A/N: This chapter builds and expands on what went down in chapter 13 (On Corpse Mutilation and Other Unpleasant Matters) and every warning issued for that chapter applies to this one as well. As stated before, if you feel that you cannot read about these things I understand. Send me a PM letting me know and I will in return send you a very brief summary of what happens in this chapter. I should probably warn you all though, with this being Sherlock and Lord of the Rings many if not all of these things are going to keep coming up constantly. After all, these hobbits have been through the wringer.
A/N 2: Someone asked the very good question of why ask Lestrade for help and not Molly. I mused on this suggestion for a while, and it boils down to: Frodo met and trusted Lestrade first, plus he thinks that Lestrade might be able to help him with something...
Chapter 15 - Matters of Trust
The household had settled into an uneasy truce.
The hobbits had come out of the toilit (for it was, by nature, a privy and therefore not a place one could actually remain for long) to find that Mr Holmes had taken all of the information he had learnt about them and pinned it to the parlour wall above the settle, where any who entered the flat could see. Disquieted at this realisation, they had taken up watch in the parlour, determined that if or when they left they would take their information with them. Both were now sat on the wide grey leather chair where Mr Holmes had sat earlier and questioned each of them. From there they could see both men easily, whether Sherlock Holmes was in the parlour or the kitchen.
The tip of Sam's sword was gently grounded into the carpet as he held it steadily before him, prepared to defend again should the truce suddenly break. Beside him Frodo was writing out a list of all of the names in all of the tales he had ever heard from the First and Second Ages, using a bit of paper from Molly Hooper and a thin borrowed pen. Sam's pack and their cloaks rested against the chair by their feet. Before them John Watson sat on his own chair, his 'comeputer' from much earlier sitting in his lap, apparently reading and deliberately not looking at the hobbits, although Frodo noted that he did throw quick, frustrated glances at them from time to time. Privately Frodo mourned the budding companionship between them, so quickly lost.
His eyes strayed to Sherlock Holmes, the reason for that loss. The man was in the kitchen for now, mixing things again. Thus far he had cut things, burnt things, placed things into the frij and left them there, mixed various liquids together, looked through his mycrowscope, and written much. A good portion of what he'd written he would then pin to the wall above the settle.
The wall above the settle was a mess; littered with notes, and maps of places Frodo had never before seen, and strange pictures of himself and Sam made whilst they weren't looking without paint or ink that John called fotografs. There were bits of the 'samples' of clothing he and Sam had given the detective scattered like flags throughout the papers, scraps of numbers torn impatiently from longer strips of paper, and even small stacks of paper: pages of numbers and strange words longer than Aragorn's full name mingled with very little intelligible Westron... and all these were fastened onto the wall itself with pins! At times the detective would stand before it, leaning forward and peering at the mess with great intensity, sometimes tracing an invisible line with his fingers, often muttering under his breath and glancing at the hobbits as if to compare them to what he was reading. Frodo felt violated by its very being.
The ear-splitting noise of the doorbell shattered the quiet, and both hobbits instinctively ducked, Frodo trying not to cover his ears at the level of noise as Sam slid off of the chair and whipped his sword to defensive position, as Aragorn had taught them.
"He's here," John grunted. He closed his comeputer with a snap and then appeared to actually see the two hobbits. With a calm rise of his brow, "Relax, mate. It's probably just Lestrade."
"Single ring, maximum pressure held two and a half seconds, expected company; of course it's Lestrade!" Sherlock snapped from the kitchen.
Frodo stared at the detective in consternation. "How do you-"
"I listen," he interrupted sharply.
"You know, you could just say that you know Lestrade's bell habits!" John threw back over his shoulder as he hurried down the stairs.
"Because I listen!" his flat-mate snapped back.
"Bell!" Sam snorted under his breath, "If'n thet's a proper bell than a donkey's brayin' makes a wondrous good fiddle." A laugh startled out of Frodo, as if dragged out of the depths of some fathomless abyss, but an honest laugh all the same. Then he set himself to listening.
John seemed to be pleased with what he found at the door, and certainly that was Master Lestraad's voice greeting him back, but accompanying the guardsman was an odd smell of something...sweet, perhaps? Or, no...sharpness, maybe? No...
Uncertain as to what he was smelling, he tried to exchange a glance with Sam, but received only a blank look in return. Apparently his wraith-curse had struck again. Now though the men began to climb the stairs and Frodo watched his friend's ears twitch as Sam began to hear the clink of glass and the sound of the Detective Inspector's astonishment that there were now "two of them", as well as frustration at having missed the "perp". The gardener's nose twitched as well, and now he gave Frodo the look of confusion. "D'y' smell thet?" he murmured.
"Yes," Frodo returned quietly. Then he rose to his feet, for the men were entering, laden with bags. The odd smells became stronger.
The Detective Inspector stopped short upon catching sight of Sam and stared at the gardener. "You didn't mention the knife," he muttered under his breath.
Frodo stepped forward to meet him. "Master Lestraad," he smiled, giving the guardsman his most welcoming bow. "It is a pleasure to see you again. I must thank you for coming to my aid so quickly."
The guardsman exchanged an odd look with John and then returned stiltedly, "It's - nice to see you again too, Frodo." He paused and then added, "I see you found a friend."
Frodo felt his smile widen at the words; so simple, and yet they encompassed everything. "I did," he murmured. Then gesturing Sam forward he introduced the pair. Meanwhile, John had gone straight to the worktable beneath the cow's horns and begun to remove white parcels from the bags he'd been carrying, sounding pleased with each new item.
"So... What's he done this time?" the guardsman asked.
This time did not escape Frodo's notice, nor did John Watson's nervous chuckle.
"Why don't we get to that after we eat?" John quickly suggested.
