Maybe that would come across as less hostile?

Again the young man frowned very hard at him, puzzling over the words. Several times it looked like he was about to speak, but he'd look away again until he found some other reason to frown at John. Eventually he spoke slowly: "The greening of the leaves in the trees and the gardens, the patterns in the stars, the passing of the heavier spring rains, the flowers in the gardens, the young families of fowl scattered through Minas Tirith, Pippin's birthday, Aragorn's coronation—"

"And have you seen any of these recently?"

The client side-eyed him suspiciously. "I had a look at the stars last night, Pippin's birthday was eleven days ago, Aragorn's coronation was but thirteen days ago—"

"Okay, but the trees? Flowers?"

Their client stared at him with a look of...pity? in his eyes. "Forgive me, Doctor Watson, but how do you not know these things? The greening at least you cannot mistake for anything else."

"True," John agreed. "When was the last time you saw them?"

Frodo sighed. "But five minutes before I sat down on that accursed bench."

A snort escaped John at that description.

At first the client just stared him down with great dignity, but then he also chuckled, sheepishly. "I suppose that is rather an exaggeration," he admitted. "But I will be surprised if it is not destroyed within a day of my return."

"Yeah, maybe," John agreed. Five minutes? How?!

Molly was looking from one to the other in confusion. "What bench?"

John glanced at her. "Oh, you're not going to believe this."

For the next several minutes he (and Frodo very reluctantly) quietly told her the whole story, all the way down to the return to Camden. By the time it was finished the poor pathologist looked as confused as John felt.

"And you say that all you did was sit on a bench?"

"Yes, mistress," the client sighed, absently tracing the neckline of his shirt with a finger. He quirked a tiny smile at her. "It really is a most alarming turn of events."

"Yes," she murmured, thinking. "And you don't know why?"

He gave her a discouraged smile. "Meaning no disrespect to Master Homes' abilities, but if I knew why I doubt I'd be here."

"No. No, of course not," she hastily agreed. "But, um, were you, maybe... Wh-when you..stood up— in Camden did you feel dizzy or nauseous, or did you maybe have a headache or anything?"

"Perhaps a little, but I believe it was simply the strangeness of it all," the young man admitted quietly. "Why?"

"Well, you don't exactly look like someone who's coming off of a high," Molly smiled sheepishly.

Frodo paused, blinked, and then echoed tiredly, "A high?"

"It's another word for using drugs," John explained.

The young man blinked again, and then jolted as if he'd heard a glass shatter, rocking the stool he was perched on a little. "That's what Master Lestraad meant?!"

"Uh, probably, yeah," John agreed.

Their client's face took on a look of irritation. After a moment he said carefully, "What is the purpose of 'drugs' and why is everyone convinced that I have used them?"

Doctor and pathologist exchanged a look.

John tried first. "Okay, first of all, 'drugs' actually has two meanings. The first one just means medicine; any sort of medicine that you might take when you are sick or injured."

The young man thought through that for a moment. "Draughts."

The old-fashioned word caught John completely off guard, and he stared at their odd client for a minute before confirming, "Yeah. Draughts."
"And other various compounds which healers tend to make."

"Y-eah."

"As long as they're actually for healing purposes and not - well, other things," Molly added.

The client blinked. "What other purpose would they—"

"Shut up!" Sherlock abruptly snarled from across the room.

The young man jumped and John and Molly exchanged a long-suffering look.

"We could take it to a conference room," John muttered.

The client, however, climbed off of his stool and marched—silently, John noted as the hair stood up on the back of his neck—over to Sherlock. (John followed with concern.) Drawing himself up with great dignity he began, "Master Homes, I do not understan—"

"That's why I gave you the dictionary," Sherlock snapped back, not looking up. "Please, feel free to take it with you when you leave!" he added sarcastically.

The client paused again, scowling. "I don—"

"What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded, now glaring at their client. "Did your 'people' deliberately bury your head in the sand the minute you were born?" The client paled, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stared back at the detective, right hand clenching into a fist at his side. "You clearly live in a farming community: hills, plains, and sparse woodland; nowhere near any sort of mountains or inaccessible area. Your accent is formal English, scholar, native, not a transfer. You live here. You should have vehicles driving through constantly. What do you morons do, run in fear every time a bicycle goes by?"

"Mister Homes," their client barked. "You believe me to be sheltered, but I assure you; I have travelled the breadth of Middle-Earth, on my own feet, for six months, and in that time I have never once seen anything like the machinery you seem to take for granted. I have visited places as... uncouth as Mordor and as elegant as Lothlórien and Minas Tirith, and I—" He froze, a strange look creeping over his face, mouth still open. Sherlock paused too, studying. The room remained that way for several seconds. Then slowly, in a much quieter and slightly lost tone, Frodo continued, "I have never - seen a car. Not even in the battle." His eyes sought Sherlock's.

