Chapter 12 - Sam's Tale
"So, we finally come t' th' top of th' tow'r—"
"Came."
A pause.
"Aye, sir. An' there weren't much t'—"
"Wasn't!"
Another pause.
"—Much t' see, seemin'ly. Naught but a few alcoves an' holes where they kep' extra weapons an' such, an' he showt us a couple o' these, but Mr Belecthor said as far as he could see th' only real thing t' see up there were the view—"
"Was the view."
John shook his head a little as he entered the room. "Thought you'd be a little further than that," he commented lightly. The trio looked up at this, Sam in surprise, Sherlock with bland disinterest, and Frodo with a look of relief.
"Jon, Master Walitch," the younger hobit quickly rose from the sofa and nod-bowed to them politely. (And Sam is doing it too, John noted with a little alarm. Even touching his forehead as if he was tipping a hat! He could already feel a headache forming.) "Welcome back," Frodo was continuing. "I'll just - be downstairs if you need me." He turned and nodded to Sherlock as well, but Sherlock looked - well, borderline affronted, actually.
"What for?" he retorted.
Frodo, caught mid-bow, looked up in surprise. "I was given to understand that I could only stay until Doctor Watson returned," he answered a little warily.
Sherlock shrugged. "No need. You've proven yourself tractable."
John's heart sank. Sherlock's tone was that terrible, casual one which John hated so much because it always meant that the great detective's wonderfully clever brain had said something that he honestly thought would be nice.
Sure enough, Frodo's mouth thinned considerably, and Sam scowled.
"Er, Sherlock?" John tried. "That - wasn't actually a compliment."
Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. "Wasn't it?"
"Uh, no," John returned. "No, most people don't want to hear that about themselves."
A grunt was the detective's only response, and Frodo gave John a rather tired look.
"Sam?" Walitch interrupted. "Could I have a word with you before I leave?"
"I reckon so," Sam nodded, but he eyed his charge sternly first. "You'll be alright?"
Frodo gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm fine Sam," he returned. "Go on."
Sam nodded and the two moved toward the kitchen door. John noticed that Sherlock's gaze followed them, but to the doctor's surprise his flatmate said nothing.
What are you playing at this time, Sherlock?
Deciding to ignore that problem for now John turned to Frodo. "So, did you get anything done while we were gone?"
"Yes," the hobit nodded. "Mr Holmes took care of all of Sam's samples, except for the clothing, of course; I made tea, which you and Master Walitch are welcome to drink also; and Sam has reached the point in his account where we arrived at the top of the tower, which you likely heard as you came up the stairs."
John paused, smile frozen in place. "Sorry, samples?" he repeated, hoping very much that Frodo didn't mean—
The hobit looked surprised. "Yes, the blood and —other such?" he flushed a little.
John Watson was going to murder his flatmate.
"Did he?" he returned tightly, his smile becoming even more fixed as he gave said flatmate a look which the soldiers once under his command would have dubbed his 'Drop and give me fifty now, soldier!' look.
Sherlock on the other hand, ignored this, of course, seemingly fascinated with the conversation between Yussef Walitch and Sam.
Frodo's gaze flicked from one man to the other, and his own mouth thinned again. "Do I understand correctly that the actions of Mr Holmes were unnecessary?" The high voice was icily polite.
"No. No, I'm sure they were necessary," John returned quickly, still not looking away from his flatmate. "It's just that I thought that we'd be doing it together. With Molly. In hospital." The soldier's anger (and voice) mounted a little higher (and louder) with each half-sentence, his words becoming more clipped.
"Remind me again just what is the half-life of pentobarbital, Doctor,?" Sherlock sneered.
John pursed his lips, waiting, trying to reign in his righteous anger before their rather observant guest realised how careless Sherlock had been with Sam's health.
Sherlock just sat there with that look of, Well? I'm waiting. (for you to punch me in the face.)
Finally, with an unconscious squaring of his shoulders John returned, "Okay, fine. Fine!" And it wasn't, of course, but Sherlock would never listen. Leaning a little closer though he lowered his voice and added, "Next time, wait for me. Yeah?" Without waiting for a response (which he saw anyway as Sherlock rolled his eyes) he turned back to Frodo. The hobit was eyeing both of them anxiously. Just out of his peripheral John could see the unfortunate bodyguard still chatting with Walitch, his ever-present sword hanging idly at his hip and catching the light as he moved.
"Jon, did he harm Sam?" Frodo's worried question recalled John's attention at once.
"Er, no," he returned, blustering a little. "No, I'm sure he's alright; I just wanted to be there, like I was for you, when I talked you through it. If you're worried though I can take a look at the puncture area later." (Never mind if they were worried, he wanted to see it!)
Frodo nodded, but he still did look a little worried. "Do you mind if I ask you something personal?"
John shrugged. "Go ahead."
"What are your thoughts on bloodletting?"
The doctor blinked, trying to process the question. Had he— How had he— Had he even heard that right?
"Sorry, what?" he finally tried.
"What are your thoughts on bloodletting?" the hobit repeated patiently.
Yep. He'd heard that right.
He drew a breath. "Personally I believe that it was a rather barbaric practice and I don't see how any well-meaning doctor could look at the results and ever think that it was a good idea." He watched the hobit's face for some sign of agreement, disagreement. This could be rather a sticky point, after all.
Instead, the upturned face seemed to be scanning him for lies again.
Okay, fine. Let's turn the tables a bit. "You?"
"I agree," the hobit returned immediately.
"You do?" John was surprised.
"Yes, completely," but then Frodo added, "except for the part about 'barbearic'; I'm not certain what that word means." His hand dropped to the book which had been referenced so often that morning that it was now tucked into his belt for instant access, right next to the purse. "Is it spelt the way it sounds? For it sounds as if it should be, b-a-r-b-e-a-r-i-c."
"Eh..leave out the E. B-a-r-b-A-r-i-c."
"Ah. Thank you."
John eyed the hobit with some curiosity as Frodo hunted his word. "It's a - pretty old word," he offered casually. Like, from the Romans, wasn't it? Maybe even the Greeks? A medieval person really ought to know it...
"It doesn't seem to say," Frodo returned absently after a few seconds. "Whilst we are on the matter of spelling, my name is spelt F-r-o-d-o B-a-g-g-i-n-s, and Sam's is spelt S-a-m-w-i-s-e G-a-m-g-e-e.
John blinked. "—Okay. Thanks."
"If you'll pardon the question," the hobit did look a little apologetic as he looked up at John, "might I ask how you spell your own name?"
"J-o-h-n W-a-t-s-o-n."