"Eat?" Frodo repeated.
The soldier nodded. "Yeah, Lestrade brought food. You might be interested since you didn't want lunch."
Sam sniffed the air pointedly. "An' what sort o'food might it be?" he demanded.
"Chinese," John retorted, which told them nothing.
"I got all the usuals for everybody," the guardsman added as he removed his coat and threw it across the back of the settle. "And then I wasn't sure what else to get, so I went with a nice cashew chicken and some egg rolls and things, of course."
John Watson was muttering effusive thanks under his breath as he hastily cleared the paperwork off of the parlor table, but at that he paused and turned back to the hobbits. "Do you eat chicken? Either of you?" he asked quickly.
They reassured him that they both did, and soon the table was set with plates, cunningly folded paper boxes, a pile of white paper squares, spoons, and sticks, all whilst John and Master Lestraad explained to the hobbits about China and Chinees and the foodstuffs used in Chinees cooking, finishing with a list of everything which the guardsman had brought as they opened the boxes.
None of which was known to either Frodo or Sam.
Finally John turned to them again with a questioning look. "Do you think you'll be okay with eating some of this?" he asked seriously. "I mean, you saw it come in; I certainly wasn't expecting it-"
Frodo felt his face heat red to his ears as he assured the man that the food would be perfectly acceptable. Oh, his manners! What Bilbo would say if he knew the mess his younger cousin was making of this strange situation Frodo truly did not want to think! But, when had Bilbo (or Aunt Dora, for that matter) ever been in a situation where he was forced to contemplate accepting aid from a person who kept ears in his larder? The whole thing was absurd! Entirely ridiculous! Why was he even considering staying?
"Despite his ridiculous lack of useful knowledge the creature is not without intelligence. He is aware that if he leaves he is essentially turning down my help."
" I am, in fact, the only one who can help him get home. He'll remain here as long as he wants any kind of help."
Silently he joined the others around the table. Behind him the soft footfalls of Sam told him that his friend was following.
"Forgive me, John," he murmured once they were all situated. "It's - not a thing which hobbits ever face."
The man snorted. "Yeah, I know. Honestly, it's not a thing most people ever have to face. It's just, if you're here..so are they. And there's no use trying to get him to stop, because then he just turns to..other behaviours."
"I see," Frodo murmured.
"Such as?" Sam demanded, but John waved his hand as if to warn him from asking further.
The guardsman studied them thoughtfully. "Maybe you should tell me now what we're dealing with," he suggested.
"Sherlock's running experiments again," John returned quietly. He seemed to wish to leave things at that, but with more prodding from Master Lestraad reluctantly added, "They found severed ears in the cupboard."
"Ah." Lestraad settled back a little with a curious look on his face. "Y-eah.. I can see why that'd be a little off-putting."
Both the hobbits and John nodded.
Frodo paused and gave the man a look of surprise. "You do agree with us?"
"Agree?" John returned. "I'm a bloody doctor, mate. Of course I agree with you! No, they shouldn't be anywhere near the food, they shouldn't be anywhere near the flat; you are absolutely right."
All parties were quiet at that for a moment, and then Sam asked quietly, "Does he eat 'em?"
"Eat them?" Lestraad mumbled, as if to himself.
"No," John returned/said tiredly.
"He doesn't eat at all," the guardsman muttered.
"What d'y' mean by thet, Mr Lestraad?" Sam asked.
The guardsman just gave John a significant look. The soldier grimaced back.
"Don't make yourself out to be a bigger idiot than you already are, Lestrade. No body is actually able to sustain itself on nothing. I eat when my transport requires it," Sherlock retorted from the kitchen.
Frodo frowned. "His - transport?" he muttered.
"That's what he calls his body," John muttered back. "He likes to think of his body like a machine which, if cared for in a certain way, will always give the same results. He seems to be completely unaware that it's actually organic and can at times fail him, especially when he doesn't eat for three flipping days."
"Organic?" Frodo asked, as Sam in the same moment said, "Three days! Why, a body could die of starvation eatin' like thet!"
"Yeah, I know," John grimaced. "And organic just means not man-made. It's - natural. Basically living or... yeah, natural."
Frodo nodded his understanding.
"So what are we t' do?" Sam asked anxiously. "He's got t' eat. He'll die if'n he don' eat!"
"Uh, it's not quite that quick, Sam," John quickly reassured him, "and I take care of him. I make sure that he eats and drinks liquids, as often as I can get him to do it. It's just - if we make a big deal about it then he's going to dig his heels in and refuse to eat until his body collapses on him."
"So, when did he las' eat?" Sam asked, still anxious that the detective have himself a proper meal. Personally, Frodo wondered if that was why the man seemed so cross.
"About two days ago," John grimaced. "Look, just leave it to me, okay? I will try to get him to eat something today. Some of this, actually," he added, gesturing at the table. "We just can't make a big deal about it."
The last part was spoken in a voice barely above a whisper, and both hobbits nodded solemnly.
"Thanks," John muttered. Then in a more natural tone, "So. Let's eat."
Lestraad agreed cheerfully and the hobbits nodded again. Then Frodo murmured, "If you gentlemen will bear with me for a moment," and rose to his feet to face West. Beside him Sam did also. The two men were silent.
When they sat back down both men were awkwardly eating. The hobbits gave them each a courteous bow before resuming their seats. The guardsman grunted back.
"I take it as y' don' observe th' Standin' Silence here?" Sam noted.
"Uh, no," John answered awkwardly. "No, we don't." Then after another brief pause, "Mind if I ask what it is?"