John's mind honed instinctively on the battle. What battle?

"If anyone would have - known of your machinery..it would have been Sauron, who sends his spies throughout all the lands - yet he didn't. They would have told me. Surely," he turned to John, something like fear or desperation growing in the back of his eyes, "a metal box that size, hurling forward at that speed, would damage a horse, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah," John agreed.

"Obviously," Sherlock retorted.

"And yet he didn't use them," the youth murmured, again motionless, again staring at Sherlock.

Abruptly he spun to face John, the desperation in his eyes kindled to full flame. "Can you assure me that this is not a dream? Do you have evidence of that?"

John blinked at the sudden change, then offered a pinch while Sherlock, having clearly recovered from his own shock, began spewing out a dozen indicators (liberally sprinkled with scathing commentary on their client's intelligence) that they stood in reality.

The client instantly recoiled from John, muttering something about not wishing to deal with those consequences. With a shrug John lowered his hand and thought. After a few moments a rather devious idea came to mind.

"There is one thing that will prove, beyond a doubt, whether this is a dream or not."

Frodo looked at him warily. "Does it involve any form of pain?"

"No. It involves a fall."

The boy looked like he was taking measured breaths. "A fall," he echoed.

"Yeah. The way it was explained to me is that..." John paused, trying to think of the best wording. "Basically, when you're dreaming - when you're in a dream and you start falling you automatically wake up, right?"

The little creature hesitated, thinking. "I'm not certain about aa-tomatically, but yes, one does tend to waken when falling."

"Good." John began clearing a space at the end of the table. When the space looked big enough for the large feet he turned back to the little creature and, gesturing to the empty spot, said, "Would you mind climbing up here?"

Frodo eyed him warily. "Would you mind explaining your plan first?"

John found himself nodding approvingly. "You're going to stand on the table and fall backwards. I'll be right behind you to catch you. If this is a dream you'll go straight through my hands and keep falling until you wake up, right?"

"Likely," the client hesitated.

"The same if this is a hallucination?"

"I'm not certain what that is."

John sighed.

"It's when you see or hear something that isn't actually there," Molly answered instead.

Their client turned his attention to her. "If he isn't actually there then he won't be able to catch me."

"Well, yes," Molly agreed, "but at least you'll know he isn't real."

"...True."

"But if I catch you," John put in. "If you only fall a few feet and I catch you in my arms? Then I think we can safely say that this is reality."

"...True," the client agreed again. He scrutinised John thoughtfully whilst Sherlock scornfully commented on how ridiculous he was being. John was impressed to see that the little bloke not only managed to ignore Sherlock, but didn't even indicate that he'd heard the words, something which John knew well was very difficult to do. Finally though the boy murmured, "Very well," and carefully climbed up onto the table. John found himself staring at the sight of those feet in action. No one was ever going to believe this; not even on the blog!

Once in place the client threw an anxious look over his shoulder at John.

The doctor gave him a reassuring smile and held out his arms. "Ready."

Frodo nodded, then stood motionless for several seconds as if he was trying to prepare himself for the fall.

Poor sod. "I will catch you."

"Not if you aren't there," he murmured, and drawing a deep breath launched himself backwards. Mid-air the boy managed to twist himself around so that he would land on his hands and feet rather than his back. Consequently, when John easily caught their client he was immediately face to face with a pair of very wide blue eyes. The client stared back, mouth tightly shut, fear blossoming in his eyes as he silently dangled in John's grip.

"Okay," John smiled a patented doctorly reassurance smile. "Convinced?"

The client's breath was chugging out of his nostrils and John could feel him trembling. The doctor carefully set him on the ground and watched as the client slowly backed a few paces away. His gaze darted frantically around the room as if seeing his surroundings for the first time.

"Where am I?" His voice was shaking, poor bloke.

"London," John answered.

"No, please!" he exclaimed, throwing up a hand as if to ward off the words. "Please do not say it again. I am not there; I cannot be there! That is nowhere near Mordor! I cannot even find it on that map!" He was going to work himself into a fit in a minute.

John shook his head. "Molly, could you get me a glass of water?"

"What? Yes." And the pathologist scurried to find a cup while John cautiously moved toward the client and placed a hand on the small shoulder. The poor creature looked up at him in fear and John gave him another reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, mate," he murmured. "We'll figure this out."

"But he would have used them!" Frodo protested. "He sends his spies throughout every land; not even the Shire was left untouched and we are a peaceful people with few weapons and fewer warriors! You—!" His breath was coming even faster. "From what little I have seen of your machines and abilities you could have destroyed us all. Yet he took nothing? None of your weaponry or buildings?!" His voice was getting rather shrill.

"Okay. It's okay," John soothed, gently rubbing the shoulder.