"H," the hobit mumbled, looking thoughtful. "Thank you."
"So... what brought that up?" John asked.
"Master Holmes, as you might expect," Frodo returned wryly. "He somehow "deduced" by the way I said 'Homes' that I was spelling his name incorrectly. Which I was," he added quickly.
"How were you saying it?" John frowned.
"Homes."
John's frown deepened. "A-nd how are you saying it now?"
"Holmes."
John hesitated. "Gotta say, mate; I can't really hear any difference."
Frodo's smile was a bit thin as he returned, "Neither can I, to be honest. How would you say it?"
"Holmes," John shrugged.
"If you would all stop chatting until we've finished!" a disgusted Sherlock suddenly shouted. "We had just reached the top of your 'tower' and your master was about to be violently thrust into the twenty-first century!"
John felt everyone in the room turn and look at his flatmate in disbelief and had to resist the urge to bury his head in his hands. Of course. Of course Sherlock had done that! Honestly, John was a little surprised that he'd let the conversations go on this long.
Actually, yeah... That was really unlike Sherlock. What was he up to now?
Surprisingly, it was Frodo who broke the silence as he said, almost apologetically, "Mr Holmes does have a point, for I do need to have a long conversation with you, Sam, and we cannot do so until Mr Holmes is satisfied with your witness."
"..Aye, sir, thet's true 'nough," Sam agreed reluctantly. Then he seemed to return to his conversation with Yussef Walitch.
Frodo gave John another one of those nods. "If you will excuse me, Master— er, John," he corrected himself, ears pinking a little, and then he wandered over to Sam and Walitch.
John shook his head a little and then turned his own attention to his flatmate. Sherlock was also watching Frodo with a deep scowl on his face. John heard a laugh come from their client and a lightly mocking, "As if you don't, Sam Gamgee?"
"Sherlock?" John tried.
"What did you find?" Sherlock immediately returned, still not looking away from the trio.
"Yussef Walitch didn't see either of them arrive," John returned promptly. "His assistant pointed Sam out; Walitch claims that the assistant didn't see them arrive either. He tried to help Sam find us, he let Sam stay at his house overnight," he paused and then added, "Sam is a bodyguard."
Sherlock snorted. "Please, John, even you can't believe that."
John drew in a deep breath, again willing himself not to punch the arrogant git. "No sign of physical trauma, believes in magic, extremely protective of Frodo, displayed some rather unusual signs of past trauma—"
"Clearly," Sherlock agreed. "Give me the details later."
John blinked. "O-kay."
"You wrote it down?"
"Yeah."
"Good." And then in a much louder, quicker, and obnoxiously superior voice, "Camden Market will be opening in approximately half an hour. You'll all be in touch, see you later, bye!"
John glanced over to see the hobits looking at Sherlock askance again, but Yussef Walitch checked his watch again and his eyes widened.
"If you run you should just make it on time," Sherlock added snidely as the vendor flew around saying quick goodbyes and assuring Sam that he'd check in again. As he ran out the door Frodo turned back to Sherlock with a look of incredulity, but before he could say anything John hurried to intervene (and get some information of his own).
"So, before we get started again do you mind showing me where Sherlock took Sam's blood?"
Distracted, (You're welcome, Sherlock) Frodo nodded at once and led him to a chair pulled up to the kitchen table, sitting in front of an unusually empty area (for their flat, at least). John eyed it tiredly and then said, "Actually, I meant on him. Was it his arm?"
"Aye, sir," came a rustic voice from behind him, and John turned to find that Sam had apparently followed as well without John realising it. The hobit was pulling up his sleeve to reveal a neat bandage surrounded by an iodine circle with one long jerky line streaking towards his wrist.
John had to keep his entire person carefully neutral as he held out a hand and said, "May I see it?"
Sam hesitated, and Frodo quickly put in, "He says that he doesn't believe in bloodletting."
Sam looked up sharply. "Y'don't?" he asked.
"Nope," John shook his head. "Terrible practice, really." And then, "Wh-at brought this up?"
Sam flushed. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but Mr Holmes over there says as you're a—
"That!" Sherlock barked.
Sam closed his eyes as if frustrated. When he opened them again: "You're a doctor an' doctors let blood out o' folks' bodies."
"Two hundred years ago!" Sherlock snapped back.
You have got to be bloody joking.
Longing to cuss his flatmate out properly for this one John instead drew a deep breath and put on his best reassuring bedside manner. "He's right, Sam," he said quietly. "We haven't practiced bloodletting for a while now, and no doctor worth his... uh, worthy of being a doctor would even think of the practice these days."
"They wouldn'?" Sam asked anxiously.
"No. They wouldn't," John repeated.
The hobit gazed hard at him for a moment, and then with a single nod held out his arm to be examined.
-0-0-0-
Thankfully the exam was quick; Sherlock had actually done a good job with both taking and cleanup (though that didn't let him off the hook at all as far as John was concerned), and soon they were all seated in their respective chairs, John was caught up to where the others were, and Sam began again:
"So, Mr Belecthor were a-show—"
"Was," Sherlock interrupted.
Sam paused. "Showin' us th' view, an' Mr Frodo, he took t' it right away, f'r he's got more than a helpin' of Took blood in him,"
Huh. There's that Took blood again.
"an' has hisself a—"
"Himself!"
Oh, great. And now you're six today and can't stand bad grammar!
"—a bit of a head for heights, y' might say. But me, I'm a Gamgee an' a Goodchild, an' we don' fool about near heights nohow—"
"Nohow?" Sherlock scoffed.
Sam's jaw worked a little. "Aye, sir. An' I don' like heights." He looked back at the fireplace again, as if he could see the story there. "So Mr Belecthor an' I took t' talkin'—"
"Took?"
"Again, Mr Holmes, it is Shire-speak," Frodo put in from the sofa. "More than half of our people speak in this manner."
"And?" Sherlock returned. "Just because they do it doesn't make it right!" Then when Frodo opened his mouth, "You might not say it, but you think it too; don't bother to deny it."
John cussed inwardly as Frodo drew a deep breath and then let it back out slowly. Bloody egotistical smart-arse geniuses! Sherlock! Just leave it! It's not a bone you need to worry!
"Sherlock—" he began.
"You would be correct in assuming this, Master Holmes, if you had said I thought it," Frodo corrected. "For I will not deny that such things bothered me when I was a child. Since then I have grown up and have learnt to listen to the heart of a matter rather than judge the speaker for speaking as they were taught by loving and stern parents."
John's mouth snapped shut as his heart lodged itself somewhere around his toes. Sherlock was volatile enough already today; how was he going to react to this?!