"It's a tradition th' folk of Minas Tirith have," Sam answered. "They always face West afore they eat an' r'member 'bout Numenor, an' how Eru an' th' Valar take care o'them. It's Gondor's way of honouring them, y' migh' say, an' what with bein' in Gondor an' havin' good reason to be r'memberin' th' Valar's help ourselves me an' Mr Frodo, an' Mr Merry an' Mr Pippin at thet, have taken up th' tradition as well."
John Watson looked as if he was a little sorry that he had asked, and Lestraad nodded in that manner of one who doesn't understand but pretends to. Then he gestured at the plates before them, which John must have filled as they stood, and added, "Well, better eat up before it gets cold."
Frodo eyed the plate before him. Rice. Rice was not a common ingredient back home, but Frodo had eaten it on occasion. Rice was one of those food stuffs which one ate cautiously because it wasn't made well that often, simply because it was expensive to buy and play with -experiment with, he suddenly realised. This rice appeared to be mixed with peas, diced carrots, and bits of white meat, likely chicken given John's question earlier and the overall smell of the plate. He reached for a fork to try some, but found that he had none. At this he paused and looked at the men. Master Lestraad certainly had a fork, and John had a pile of forks beside him, but at the moment he was using his fingers to break apart what appeared to be a - breaded flower? No, it was a flower shaped out of a thin dough which had been baked to a crisp. Following his lead Frodo carefully lifted his own flower and smelt it. Odd. It smelt mostly like cooked oil, rather like a dough ring, but with a lighter strain of sweetness. Gently breaking the delicate thing apart he found a white, almost grainy substance in the middle. The sweet smell grew stronger, and Frodo smiled. Creamed cheese. He knew the scent well. Cautiously he tasted it. It was a delightful sweet filling, better fit for a dessert than a beginning (not that he was complaining). He ate carefully, savouring each bite, from the filling to the crisp corners. The dough was unlike anything Frodo had tasted before, unless it would be a simple cracker, but a cracker was not cooked in oil like this had been. All the same, the subtle plainness of it made a tasty contrast to the filling.
To his right Lestraad smiled at him. "Like that one?"
"It is very good," Frodo assured him. "What is it?"
"Crab rangoon."
John, sitting across from him, raised a brow. "If you think that's good wait 'til you try the main dish," he returned.
"Beggin' your pardon, but how?" Sam retorted. "You're still a-holdin' all th' forks, Mister - er, John."
John Watson looked suspiciously like he was stifling a smile as he answered, "You use these," and held up two short sticks in his left hand.
Beside him Master Lestraad snorted.
"Sticks?" Sam returned.
"Chopsticks, yeah," John nodded. "It's a rite of passage. If you have Chinese you have to at least try to use chopsticks."
"And good luck to you," the guardsman added in a low tone Frodo was certain he wasn't supposed to hear.
Frodo warily eyed the two sticks, which John had placed on his plate before handing it over earlier.
Sam, impatient, hungry, blunt Sam Gamgee picked up his one of own sticks and repeated, "How? Beggin' your pardon, John, but we hain't ever done this afore. Do y' jes'-" he stabbed at a lump of chicken on his plate, skewering it neatly, and ate it. A thoughtful look came over his face and he eyed the food with renewed interest as the men laughed.
"Not - exactly," John returned, and proceded to attempt to teach them how to properly use the sticks.
Attempt was certainly the right word as the man fumbled the sticks, tried to remember which one didn't move and which one did, and once he figured that out, promptly dropped the piece of meat he was trying to eat. Lestraad was no help at all as he sat back laughing at John's struggles and easily scooped meat, vegetables, and rice into his mouth with a fork and spoon. It was a trying sight to a hungry hobbit, and Frodo finally commented, "Master Watson, you cannot even use these things. Why would Sam and I be able to?"
John gave him a dirty look for that, and then with a triumphant "Ha!" placed a single piece of meat into his mouth. It was a ridiculous way to eat and one's food was bound to be cold before the plate was half-emptied, but the gleam in John's eye as he held up a second piece of meat was a definite challenge. Just try and do better, Frodo Baggins, it said.
...And Frodo had too much of the competitive Brandybuck spirit in him to let such a challenge go. With an answering glint he picked up the chopsticks and began.
It was a struggle. Frodo was certain that it was more of a struggle than John had actually intended, for the sticks kept getting entangled with the stump of his missing finger and he would drop things, or the sticks would twitch just wrong and his 'pinching' would veer to the left or right, again dropping the food. Sam was struggling almost as badly and kept muttering about it under his breath. At one point he even looked up at Frodo and said, "Don' tell Strider about these. He'd be a-doin' hand exercises with 'em afore y' can say 'No!'"
Frodo laughed in despair at the thought.
Finally through sheer determination and stubbournness (because it certainly wasn't through sheer ability) he managed to maneouver a mushroom into his mouth, and his fear of Chinees food left him. It was delightful, cooked to perfection and coated with a light brown sauce flavoured with chicken and something else he had never before tasted. The flavours complimented each other perfectly and he eagerly tried for another bite, perhaps of the chicken this time, or one of those strange pale beans.
-0-
Some time later, after forks had (thankfully) been handed around, Frodo's fears concerning the rice had been put to bed, and the plates were all starting to look rather empty, the guardsman, who was insisting that they call him Greg, placed his 'beer can' down on the table and gave the group the first serious look since the Standing Silence. Without a word John nodded, went to the kitchen, and closed what appeared to be a door hidden in the wall. Frodo watched with fascination. What a curious place for a door! What a useful place! It could be open when one desired and none would ever guess that a door was there until it was shut.
Once John was again seated Greg began by saying, "So, other than the obvious, how's the case coming? Have you found anything out yet?"
John sighed a little. "Where to start?" he muttered. "Let's see, they are..not human; they are actually a - race of their own people called hobits. Sherlock ran a DNA test. It's been confirmed.
The guardsman froze with a half-strangled, "What?"