"No, it is not," the boy protested.

"I know," John agreed quietly, "but right now I need it to be okay. I need you to breathe."

"Breathe?!"

"Yeah." John kept his voice low and firm, but understanding. "Just breathe with me, okay? Breathe in through your nose for three seconds, then hold it."

"You're mad," John heard him mutter under his breath.

"No, I'm a doctor," John smirked, and the client flushed at being heard. "Now, can you work with me? Breathe in through the nose... Good. Nice deep breath, one, two, three...hold it. One, two, three, and now let it out through your mouth one, two, three, four, five, six. Good. Now, again." The patient gave him a dirty look but dutifully drew in another breath. "Just like that," John praised. "Good. Thanks, Molly," he added, taking the requested glass of water from the young woman. "Just keep breathing, Frodo. Relax."

"Relax," the client scoffed, breathing out.

"You're doing fine."

"No, I'm not," he was calmly informed. "I'm going mad."

John bit back an amused smile. "No, you're not. We just proved that, remember?"

Frodo's breathing became a little more pronounced again.

"Easy, easy. In through the nose," John corrected. "One, two, good." The patient's breathing regulated again.

"This is ridiculous!" the young man breathed out irritably as he continued the exercise. John chuckled a little at the sneaky technique. The stubborn bloke definitely wasn't going to make things easy for them.

After a few minutes of this John finally felt it safe to offer the patient the glass of water. Said patient eyed it suspiciously and then, again on the out-breath, demanded to know what was in it.

"Just water," John reassured him, feeling a little alarmed that the patient immediately suspected a simple glass of water, something that in most cultures would be deemed ordinary courtesy. "I would never put something in your drink without telling you about it."

The sceptical look John was given made the doctor wince. What had the poor bloke gone through to make him react like that? He did, however, take the water. John noted with approval that he slowly sipped at the liquid, pausing at times to do the breathing exercise again. He always faltered though the instant his gaze fell on Sherlock or any of the lab equipment.

That's..really not good.

It was just on the tip of his tongue to suggest that they head back to Baker St where the little bloke could at least rest a bit when the young man looked up at him, face still pale and breath shaky, but with a determined set to his eyes and jaw.

"I-I need a map - of Middle-Earth," he managed.

John groaned. "Look, mate, we've been over this—"

"Forgive me, Doctor Watson—"

"John," he protested, thoroughly tired of that little bit of 'common courtesy'.

"—but all that we have proven is that you need a new map," the client continued as if he hadn't heard. "Something very strange may have happened in that tower, but it does not change the lands."

Except that according to you it did.

"And perhaps I do not need the whole of the world, but I do need a map which shows both London and Mordor."

John felt sorry for the little bloke, but still! "I don't think you're going to find it, mate," he said gently.

The boy gazed up at him, fear warring with determination. "I must find it," he returned. "Lands do not simply vanish within an instant. A day, yes," he added. "I will grant you a day, but never within five minutes."

"A day?" John asked sceptically.

"Númenor," Frodo returned.

John nearly asked, even opened his mouth to ask, then closed it again deciding that he was better off not knowing (at least yet).

"Do you happen to know a scholar who would have access to such a thing, or perhaps of an archive or — a library!" he suddenly became enthusiastic. "Surely a library larger than the hospittle one upstairs would have maps of foreign kingdoms. Do you have access to a larger library?"

He looked so hopeful that John hated to dash his hopes again, but... "I do, but if your — er, spymaster couldn't find us how would we be able to find him?"

"We must at least try, Doctor Watson. I cannot simply sit here another minute. You tell me that my—my life has disappeared, my family, my home; and I cannot accept that. Please, whilst your friend is looking for the reason why I came here might we look for a map?"

John sighed. "I guess we can try."

-0-0-0-

A/N: Any faulty world history information is deliberate because I didn't know how much ancient history an army doctor would actually know right off the top of his head. Any faulty Middle-Earth history or scientific knowledge is my fault and if you can give me the correct information I'd be happy to receive it. I made up Pippin's birthday and the biology of hobbits.

In case anyone was wondering, yes, John is thinking of the 'kick' from Inception for the 'test'. The film came out in July, 2010 and this story starts in October 2010. Y-ES! Hooray for real-world timing!

The title is taken from a music title in Robert Downey Jr.'s Sherlock Holmes.

"not even the Shire was left untouched" - Frodo is thinking specifically of the Black Riders that originally chased him out of the Shire.

Frodo's little twist in the air actually comes from author Llinos. It seemed like such a perfectly natural trait in a hobbit that all of 'my' hobbits do it too.

A/N2: I only have partial chapters typed up from here on, so this story is no longer even on any sort of attempt at a posting schedule. I'll just post when I get a chapter finished. Take care all; I'll see you later. Merry Christmas, and I hope that you all have a good year too.