"Beggin' your pardon, sir," Sam cut back in humbly. "But whilst Mr Belecthor an' I talked Mr Frodo went off by hisself an' did a little explorin', an' thet's when he—he disappeared."
"Is it?" Sherlock returned icily, still glaring at Frodo but surprisingly doing nothing else.
"Aye, sir. I never thought anything could happen to him, being so high up, an' in a guard tower, an' Minas Tirith an' all, so Mr Belecthor an' I talked for—for a good while. He were a-tellin' me—"
"Was," Sherlock interrupted, proving that Frodo's little speech had done nothing.
It was really odd though that he was letting Frodo get away with that...
"—Tellin' me 'bout his family an' such, an' what he did when he weren't bein' a guardsman, an'—"
"Wasn't."
"Aye," Sam snarled. "But th' long an' th' short o' it is, thet's when Mr Frodo didn' come back." He glared at Sherlock as if trying to drive the point home.
(Poor sod would figure out soon enough that didn't work.)
"Approximately how long was it before you realised your master was missing?"
Master again. A bit of overkill, isn't that? Behind them he heard a huff and turned to see Frodo giving Sherlock a disapproving eye.
Sam's gaze shifted to the rug as he frowned thoughtfully. "I don' reckon as I could tell y'—"
"That," Sherlock mumbled.
"—f'r certain, but.. t'were long enough—"
"It was."
"—thet both th' guardsman an' meself felt uncomfortable as he—"
"That."
"—hadn't come back yet. I reckon..." The bodyguard's face flushed scarlet as he looked up. "Twen'ty minutes?" he offered.
Yeah, I'd blush too if I was a bodyguard.
"And then?" Sherlock prodded.
"Well, we looked f'r him, o'course!" Sam returned. "We searched th' whole top o' th' tower, pokin' through all o' th' nooks an' alcoves an' corners, an' then worked our way back down th' tow'r, a-lookin' ever'wheres. Then when we—"
"Everywhere, not everwheres!" Sherlock scowled.
Sam scowled back. "When we couldn' find him we had t' tell th' captain o' th' garrison," he said more firmly, "an' he had th' entire company out; a-lookin' under beds, in cupboards an' chests, an' every corner we could think of!" Sam flushed again and broke off, twisting around to look anxiously at a decidedly pink-eared Frodo. John bit back a chuckle. "Beggin' your pardon, sir," Sam mumbled, "but y' had us that worried, y' did, an' he had t' be told—"
"I understand," Frodo interrupted. "I would have done the same if it had been you."
Sam nodded, but he was still red-faced as he turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Right," he began again, almost as if trying to shake off that subject. "So, so we looked ever'wheres, as I said, but we couldn' find him!"
"Obviously," Sherlock sneered. "And it's everywhere."
Sam's jaw worked a little. "Well, beggin' your pardon, sir, but it weren't very obvious t' us!" he retorted.
"Wasn't."
"—Th' only obvious thing were thet my master were missin'! Thet's all what matt'ered."
"Was, and that!"
"We didn' know where he'd got to, we didn' know how he'd got there once we found him; finally we didn' have a choice no longer; we had t'—"
"Double-negative."
The hobit's face flamed even redder, as if he'd burst if Sherlock said one more word. "We had go tell th' king as he were missin'."
"That he was missing," Sherlock spat back.
"Why the king?" John interrupted, before Sam decided to attack the consulting prick.
Sam turned to him (deliberately putting his back to Sherlock, John thought). "Him an' Mr Frodo are friends, an' he'd want t' be told right away so as he could help search bet'er. He's powerful protective like thet."
Protective? There's the pot calling the kettle black.
"What king?" Sherlock interrupted.
"King Elessar Telcontar," was the immediate rejoiner.
Okay, that matches Frodo's tale too. John wrote the name down and made a checkmark beside it.
"Never heard of him," Sherlock returned
The hobit blinked. "Well..well, no, I don't reckon y' would, for he were crowned—"
"Was crowned."
"—naught but fourteen—well, fifteen days ago now, an' he comes from th' North, so, no sir, I don' reckon y' would ha' heard o' him. But if'n y recall, he's—"
"If!"
"—the Captain what come up th' Pelagir with all th' Northern Rangers an' th' captives from th' ships an' turnt th' tide o' th' bat'le of th' Pelennor Fields, an' then rode out t' challenge the Dark Lord hisself, with Gandalf, an' Prince Imrahil, an' Eomer King, an' they must ha' made a splendid ridin' t' see, sir, they must ha'; with their spears a-shinin' an' their mail gleamin'!" Sam's eyes were shining themselves at the picture. Was this a memory? Or, at least an implanted one? "Seven thousands, their comp'ny made, an' very tall they all were too, an' proud, an' grim of face—"
"Facts, please, not poetry," the detective cut in brusquely. "There's no reason to clutter the evidence with all these words. You were about to tell this 'king' of yours about the disappearance."
Sam blinked, jolted out of his reverie.
"Right then," he stuttered, and...and was he blushing? "We knew as we—"
"That."
"—had t' tell King Elessar, but..y'see, as I said, Mr Frodo don' like a lot o' fuss—"
"Doesn't like a lot of fuss."
Sam twisted back to Frodo, definitely blushing now. "Beggin' y'r pardon, sir," the hobit muttered, staring shamefacedly at an area of carpet somewhere near Frodo's feet.
Frodo gave his...friend?...servant?...bodyguard?...a tiny smile, murmuring, "Don't worry about it, Sam."
Sam nodded unhappily, turning back to face John and Sherlock. "I knew as Mr Frodo wouldn' like th' fuss if'n th' king came out a-lookin' f'r him—"
"If," Sherlock muttered.
"—'specially if'n he'd jes—"
"If!"
"—jes' took sick an' slipped off quiet-like. He's been known t' do thet a time or two a'fore—" He broke off again, his face flaming even redder. "Beggin' your pardon, sir," he muttered, looking toward Frodo again, but not fully at the younger hobit. "I shouldn'a thought it, but I couldn' think what else to think."
"It is true," Frodo admitted, looking resigned.
"Well, I...I convinced Mr Belecthor t' jes' go back up th' tower with me, jes' one more time. Mebbe.. mebbe y'd left a note or som'mat as we might've overlooked in th' fuss, a-lookin' for a hobbit as it were an' not a piece o' paper. I-I hoped." His gaze darted up to meet Frodo's, then away again, missing a sad smile from the younger hobit. "F'rgive me, sir," he whispered.
"There's nothing to forgive, Sam," the other hobit returned quietly. "I understand."