John sighed. "There is a mysterious anomaly in their blood that the, eh, mass spectrometre couldn't identify."
"What?"
"Minas Tirith is not located on any map I own, or can find in a shop." The healer paused. "What else?"
"The date," Frodo put in quietly.
"Oh, yeah. Right, yeah, the date," John nodded. "And to top it all off, yesterday was the fourteenth of May."
"Uh-huh," Greg nodded slowly, and took a long drink. Then he looked back up, surprisingly calm. "Anything else I should know about?"
John frowned a little. "I think that covers it case-wise," he answered. He turned to the two hobbits. "Frodo? Sam? Do either of you have anything to add to that?"
If he stopped long enough to count, Frodo probably had fifty other things that he could have added to the list of problems, but he kept them to himself and merely answered, "No." Sam's answer was the same, but just as John was nodding in agreement and turning back to the guardsman a memory flitted across the man's face.
"I guess there is one other thing," he offered. Greg's brows rose, but he waited.
"Sherlock's convinced that, uh...a certain unnamed party has met and been threatened by a...cannibal."
The guardsman's brows rose still higher, and then he muttered, "I am not drunk enough for this," and took another long swig of beer.
John laughed in despair. "Yeah, no," he agreed. "Neither am I. And I haven't had a drop all day."
A long and uncomfortable silence followed this, during which all parties did their best to finish emptying their plates before the questions had to start. Sam finally broke it again.
"What's this 'un?" he asked, pointing at a crisp rolled thing which appeared to be made of the same oil-baked dough as the 'crab rangoon'. "Do y' cut it, or pick it up?"
"Pick it up," Greg muttered, his mind clearly still on other things. "It's an egg roll."
"Looks like a grub," Sam retorted under his breath.
"Or a hobbit in his bedroll," Frodo offered, giving Sam an overly bright smile.
Sam's answering one was softer, but more honest. "Aye, it could look like thet," he agreed. "Is it another one what y' stick in th' red sauce?"
Both men agreed that he could, and soon Sam was contentedly munching on his 'egg-roll', which he declared much tastier than a grub.
Greg took one more long drink, and Frodo braced himself. He knew that sign.
Sure enough, once the guardsman put down the can he began, "So... canniballism-"
"Yeah, we're not talking about that," John cut him off.
Frodo winced. "We must at some point," he returned quietly.
John only gave him a concerned look.
Greg's glance flicked between the two of them. "Are we talking canniballism like something out of old cartoons, or more realistic?"
John inhaled sharply, and then turned to look at Frodo again.
"Cartoons?" Frodo echoed softly.
The guardsman squirmed a little. "You know. Like, cook you up in a big pot for supper while everyone's dancing around."
"They ain't thet picky, Mr Lestraad," Sam returned quietly. "An' I don' reckon as they dance."
The scene in the tower swam before Frodo's eyes and he locked his jaw shut, tongue firmly pressed against the roof of his mouth.
"Uh-huh," Greg nodded again. "Yeah, definitely not drunk enough for this."
Another long silence followed, broken only by Sam attempting to get Frodo to eat. Frodo couldn't though. Not with that memory so near.
So near...
Finally Greg said, "I'm not stupid; I can see how you got that... Do I want to know why I'm here?"
"Probably not," John muttered.
Frodo straightened, placing his hands very carefully upon the table as if he was about to conduct a family meeting back home. "You are here, Master Lestraad, to answer a question," he answered properly, adding, "And I must thank you for bringing the food. It is a unique flavour and I am glad that I was able to try it."
"Uh, you're welcome," Greg returned a little stiltedly.
Frodo allowed the words to stand politely for a moment, until the man was looking at him again. "The question I must put to you is this. Do you trust Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yeah, I thought it'd be something like that," the man muttered. John gave him a sympathetic grimace. "And the answer is yes, in most situations. I - never would have brought you here otherwise."
Frodo studied him thoughtfully for a moment and then returned, "Please explain your reasons."
The guardsman sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I guess it depends on what you mean," he finally said. "In some ways, like him actually giving me the evidence that he's finding, or letting me know what his plan is before I get a call from a disgruntled citizen? No. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."
John's snort was rather telling.
"In others? I'd trust him with my life." The man shifted a little as if settling back into an old and weary argument. "See, I've known him five years, and if there's one thing that I know beyond anything, it's that Sherlock Holmes will do whatever it takes to solve the case. Any case, it doesn't have to be yours, and it doesn't matter how hard or bizarre it is either. In fact, the more bizarre it is the better he likes it. So, first of all, you don't have to worry about him dropping your case, because with everything that seems to be going on I bet he's over the moon with you blokes, am I right?"
"Well, you're not wrong," John muttered around the top of his 'beer can'.
Frodo's gaze flicked between the pair. "Do you believe that he would harm another?" he countered.
The guardsman seemed quite put on the spot by that. Finally, with a half gulp, "That kind of depends on how you define harm."
Frodo's brows rose alarmingly.
"I mean, there's definitely going to be name calling, deducing, scoffing at your lack of intelligence...he is brash, arrogant, rude; he's going to say things and do things that will offend you, he'll blurt something out that doesn't make sense... I mean, he's Sherlock Holmes. He's always right, he knows he's always right, and he makes it a point of letting you know that he's right and you're just an idiot." Greg heaved a sigh. "And it's going to hurt. He's going to call you stupid, idiot, incompetent, yeah. That's, that's a given. And yes, it causes psychological harm, and it is technically abuse-" He broke off with another sigh and then admitted, "Technically nothing, it - is verbal abuse. He's- He's not going to physically harm you though."
"How do you know?" Frodo asked quietly.
"He wouldn't," the man returned simply. "He doesn't."
"He doesn't?"
"No," Greg said. "I've seen him get physical...once? Maybe twice? Maybe twice. And both times -the definite and the possible- the blokes actually turned out to be the perpetrators of some particularly nasty crimes."
"Perpetrators?"
"Er, people who commited the crime," the guardsman hastily returned. "So, yeah, he's not going to - not going to physically hurt you in any way."
All parties were silent for a moment and then Sam said, "Thet ain't a comfort, Mr Lestraad. He can still wound plenty well wi' his tongue."
"It's Greg," the guardsman muttered. Then he added, "And yeah, I get it. I mean - I really do. He has got to be the worst person in the world to work with. Absolutely. He knows he's smarter than you, he had an ego..." the man trailed off. "But, he, eh... He is also the absolute best at what he does. And hopefully he can't hear me right now because he will rub this in my face forever, but he is. There is - no one better than Sherlock Holmes. He will solve your case for you if it is at all possible to be solved."
"And if I can add something," John put in, "he doesn't always mean to hurt you either." At all three sceptical looks he hurried on, "Ninety percent of the time, yes, he is definitely saying something to shut you- to make you be quiet, or something that you're doing is irritating and he's decided -like a five year old kid- to irritate you back, or he's just lording it over you about how bloody clever he is. Yeah. He definitely does all that on purpose, but sometimes -like, with you, Frodo, and the, um, the..cannibals... He doesn't...he didn't... Yeah. He didn't mean to hurt you by saying that; he didn't even mean to bring up bad memories. He was just..really excited at finding this really obscure and bizarre clue and was...pursuing his lead."
"Did he have t' saw on about it?" Sam snapped.
"Uh...no, but yes," John tried. "The thing is, I don't know how prevelent canniballism is where you come from, but here it is pretty rare. Like..almost non-existant, so for you to have met one - it narrows down the area that we're looking for. Er, not the area, but the uh...the scope of the search. The..radius of the search. Does that make sense?"
"It don' change th' nin'ty persent," Sam countered.
"Uh, no. No, it doesn't," John agreed.
"It is true though," Greg added. "He doesn't always mean it, and it took me forever to figure that out. I mean, I'm kind of impressed you figured it out so fast," he added, turning to John.
The doctor shrugged. "You don't live with him."
"Yeah, but you knew right away," Greg argued. "It took me..at least seven months to figure that out, and you- I'll never forget it. There he was, standing in the middle of this room, pacing and shouting; his first case here, you remember!"
"A - Study in Pink?"
"Yeah. Yeah, exactly! And you just, clicked with him, like - you were the missing piece to a puzzle that I didn't even know had missing pieces. You knew what he was saying, you got him to explain things to you-that alone right there; I mean, he still doesn't explain things to me all of the time. He still doesn't explain most of the time! But to you-"
"I - don't know what to tell you, Greg. I really don't. I just - ask questions and I listen."
"Well, whatever it is we need more of it, because he isn't nearly so bad when you're around," Greg returned. Then he looked thoughtfully at the hobbits. "And I guess, maybe that's why I know I can trust Sherlock with you blokes."
"What do you mean?" Frodo asked politely.
"I mean that Sherlock Holmes is a great man," the guardsman said. "A genius who can solve almost any problem that I give him. And had you come to me last year I definitely would have given him your case to solve, but I never would've suggested that you stay here. I mean, even then I know that he wouldn't have actually harmed you," he quickly corrected himself. "Not deliberately, but there are other things, like neglect, carelessness, chemicals and body parts strewn all over the flat that just- I mean, he doesn't take care of his own body's needs; I can't imagine that he'd remember a guest." The man paused, and then nodded. "But that was last year. Since he met John -and maybe Mrs Hudson too- things have changed. I mean, it's subtle. Sometimes I barely see any difference at all, but every time I walk into this flat and remember the one on Montague Street, every time I hear you two at a crime scene," as he looked to John, "even sometimes when I talk to him... and maybe I'm trusting John more than I am Sherlock, trusting him to pull Sherlock back from those extremes, but... yeah. I know that you blokes will be safe here."
Frodo was silent, turning the words over in his head, but now Sam spoke again. "This is him re'strainin' hisself?"
"Uh..ye-ah," Greg admitted.
"He's barely shown any part o' r'straint'," Sam retorted. "How many folks as die here get crem'ated?"
"Almost - all of them," the man frowned. "Why?"
"An' crem'ated means y' burn th' bodies after they die?"
"..Yes."
"Well, he says as it don' matter if'n he takes body parts from dead folk, f'r they're all gettin' burnt up an' crem'ated anyways. Now what part o'thet is r'straint?"
The man hesitated. Finally he said weakly, "Well, like I said, sometimes there's barely any progress at all?"
"It ain't right," Sam muttered.
Silence filled the room again, each person busy with his own thoughts.
At last the guardsman sighed. "Look, I get it. If you guys don't feel like you can trust him I really do get it. I mean, it doesn't matter how much I tell you that he won't hurt you if you don't believe me. But..." he grimaced, "I don't know where else you could go."
"What of the Met?" Frodo asked. "You suggested giving them my problem earlier."
"That was before I knew-" The man cut himself off with a curse. "Not human! How does that even work?!"
"We are a different people than the men," Frodo answered calmly. "When Eru created the world He sang several different peoples into being. The hobbits are one, the elves are another, the men are a third. Just as dogs are one kind of animal, ponies are another, and chickens are a third; all of them sang into being in the Great Music."
Frodo had always assumed that every man knew of the Great Music. As a hobbit the knowledge was rare and had been given to him by Bilbo as a scholar of histories and lover of Elvish tales, but the hobbits could be excused in their ignorance, for they weren't mentioned in any of the tales. But he had always thought that surely the men would know the history of their part in the making of the world. From the looks on these men's faces though he had been sadly mistaken, at least in this strange part of Arda. The guardsman looked to John. John looked to the guardsman. Then Greg nodded slowly and muttered, "Right. Well... Well, you blokes not being human kind of changes everything."