"But it ain't," Sam protested, swiping at his face angrily. "'Never leave your master', thet were my right motto. Ever'time I leave y'—. Ever'time," he murmured more softly, his face now paling.
Right. John was willing to bet that there were a few answers hiding behind that broken comment. Sherlock must have thought so too, for he was studying Sam intently again.
"Not every time," Frodo corrected softly. "Only since we left the Shire. And really, Sam, that part is supposed to be over. You had no reason to think that anything would happen, and no one would ever blame you. I doubt that even Gandalf could have known what would happen, so stop berating yourself, Sam Gamgee. You never did quite made it to 'wizard' after all," he finished with a wry half-smile. Sam's cheeks reddened a little (honestly, barely enough to be noticeable compared to the other times) and he returned the smile.
Right. Time to distract Sherlock.
John consulted his notes. "So, Sam, you said that you convinced this...Belecthor to go back up to the area where Frodo disappeared and look for a letter," he prompted.
Sam twisted around again to look at the two men. "Aye, sir," he nodded, "an' we searched all over thet place a-lookin', an' eventually we come t' this one alcove—we'd search'd all th' others too, o'course—an' I set down...I set down..." he went silent, staring into the unlit fireplace.
"And?" Sherlock prompted impatiently.
"It don' make a lick o' sense!" Sam whispered, and John noted with alarm that the edges of his voice sounded like they were fraying. For the first time during his narrative the hobit lifted a forgotten mug of tea to his lips and drank.
Just like Walitch said.
He glanced over at Frodo. The younger hobit was watching his bodyguard sympathetically.
"And?" Sherlock demanded, for the first time intent on the narrative itself and not the grammar.
Slowly Sam put down the mug. "I set down on th' bench in there," he answered shakily. "I still can't think f'r th' life o' me why; jes'— I did. T'were only for a moment, but we were a-talkin', meanin' Mister Belecthor an' me, an' then he come up with one las' place t'— t' look, an' I-I stood up, an', an'," His voice died away again.
"Oh, just say it!" Sherlock exploded.
Sam nearly jumped at the words and then spewed out, "I stood up in Camden Mark'et an' ever'thing were wrong an' differ'nt! There were - brick under my feet instead o' th' stones, an' a stinkin', festerin', river on m' left, an' the sky above, an' chill an' all, an ever'thing what had been 'rount me —Mr Belecthor, th' tower, th' bench— all of it! T'were all gone! Folk were millin' about as had no business being near a guard tow'r, an th' river smelt as if it had been runnin' through Mordor itself! An' there were a market! An'— The things they were selling! I don't know, I can't explain it! But I were there! I mean here. I mean—" Sam broke off, close to hyperventilation.
"Breathe, mate," John coaxed. The hobit didn't seem to hear him.
And then Frodo was there, placing a single hand on his bodyguard's shoulder. Poor Sam whipped around, eyes as wide and round as marbles, clutching desperately at the arm attached to the hand.
"Steady, Sam," Frodo murmured. "Stop and take a breath, there's a good lad," (as Sam did what he was told, still gripping Frodo's arm with whitening knuckles).
"But, Mr Frodo—"
"Sh, shh," the other hobit soothed. "Take another breath. It will help. You know it will."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir," Sam gulped in the required breath, "but that was a'fore, when majick 'least made some sense! But how'm I goin' t' go home an' tell Rosie what happen'd? Tell my Gaffer? Mr Merry an' Mr Pippin won' even b'lieve this!"
"I know, I know," Frodo murmured. "Breathe for me, Sam-lad. Come on."
"And then what happened?" Sherlock demanded sharply, dragging the pair back to the present interrogation.
"Then?" Sam echoed, looking around to him in confusion.
Frodo scowled. "Master Holmes, truly, he needs a minute," he said firmly. Sherlock just turned his piercing gaze on Sam.
That hobit blinked a couple of times as if resetting his thoughts (or at least, so John hoped) and then said rather wobbily, "No, no, Mr Frodo. I'm alright. After all," he gave Sherlock a grim look, "we need t' talk."
"We most certainly do," Frodo agreed, still giving Sherlock an icy glare.
Sam let go of Frodo's arm and Frodo took a step back, but still stayed behind his companion, clearly ready to give support at a moment's notice.
Sam drew a deep breath. "Right," he began again. "I stood up, an' there were Camden Market —though, o' course I didn' know what t'were called then— but I reckoned as it must be where Mr Frodo were. So I start'd a-calling for him, an' Mr Yussef, he heard me an' he offered t' help me, f'r he said as he'd jus' seen Mr Frodo—" He broke off with a puzzled expression, turning around again to look at the other hobit. "—Actually, he said as y' were a-lookin' for me, which y' shouldn' a-been doin' that."
A light flush stole into Frodo's cheeks and ears. "I wasn't really," he admitted. "When I first found myself in Camden I was startled and I-I— called for you."
"Oh. Well, I understand that," Sam nodded. "I called f'r Mr Belecthor."
An embarrassed chuckle escaped Frodo and he nodded.
Sam turned back to the two men. "Right," he tried again. "An' Mr Yussef took me to a place, a-a booth, I reckon, but it had a machine in it what could make y'r voice louder, an', an' he called all over th' market as, as..." Sam drifted off, thinking.
"That!" Sherlock snapped. Sam seemed to ignore this.
"He asked Mr Frodo t' please come back t' th' orange juice booth for—well, for I were there," he mused. "An' then we went back t' Mr Yussef's booth an' waited, but..y' didn' come."
"We were probably at Bart's Lab by then," Frodo murmured, almost to himself.
"T' which?" Sam wondered, turning to look at.. his master.
"I'll explain later," Frodo assured him.
Sam looked at him searchingly and then nodded. John winced. That was the sort of conversation they'd been trying to break up, and how likely was it that Sherlock would let that slide? But Sam seemed a little calmer now, and John wondered if for once Sherlock's pushing of the client had actually worked in their favour.
"And then?" Sherlock pressed.
"Well, he didn' come, an' after a while, an hour 'r so, I reckon, Mr Yussef let his man take a break, an' when he got back we went to... to..." He paused, frowning hard as if trying to remember. "Mr Yussef had a hunch as y' work wi' someone," he said slowly. "He said a— y' were a de-tec-tiv, an' like as not y' worked for these folk, so.. we went t' the place they all worked an' asked for y', an' th' lady what were behind th' desk said as they don' work with y', but they take complaints about y'."
A snort escaped John this time. Sherlock gave him a dirty look, but John couldn't help it. He had to ask Greg if he'd heard anything about this! They take complaints about him!