"Why?" Frodo prodded.
"Because...er..." the guardsman floundered. "Up until..yesterday...there were only humans and animals that don't talk on this planet, as far as anyone knew. Uh, you not being human, but being able to talk and hold conversations; it, uh, means...I mean, it's everything that scientists have ever looked for, hoped for."
"Sientists?" Frodo repeated, bewildered.
Greg nodded vigourously. "Yeah, and they're going to want to study you and run tests and find out what you are and where you come from and why and how..."
"Those are the questions that we need answered," Frodo returned, feeling more hopeful. "Why we came from Minas Tirith and how to get back."
But Greg was shaking his head again, with a slightly desperate look in his eyes. "No, those might be the questions that you need answered, but scientists will go - so much farther."
John leaned forward. "Honestly, if you think that Sherlock's methods are invasive you don't want to go to anyone else."
The anxiousness of the pair drenched Frodo's hope like ice water. "Why not?" he asked.
"Because they will want to know everything about you," John returned. "Like, everything. Non-humans don't - walk around humans. I mean... Until I met you I have to admit, I put all those things like fairies and elves and-"
"Trolls," Greg put in.
"Trolls, yeah," John agreed.
"Gnomes," Greg added.
"Yep," John nodded. "I put all those things into a little category by themselves called 'You Have Got to be Joking'. And-and people who looked for them were worse. You-" he paused and tried again. "You don't understand the significance of the fact that you two are sitting here. I mean-" He broke off with a despairing chuckle. "Greg, help a mate out!"
The guardsman shook his head and returned, "I - don't know what to say." He turned to the hobbits. "I mean, he's right. He's bloody right. There's- You're not human."
Frodo sighed. "No," he repeated.
Beside him Sam was shaking his head disapprovingly. "Yussef Walitch had a bet'er time dealin' with this than you two, jes', puttin' thet out there, an' beggin' your pardon, I'm sure, but he did."
"Well, good for Yussef Walitch!" the guardsman snapped back. "Does he regularly deal wi- NO, don't answer that. Do NOT answer that!" He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. "And let's not even get into- An anomaly; what do you even mean?"
John shrugged. "I mean that Sherlock ran it through the mass spectrometre and the gas chromometre at Barts, so you know that it's as accurate as it can be." He sighed. "And then he ran extensive tests on it just- Basically- He's looking for it in Sam's blood right now, but in Frodo's blood there's an element that isn't on the periodic table of elements."
Greg swore.
Frodo schoolled his face into what he hoped looked merely like confusion. "Why is this significant?" he asked.
"Because the periodic table of elements are those building blocks that everything in the world is made of that I was telling you about earlier," John answered. "Do you remember? Like, carbon, for example? Remember I told you almost everything living thing is made of carbon?"
"Yes," Frodo nodded.
"Those building blocks, the periodic table of elements holds all of the things that we know about what the world is made of. For you to have a new one in your body- and in your body of all places!- is- It's- It's- honestly more unlikely than you sitting on a bench in Minis Tirith and standing up in Camden Market."
"I see," Frodo returned.
Greg was shaking his head. "Honestly, I don't know that it'd be safe for you to go anywhere else now."
"Safe? Is it safe for us to stay here though?" Frodo countered. "Is he going to hurt Sam? I suppose that because I apparently have an- an- el-em-ent within me which is very important I will likely not be harmed, but will he harm Sam?"
"No!" John returned. "No, he's not going to harm anyone." He paused. "Unless you consider screeching violin at three a.m. harm. Then, yeah, you're in trouble. You may as well run for the hills right now."
"The violin?" Sam asked.
"You'll meet it soon enough," John muttered. "Soon as he hits a wall with your problem, I'm sure."
Greg was gaping at him. "At three in the morning?"
John shrugged. "It's what he does when he thinks." He turned back to the hobbits. "But he's not going to hurt either of you. Like I said, you're his clients; he won't. And by the time that the case is over he's probably going to be more than happy for you to go home. You never know, if you do the studying ahead of time he might even waive the fee at the end."
Frodo's stomach turned at the mention of that fee. "Would - those people of whom you spoke be able to help us get home?"
"What? The scientists or the Met?" Greg frowned.
"The Met."
The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Minis Tirith isn't on a map?"
Frodo sighed. "No. All of your maps are sadly lacking."
John snorted at that and looked up at Greg, almost in despair. "We went to three different libraries last night, as well as a couple of bookshops and every newsagent's stand I could find between here and Barts, and looked at their maps. Looked extensively at all the maps, until everything closed down last night. Our maps are 'sadly lacking'.
"Did you look it up? I mean, online?" the guardsman quickly asked.
"Yeah," John nodded. "There's nothing there."
Greg looked to be in shock as he sat back, muttering under his breath.
"But we've barely begun a search-" Frodo started
"No, Frodo," John cut in. "What you don't understand, can't possibly understand, is that..the computer I've been typing on and playing with all afternoon?"
Frodo nodded.
"Okay," John drew a deep breath. "The same invisible chains that link one phone to another are connected to the computer,"
Under his breath Frodo heard the guardsman mutter, "Invisible chains?"
"and it links all of the computers in the world together. It links them to every phone, to every bookshop, every library, every government building-" he paused. "If you can name the place a computer can get you there and find information from it. So when I type something into my computer, and nothing comes up..that isn't just a simple search. That means that there is nothing registered under that name in the entire - system of the libraries and schools, and..everything in the world."
"But that is impossible," Frodo countered.
"Yeah," John agreed.
"Were y' spellin' it right?" Sam jumped in. "After all, y' don' know our folk or our lands, an' Mr Sherlock, he didn' spell m' las' name righ'."
"Eh, no, that's, uh, that's true, Sam," John agreed hastily. "And I have reason to suspect that you've been spelling my name wrong?"
"Not any longer," Frodo returned easily. "Which reminds me," he turned to the detective inspector, "how do you spell your name, Master Lestraad?"
The man blinked. "G-R-E-G."
Frodo nodded. "And your last name?"
"L-E-S-T-R-A-D-E. It's French in origin," Greg added as an afterthought.
Frodo was uncertain what this meant.
"How would you have spelt it?" the man wondered.
The hobbit shrugged. "With two As."
The guardsman blinked, and then nodded. "Okay!" he said. "Two As. Very nice."
"So, y' might not ha' spelt it right," Sam nodded sagely.
"No, maybe I didn't," John agreed. "I tried several spellings though." He paused as if to let the information seep into their minds and then began afresh. "I looked up Gondor and I did get a hit for a city in Ethiopia called Gondar. It isn't terribly large, and it does have several castles. It's even set in a mountain range. The spelling's a bit different though and it is in Ethiopia, so we still don't know how you got from there to here without noticing that you were travelling, but there is that. Sherlock doesn't think it's very likely though," he added.
"Gondor is the name of a realm rather than a single city," Frodo returned cautiously. "Still, I would look at it."
"Did it appear t' be nears t' Mordor?" Sam asked eagerly.
"I - didn't get any hits on Mordor, although the German word for 'murder' or maybe 'murderer' appears to be 'mörder'," the man offered.
"Thet seems 'bout right," Sam muttered, crossing his arms.
"Was Gondar near to the box formation of mountains we looked for yesterday?" Frodo tried.
"I didn't see one, but it could be hiding amidst all those other mountains?" Even John himself didn't appear to actually believe this was a possibility.
Frodo shook his head. "Mordor is too large a land to be hidden," he murmured softly.
"Gondor is too," Sam added.
"True," Frodo nodded. "Middle-Earth is a land too vast and filled with too many wonders to simply vanish."
"Aye. Even he didn' have th' power t' do thet."
Frodo returned his attention to the men. "If this comeputer search is so significant, and the inability to find anything (worthwhile) is so great, can you help us?" he asked.
Greg shook his head. "Honestly, I think that the only person in the world that can help you now is Sherlock Holmes. He's going to be able to read the clues that no-one else can see, or would even think to look for-" He broke off with a sigh and looked back up at John. "Ethiopia."
John nodded.
Frodo pondered the words for a moment. "How will he find clues when we have nothing to give him?"
"Oh, there's always something," John reassured him. "He'll find something, and it'll probably be the last thing that any of us would think of as a clue, like the tiniest thread of a detail, and he'll catch it, and start pulling on it and worrying at it like a dog with a bone and just - all of a sudden he'll have the answers and your mystery's solved." He paused, and his face softened a little. "And you are both safe here. You really are."
Greg shifted a little. "Yeah," he agreed. "Look, I know I said that I wouldn't trust Sherlock as far as I can throw him, and in some areas, like actually giving me the clues that he's finding, I wouldn't. But I do trust John. And like I said, because I can trust John I know that I can trust Sherlock with you blokes."
Frodo glanced at the man in question, who seemed embarrassed by the kind words.
"John Watson is privy to all of Sherlock's experiments," he countered quietly.
"..Yep," the guardsman nodded. "You try and stop Sherlock. At anything he wants to do. I wish you the best of luck, and if you want I might have a helmet around here."
"A - helmet?"
"Mm-hm," the man nodded. "You would have more luck putting the helmet on your head and running into him to stop him than anything else you can do."
John winced at the suggestion.
"No," Greg continued. "Half of what he does here is illegal. You try and stop him. And don't tell my superiors about this," he added quickly.
"Illegal," Frodo returned.
"Yeah."
"You, as a guardsman of the city, allow him to violate the law."
The guardsman pursed his lips at this. "In some ways, yes," he admitted. "In other ways, no. Do I look the other way when my guys find eyeballs in the microwave?" (John Watson winced at the words) "Yes. Do I let him get away with obstructing justice? No. It's kind of like I'm not turning Sam in for that knife he's wearing like a sword, even though it's technically illegal for him to have it in London, let alone carry it at his side and threaten people with it." Both hobbits looked at him in shock. "Because let me guess: it's still out because you don't trust any of us. Right?"
Sam scowled, his hand going protectively to the sword's hilt. "I reckon if'n y' found men's ears in a cupboard, an' a food cupboard at thet y'd be a bit wary too," he returned.
"Yeah. Yeah, I would," Greg agreed. "It doesn't change the fact that it's illegal for you to own a knife longer than three inches in England without the proper paperwork; and I'm guessing you didn't sit down on a bench this morning with the proper paperwork shoved into your back pocket."
Both hobbits stared at him in disbelief. "An' if'n someone attacks us? Attacks Mr Frodo?" Sam retorted.
"Why would anyone attack you?" the guardsman asked.
Sam glanced at Frodo, who gave him a warning look in return.
"Y' never know," Sam shrugged. "There's always a possabillity o'trouble where a hobbit's concerned. It's jes' our size. We're thet small t' you Big Folk, we are, an' some are out there like thet Bill Ferny a-wantin' t' take advan'age o' thet. It's jes' a fact, it is. If'n a hobbit's a-goin' t' leave th' Shire he's got t' be careful, he does, an' I reckon as we had t' learn it th' hard way," he added in a grimmer tone. "Jes' four stupid hobbits a-leavin' th' Shire. It's jes' plain luck as we didn' all die right off in th' Old Forest, or in th' barrow." He shook his head. "Tom said as hobbit-folk need swords if'n they're goin' t' go a-wand'rin', an' if'n thet didn' prove true right away." He was silent for a moment as the grim words settled around them, his eyes dark with memory. Then he looked back up at Greg Lestrade with that righteous fire kindled in his eyes. "So it stands t' reason. If'n there's trouble, what's a body t' do, 'specially if'n one's th' size o' Mr Frodo an' me, if'n you don' allow no swords?"