Sam watched him in surprise for a few seconds before continuing, "but, she did tell us where y' live, an' so we come here—"
"Came!"
"—An' we knocked an' rang, but y' didn' come. So we went an' found a differnt door an' knocked on it, an' th' lady what answered—"
"Who answered!"
"—Mistress Hudson, said as you'd gone out—"
"That!"
"—an' she didn' know when you'd be back. So we went back t' Camden an' packed up Mr Yussef's booth f'r th' night, an' then he invit'ed me t' stay wi' him until we found y', an' now here it is, next morn, an' here we are," he finished with a shrug, looking to the detective.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed into what John liked to call analysis mode. For about three seconds the room was completely silent.
"At any point during your day did you ever have a sensation of euphoria, paranoia, headache, burning or aching, unusual pain anywhere, floating, disassociation, dry mouth, itching, blurred vision, unusual weakness or lethargy, heart palpitations, mood swings, fluctuations in temperature, dizziness, nausea, or blackouts?"
John was surprised, but pleased. It was just the sort of question that he himself would have asked. (Though not quite in such a long string, of course.) But the little 'middle-earthian' just flinched at the rapid onslaught of words and stared at Sherlock in complete bewilderment.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir?" he tried.
Sherlock's nostrils flared as he drew in a single irritated breath—
"Sam?" The word was soft, and everyone looked up to see Frodo slipping the little dictionary over Sam's shoulder. Sam automatically reached up to take it.
"John," Frodo said quietly, "since I am not allowed to speak with Sam, would you be kind enough to explain to him what Mr Holmes means and how to use that book?" And the hobit retreated back to the sofa.
A faint half-smile twitched John's lips, but he nodded. Apparently Frodo trusted him, at least with this. Sam, on the other hand, scowled up at John, waiting for an explanation. Still smiling the doctor placed a (careful) hand on top of the hobit's own (and the book).
"Actually, why don't I just explain what he meant, and then later I, or Frodo, can show you how to use this book? It will make things go quicker that way, and maybe a little more smoothly."
Sam appeared to think that over for a minute, and then turned to Frodo, almost as if he was asking for permission...
...And Frodo did, in fact, give a small nod, not looking at Sam (actually, not looking at anybody, really) before Sam turned back to John and agreed.
Translation took a while, again, and the answer was a resounding "No," every time Sam finally understood what was being asked (other than 'itching', but what Sam described just sounded like general everyday itches rather than a symptom of overdose or being drugged). Then followed the technical questions, going back over what Sherlock saw as crucial points in the story; and the nuances, the meanings of words, the timing questions, just, everything. And then finally, when it felt like John had been sitting in the same chair taking notes for more than three hours:
"What's the date?" Sherlock demanded.
John, who had slumped at some point, sat up straighter. Here it was; the lynchpin on which the whole structure held (or didn't). (At least as far as John personally thought, but who knew? Maybe Sherlock had a different theory.)
To his surprise Sam, who had been relatively calm during the entire cross-examination, turned bright red again and gave Sherlock a look of pure venom, before instantly looking down at the carpet between his toes and answering in a clipped voice, "It's th' fifteenth o' Thrimidge, 1419 by Shire Reckoning, or if'n you're one o' th' Big Folk, Third Age, 3019, sir."
And there it is. Perfect match to Frodo's tale. Minus one day.
"And what did they tell you it was?" Sherlock fired back with that cocky smirk that just screamed, Punch me!
Another venomous split-second glance was shot at the detective before the gaze was dutifully returned to the carpet. There was a bit of a pause this time before Sam answered, "Th' twent'y-seventh o' OcTOEber, two thousand ten. Sir."
"What?" he heard Frodo gasp.
"And your conclusions based on observation?"
The demand finally seemed to be the stroke that broke the camel's back as Sam's head came fully up, venom and raw fear on full display in those wild, wide eyes. "IT AIN'T FADIN'!" he shouted, as fierce as his high hobit voice could be (which was a little fiercer than you would normally think). "I don't care what y' say, 'r what th' trees look like, 'r anythin', Mr Sherlock! It's IMPOSSIBLE for a body t' lose five months by sittin' on a BENCH!"
"I agree," Sherlock returned.
Sam's mouth snapped shut and he eyed the detective suspiciously. "Y' do?" he finally demanded.
No 'sirring' this time, John noted.
"Certainly," Sherlock nodded, actually sounding sensible for once. Then he had to go and ruin it all by adding, "Of course, it's equally impossible for you to move from approximately six hundred feet up the side of a mountain to the bankside of Regent's Canal in an instant. So the real question is, what really happened in that tower?" He wasn't quite rubbing his hands together, but John could certainly hear the glee in his voice.
And that's if the tower ever existed in the first place, John added silently.
"Forgive the interruption," Frodo put in from the sofa, "but why are we discussing fading?"
"They say as it's fadin', Mr Frodo," Sam returned, looking frantically at his...employer. "Th' twent'y-seventh o'Wint'rfilth, fadin'!"
"What?!" Frodo actually jumped off of the sofa and bolted over to Sam.
"Aye, sir!" Sam jumped out of his chair as well, still looking wild.
"But that's impossible!" Frodo protested.
"I know!" Sam yelped. "O'course I know! I'm a gardener, born an' bred; I know th' seasons! But they all say as it's Wint'rfilth, an' what's more, by some devilry th' trees are actin' like it, too!"
Frodo paled. "I-I thought that they had blight," he stammered.
"Bligh—!" Sam almost chuckled at that, but it was a sound of borderline hysteria rather than humour. "Oh, no, sir," he returned, shaking his head. "No, beggin' your pardon, but they ain't blight'd. I looked! I thought as much meself, at firs', but there were a stand o' willows by Mr Yussef's booth, down by th' river, lookin' all golden and innocent-like, so I checked 'em! I looked for beet'les, an' rot, an' birds... I looked at th' roots, an' bark, examined th' leaves... Even near got meself a tellin'-off for checkin' th' trunk under th' bark, but there weren't a blessed thing! 'Twere a perfectly healthy stand o'willow trees a-gettin' ready for fadin'!"
"But that doesn't make any sense," Frodo protested. "It's spring! Yesterday was spring! And we haven't lost any time like that in any of our travels!"
"It's majick," Sam countered darkly, "an' I reckon th' wickedest sort o' majick there is at thet."
For an instant Frodo faltered, staring at his...gardener? Bodyguard? (John wasn't sure what to think now.) His face had paled even further, until it was more grey than pale (Not good!), and his fingers were picking rather twitchily at the embroidery on his shirtfront. Then he gave Sam a sickly sort of smile and said, "Well, I did know that, at least." Sam's answering smile was just as ill-looking.
"Magic is nothing more than a flimsy excuse that only the most uneducated and primitive of peoples use to explain their problems rather than attempting to find the real solution," Sherlock sneered.
Sam almost did an about face he spun around so fast (almost, not quite). "Now you see here!" he barked. "I reckon as you can talk t' me like that; I know as m' speech ain't 'zactly what y'd call 'educat'ed'—"
"Exactly!" Sherlock scoffed.
"—But y've got no call t' go talkin' t' Mr Frodo like that—"
"The quintessential servant and yes-man," Sherlock interrupted with a sneer. "Willing to take any blow as long as none of them fall on your master. But that's not exactly true, is it, Samwise?" Then in rapid-fire: "Handspun linen trousers and shirt, fine weave, fine stitching, expertly tailored to fit. Could be indicative of a servant or valet out with his master for the morning, but your surcoat is silk, and different heraldry than his," (meaning Frodo). He jabbed a finger at the embroidery at Sam's neckline. "Oak leaves, stars, and ivy; an interesting choice. Oak for faith or endurance, ivy for enduring friendship, and a star at the exact point as his;" (jabbing a finger at Frodo) "a symbol of honour, achievement, hope, but the placement ties your honour and accomplishment to his; no doubt the self-same accomplishment he believes he failed at, likely something to do with the captivity and subsequent rescue, but possibly having to do with the responsibility itself—"
"Uh, Sherlock?" John tried to cut him off.
"Now thet's enough!" the little bodyguard spat at the same time,
"—And to crown it all a signet ring on your left hand. A roundel, oak leaves, stars, and a rose, a symbol of hope and joy, interesting choice—"
"Just learnt this yesterday, did you?" John muttered.
"—No, Master Samwise, you're not a servant. You were a servant; the change is recent, only a couple of months, weeks is probably more accurate. Clinging to your former title in fear of the future: partially over what will happen, more in concern for your former master—"
"Now you—" Sam choked.
"—You regret something that happened on your journey, something to him; in fact, you blame yourself; something to do with the burden—"
"Sam, leave the room," Frodo suddenly commanded, and to John's surprise Sam nodded and almost fled out the front door.
"Doctor Watson," Frodo continued, his eyes locked on Sherlock's face, "please leave as well. I need a word with Mr Holmes in private."
"Uh, yeah, sure," John nodded, hastily getting up. "I'll, uh..I'll just go check on Sam." (The bloke looked like at that moment he could match Sherlock Holmes pound for pound in imperiousness, but there was also a layer of authority similar to his commanding officer which just demanded obedience, and John found himself automatically responding accordingly).
"Thank you." Frodo's eyes left Sherlock just long enough to give the doctor a polite nod.
John's brows rose at this and he mouthed at his flatmate, "Try to play nice."
As he headed for the door John heard the detective blustering, "As if I can turn it on and off like a switch!"
He ignored that.
-0-
Sam wasn't on the landing, so John peered over the bannister and found the little bloke standing at stiff attention at the foot of the stairs, looking up at him. John raised a brow.
"Don't tell me you can hear as well as Frodo."
The hobit's face became a shade pinker, but he returned sturdily, "No, sir; but we hobbits have sharp hearin' anyway."
John nodded, mulling over the consequences of this revelation as he came downstairs. As he drew closer he could see reddened skin around Sam's eyes and nose which told the doctor that he'd been rubbing his face just moments earlier.
Crying?
"Mr Watson," the hobit bowed, again pulling at his forelock a little too deferentially for John's taste. The doctor could only shake his head.
"Just John, thanks," he tried. "I don't really go by 'mister', unless you want me to call you 'Mr Gamgee'?"
Adding on that bit had been inspired genius; John could actually see Sam weighing the pros and cons of his offer mentally.
Finally he returned carefully, "I reckon as plain Sam's fine."
A smile twitched John's lips a little but he smothered it and nodded. "Okay. Plain John's fine too."
Sam nodded stiffly.
With a sigh John plopped down on the step beside the hobit. "Take a seat, mate." He gestured to the spot beside him, as Sam still stood unmoving. "It's been a day already, hasn't it?"
Sam just looked at him silently, then slowly turned and sat, moving more like a robot than a live person. John heard the blade scrape and thump against the wood. The bodyguard's back was as stiff as Frodo's ever was.
Great.
The silence stretched awkwardly between them for nearly a minute. Upstairs they could hear Sherlock's imperious tones, but never loudly enough to make out what was being said. As John sat there he wondered what exactly he'd originally planned to say (what he even could say!). But then again, he hadn't exactly expected to find the little bloke crying. (Angry, yes; crying, no.)
Finally he leaned over and muttered, "Are you okay?
Sam looked up at him warily. "Beggin' your pardon, but does thet O K business mean 'all right' here too?"
John's mouth twitched a little, but he didn't laugh. "Yeah. It does."
Sam pursed his lips and looked away. "Then aye, I'm fine."
The answer was short, blunt, and obviously a lie. John shifted uncomfortably. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. And then, "Look, mate, I want to apologise for Sherlock—"
"Y' don' have to," Sam muttered.
John stopped. "Well, I'd like to," he tried.
"I don' reckon as y' can stop what y'r Mr Sherlock does any more than I can my Mr Frodo," the bodyguard sighed.
...Well, actually the rumour was that Sherlock was about ten times better than he had been before meeting John, but there wasn't really a point in telling their client (or evidence) that sort of thing. (It'd probably give them both heart attacks.)
Instead he leaned over a little. "What do you think Frodo's saying to Sherlock?"
Sam snorted a little. "More'n y' think he can," he returned stoutly. "When Mr Frodo gets riled up he'll let him have it proper, and I reckon as he's about there." The hobit shook his head. "Nears a day of thet," he muttered.
"..Yeah," John agreed.
Sam side-eyed him. "Y' stepped in where y' could?"
"..I did my best," John muttered.
Sam nodded. "Aye. Mr Sherlock don't seem quite like he's one t' step down, is he?"
A bitter chuckle escaped John. "Yeah, no," he agreed.
Silence.
John sighed. He could read between those lines easily. "Look, Sam, I know that he's difficult to get along with—difficult to work with! But I promise you, he really is the best for the job."
"Why?"
"It's like I said earlier. He just needs that one vital piece of evidence —and, no, I don't know what it is or I'd tell you so that you could tell him," he added hastily. "But he just needs that one piece and he'll have your case solved and you two home within..four hours, I'm sure."
"An' in th' meantime?" Sam countered.
"In the meantime you can stay here with us, look after Frodo...whom you don't have to look after anymore..." John frowned a little, allowing his voice to trail off, but Sam was shaking his head even before the doctor finished talking.
"Thet's jes' Mr Frodo," he muttered dolefully. "We went a ways together, an' at th' end of it..." Sam's own voice trailed off.
John waited for more, but Sam just stared at the step beneath his feet, the glazed look in his eye warning John that the hobit was not currently seeing the present.
"So you were promoted," he finally prompted.
"Aye. Y' could say thet," Sam murmured, still staring into the past. "But he's still my master. He's like thet t' me, y' know. I love him, whether 'r no." He was silent for a moment more (which John used to digest this new bit of info and file it on his ever-widening shelf of Things To Examine Later) and then added, "Like you an' your Mr Sherlock."
John's thought processes screeched to a halt. "Er, actually, Sherlock and I aren't a couple," he hastily corrected.
"A couple?" The words seemed to startle Sam out of his reverie. "Who said anything 'bout a couple?"
Caught on the wrong foot again John found himself stammering, "Sorry, I-I- I assumed..."
"Me an' Mr Frodo?!" The hobit looked shocked. "No!" Then in a quieter voice: "No, Mr Fr— No. No, I've a lass back home." He paused and corrected softly: "...I had a lass back home. We never - fully come t' an understandin'."
He fell silent.
"You...don't think that she'll wait for you?" John tried, hoping to encourage the little bloke.
Sam shrugged a little. "I never spoke, an' she coul' do so much bet'er than th' likes o' Sam Gamgee." He tried to chuckle.
Ouch! Painful words for any bloke to think! John was no consulting detective, but he was a professional soldier; a captain who had once lead troops. He knew Sam Gamgee's tone and the look in his eye far too well to be put off by broken thoughts and half-formed sentences. Sam was in love. But when he'd left on this little 'adventure' with Frodo he hadn't expected to come back alive; maybe not even at all.
...And neither had Frodo. He had seen that look in their client's eyes so many times already, especially when they were talking about Moredor or magic.
"Sam?" The question was a bit hesitant. He had no idea how this would be received, after all.
"Aye?" Sam looked up curiously.
"Er, if you don't mind my asking, where did you and Frodo go?"
Sam's face took on a wary, slightly frustrated look. "He hasn' told y'?" he returned sharply.
Inwardly John cringed at the words, knowing that he already had his answer, but to Sam he shrugged, trying for casual. "It must have slipped his mind."
Sam grunted, contemplating his toes again. "In thet case, I reckon as it's not m' place t' say neither."
John blinked. "W-asn't it your adventure too?"
Sam grimaced at the suggestion. "Well, aye, but, truth be tol', I never really want'ed no adventures." Sam's voice took on a wistful, almost dreamy tone. "Jes' goin' t' see th' Elves would ha' been enou' f'r me; or...or, not even goin' there, but, jes' meetin' one; I reckon I'd ha' been content f'r a long time..." His voice trailed away as he seemed to muse on that for a bit, but then he shook his head, seeming to come back to reality. "No, t'were Mr Frodo as always want'd t' see other places, meet new folk. I were content as a gardener." He fell silent again.
John frowned. "But, you did go with him, didn't you?"
"Oh, aye, 'course I did! I couldn' be a-lettin' him go off into th' wild all by hisself now, could I? Aye, Mr Merry an' Mr Pippin were there too, o'course, an' right handy folk as they've proved themselves t' be too, but, y'know, they're gent'lefolk, they are." He said the last part with such knowingness in his voice that John was sure that he was supposed to know what Sam wasn't saying. He nodded wisely at the hobit (while hastily scrambling through his knowledge of working-class versus gentlefolk (though he was fairly sure at this point that no British history he could think of would be able to help him out)).
"An' I knew as Mr Frodo'd need me," Sam added more quietly.
This sentence hung in the air for several seconds, and then Sam looked up at John. "We're like thet, y'see," he added. "I've always looked after him, ever sincet he come t' Bag End, an' I were jes' a lad o' nine an' barely old enou' t' be a-goin' up t' Bag End meself. But he's like thet, as I said. Y' won't meet a fairer 'r kinder hobbit than Mr Frodo, not in the whole Shire, an' there's never been none else as I'd rather work f'r. He's a right proper gent'lehobbit, he is, jes' as Mr Bilbo afore him. I didn't really want an advent'ure, but I weren't about t' let him go off int' th' wild on his own; no sir, not on Sam Gamgee's watch." He actually crossed his arms a little belligerently, a set look on his face as if he'd been arguing the point this whole time. (And who knew? Maybe he had been, in his own mind.)
"And you were the bodyguard?" John hesitated.
"Bodyguard?" The suggestion seemed to startle Sam right out of the defensive attitude.
John, surprised at the hobit's reaction, tried to cover, "Well, I'd imagine that there wasn't much call for gardening on that trip."
"Oh." Then Sam chuckled. "No, y've th' right o' it. Though we did see some lovely ones along the way," he sighed wistfully.
Okay... not really the usual reaction of a professional bodyguard, more that of a gardener. So I guess you do know everything, Sherlock! he snarled mentally.
But where did that fit in with what Walitch had said?
Sam was speaking again. "No, I reckon as I left th' guardin', so t' speak, t' Strider, or poor old Boromir, or..well, anyone else, I reckon," he shrugged. "I were jes' there t' take care o' my master, jes' as I'd always done afore, back home. An' if'n thet meant a-carin' f'r other folk too, well, I didn't mind none. My gaffer taught me how t' do thet sort o' thing, after all."
John nodded, grunting a bit of an agreement as he decided to shelve his puzzled thoughts for later. Sam, however apparently wasn't finished either as he turned to John with open curiosity. "D'you bodyguard f'r your Mr Sherlock?"
"My—!" John almost felt as if Sam had slapped him, he was so shocked. It took a false start or two before he managed, "I - have played bodyguard for his idiotic arse before, yeah," (Sam looked shocked at the words) "but I am not calling him 'mister'! His bloody ego's bad enough without that!"
"But—I—" Sam was gaping like a fish and then he gabbled out at breakneck speed, "Beggin' y'r pardon, sir, I'm sure. I misunderstood y' completely. I'm right sorry—"
"No, Sam!" John wanted to pull his hair out, and this wasn't even Sherlock! Again! "No— Look, you and I are probably from the same class. I mean, I grew up — with a..lower income, yeah. My dad was a factory worker, I was state schooled, we never, um..." (his head twitched a little, involuntarily) "yeah, we never had much money in the house... and when you go by — old standards Sherlock is... yeah, at least one class above me. The thing is though that we don't really see ourselves that way. I mean— yes, the class system is still...prevalent in England, but in...it's...I mean... And what's more, I have been through medical school, I am a trained surgeon, I was a captain in the military...He and I are colleagues, Sam. You - could even say that I was promoted." Then cautiously he added, "Similarly to you."
Sam shifted uncomfortably at this.
"So, we seem to be colleagues on all levels," John tried. Sam still looked awkward. "But, yeah, Sherlock and I are friends, we are colleagues, he is a class above me, and I am not calling his bloody arse 'mister'; but I'm sure that, had I lived in The Shire, you and I would have been in the same class. I mean, your dad was a...?"
"Gardener," Sam finished the prompt.
"And...your education?" His head twitched uncomfortably again, but Sam actually gave him a smile! A shy one, but still—!
"Mr Bilbo learnt me m' let'ers, and m' gaffer th' business o' gardenin'."
Learnt you, did he? But John didn't correct the grammar as he nodded thoughtfully. "Then, don't you think...?"
Sam looked thoughtful. "I don't reckon as I know," he mused. "Not meanin' any offense, but what's a 'fac'try worker'?"
"Oh, he—he worked for other people making texti—cloth," John stumbled through the definition, unsure if the 'Middlearthians' had ever heard the word 'textiles'.
Sam nodded his understanding and the pair were silent for a bit.
Finally John looked down at Sam again. "So, do you think that we could drop the sirring bit and...maybe just be friends?"
Sam seemed to ponder the question briefly before he returned, "I reckon as we could try. We don't really know each other a'tall, o'course, but Mr Frodo seems t' trust y', so, aye. I reckon as we could try, at leas'. Jes' as long as y' don't go a-hurtin' Mr Frodo," he added suddenly with a surprisingly fierce look. "We wouldn' be friends if'n y' did thet."
John nodded. "Yeah, no, trust me. Hurting either of you is the last thing that I want to do." Then with a gesture at Sam's hip, "Besides, I'm sure you can probably hit pretty well with that."
Sam's face reddened a little as he glanced down at the weapon, but he answered cheerfully, "Not thet well, I reckon, but well enou' if'n I had t'."
John chuckled a little, not in derision but complete understanding, and Sam surprised him again by laughing too! John's smile widened, and then he nodded at the sword. "Would you mind if I looked at it?"
The good humour left Sam's face and he eyed the man warily, "Meanin' no offense," he returned carefully, "but I don't reckon as we're quite good enou' friends f'r thet yet. Beggin' your pardon, o'course," he finished hastily.
"Oh, yeah, no. Sorry. Um..." Yeah, bad question, John! Really bad question to ask!
But he did want to see the sword.
After a moment's thought he tried again. "If you were to keep it in your hand, then would you mind if I looked at it?"
Those were the magic words apparently, for Sam smiled again and stood, carefully drawing the blade as he murmured, "It is a nice piece."
And it was. Definitely a bit more of a costume or ceremonial piece than John had expected a bodyguard to carry (or a gardener!), with red and gold snakes engraved all over the piece and jewels on the hilt, but, still, a very nice looking blade. They spent some time admiring it, and then John asked where he got it, and Sam told him a hair-raising story about barrow-whites (but apparently John was supposed to know what a barrow-white was because he never got a clear explanation (but it sounded kind of like a cross between a ghost and a zombie with a lot of angry blood-thirsty murderer thrown in)) and naked swords and death incantations and Frodo and a character named Tom Bombadil. John watched in fascination as Sam 'remembered' the facts, or at least what he had been programmed to think were the facts. That he believed it though could be no doubt. The memories of nightmare, the bewilderment of realising what had happened to them, a chuckle at something that "old Tom" had done or said; all of them were definite tells of belief.
Unless he was a really good actor. There was still always that possibility.
They were back to admiring the blade again (this time with it's (alleged) history in mind) when a quiet voice behind them said, "Sam?"
Both parties twisted around at once. Frodo stood on the landing looking decidedly neutral, but he smiled a little at the bodyguard/gardener. "Mr Holmes is ready to speak with you again."
Sam's own smile disappeared. "Right," he nodded, and rose to his feet, carefully sheathing the blade.
John followed suit, stretching a little as he came off the wooden steps. He grinned up at Frodo. "So, I hear that you bested a barrow-white."
Frodo's eyes widened at this and he looked back at the bodyguard with a protest of, "Sam!"
Undeterred, John continued, "Lopped off his hand and rescued all three of your friends. Now, how did you avoid telling me that part of your story?"
"I've hardly told you everything that happened on our quest," Frodo returned dryly. Then he gave Sam a look that said more plainly than words, Really?
Rather than cowing, Sam straightened defiantly, his chin lifting. "He asked me how I got m' sword. I tol' him."
"You got it from Tom Bombadil," Frodo retorted.
"An' if'n you hadn' been there none o' us would ha' been alive t' get 'em, neither, Frodo Baggins," Sam shot back in a low tone.
Frodo stilled, emotions flitting across his face as he stared at Sam. John tensed, preparing for anything. That was the face (and tics) of a person haunted by memories. For Sam, 'sleeping' through most of the horror, the tale was really nothing more than a bad nightmare. Frodo's programming, on the other hand... His face reminded John of a detonation specialist, desperately working to rescue his best friend who'd stepped on a buried IED. John felt his stomach lurch. He really was going to murder the bastards responsible for this.
After a few moments Frodo finally returned quietly, "You're right, Sam. That one I will give you. But it's hardly through my own doing. We're just fortunate that it hadn't decided to - dress me yet."
"Aye, sir," Sam agreed, and now he sounded subdued.
Suddenly Frodo chuckled, although it sounded slightly forced. "And really," he returned, "it isn't as if I could have possibly missed it! You should have seen it, John," abruptly turning to the man. "The hand came around the corner, walking on the tips of it's fingers across the stone, followed, of course, by the arm, but this arm just seemed to grow longer and longer! You would have thought that it was nothing but one long arm! Truly, it would have been impossile for anyone to miss." He forced himself to chuckle again.
"Right," John nodded slowly. Why are you trying to make this funny? You clearly don't find it funny at all.
"Sam, are you ready?" Frodo tried again.
"Aye, sir," Sam nodded, and they all headed back into the fray. John could only hope that somehow Frodo hadn't made things worse.
A/N: Younger/older, bodyguard/gardener, and hobit to boot! Yeah, I know. John still has a LOT to learn.