"Well, hopefully no one's going to be threatening you or attacking you in London," Greg retorted. "See, no one's going to think to attack you if you don't give them cause to do so. I mean, England is a pretty safe, civilised country on the whole, and folks just don't carry swords or need to protect themselves like that. So if you are walking around carrying a weapon that nobody here is familiar with all that you're doing is advertising" ("announcing," John hastily put in) "that you're ready for a fight. Maybe even that you're wanting a fight, and that will just make the people who want to fight look at you with interest, and the ones who don't want to fight call the police because they think that you're dangerous."
"Police like you?" Frodo asked.
"Thet's plain ridiculous," Sam sniffed.
Greg nodded. "Yeah, yeah, police like me, And you might think it's ridiculous, Sam, but it's our law. Has been for twenty years."
"And another thing," John added. "In this instance your height should prove a good advantage, because with no one in-er, among the human world having heard of hobits, or any other folk for that matter, they won't realise that you're adults, so they should leave you alone just because they'll think that you're kids, and only the most perverted people are going to attack a kid."
Here Frodo's understanding faltered. "John?" he interjected, "Not to seem ignorant, but what do you mean here in London by the term 'kid'?"
John Watson's face twisted from confusion to irritation and then back to neutral. "A child," he corrected. "I mean, yes, we do also call baby goats kids, is that what you're thinking?"
Both hobbits nodded.
"Okay, yes, we do that, but no. Generally when a person talks about a kid they mean a child."
"Or in some cases," Greg added, "they might even mean anyone under the age of twenty, twenty-fivish. If you're younger it depends on your age, if you're older it depends on your maturity."
"True," John nodded.
Frodo folded his hands together in a casual manner and asked, "So, what would you deem a thirty-nine year old and a fifty year old?"
The pair blinked. "Uh, men?" Greg answered.
Sam twitched a little.
Frodo lifted an eyebrow. "And if they were not Men?"
John's eyes narrowed, and Greg gave him a slow nod. "Well, they'd be adults," the guardsman returned.
Frodo nodded as well. "Sam is thirty-nine, and I am fifty years old."
Silence.
Finally John returned, "Fifty?"
"Yes,"
"And Sam's younger than you?"
"By eleven years."
"We met when I were nine and Mr Frodo jes' int' his tweens," Sam added.
Memories of that meeting flitted through Frodo's head. "That was a good day," he murmured.
"Aye," Sam agreed, smiling.
"You're fifty." Greg repeated.
"I am." This time he bowed a little in response as well, over the table, hoping to nip the question off short.
The guardsman shook his head. "Gotta say, I hope I look that good at fifty!"
"A matter of illusion, I assure you," Frodo returned, hoping that the words sounded far calmer and cooler than the nausea he felt within.
Again, an uncomfortable silence descended on the room. Frodo quietly sipped at the beer Greg had provided and used the time to calm himself from the reminder of the irrevocable nature of that which he had once carried, but as he picked at his egg roll again he found that he'd lost what little appetite he'd still had.
Finally, John Watson drew a deep breath as if coming back to himself from someplace far away, muttered, "Right," and turned his gaze back to the hobbits.
"Well, do you want to tell us what you're thinking, Frodo?" he asked. "I mean, if your biggest issue is that you and Sam are going to get hurt, particularly Sam, we should have put that to rest by now." Here he looked very hard at Frodo. "But is it?"
Frodo felt himself flush. For a time he remained silent, searching his thoughts. At last he spoke slowly. "It isn't such a simple matter to decide, John. Mr Holmes displays many interests and traits which I have come to associate solely with the enemy. His manners, his experiments, his knowledge, his lack of regard for others, even the trappings of this very room all speak of a mind so twisted to evil as to think - to think that he'd fallen under the sway of the enemy."
Sam was nodding vigourously. "Y' wouldn' believe how many o'them orcs were a-carryin' shields as had death's-heads on 'em. Y' wouldn' believe it. An' then we come here. An' there's this place as ever'one says is safe, but there's a man's head-bone!" and he gestured to the one sitting on the mantle. "An' there another one!" He gestured to the large picture hanging on the wall in the prominent place of the room, where if this were a hobbit-hole there would have been a wreath or family portraits, or perhaps even a family tree. "An' there's ears in the cupboards," Sam continued, "an' they ain't jes' pictures of ears, oh, no, they're real Men's ears in thet cupboard. An' there's dog hair in th' privy, an' beet'les pinned in a pic'ture, an' cow bones on th' wall, an'- How d'y'know as Mr Frodo an' I are safe, when there's all these signs of him bein' aligned with Sauron!"
John looked affronted. "First of all," he retorted. "I haven't got the faintest bloody idea of who Sowron is apart from what you've told me, and neither of you've told me much! And secondly," he paused. "These might be signs of evil where you come from, but here they are the signs of a scientist and a scientific mind; a person who wants to know how things work and why they work the way they do, and what makes one thing different from the other, and..." He sighed again. "Yeah. I don't know what to tell you two anymore."
Silence filled the room.
After a time John began again. "If you're not going to stay here then where are you going to stay? Because I agree with Sherlock completely: you wouldn't last four days on the street. You don't know enough about London or the modern culture to make it, and when they figured out you weren't humans they'd sell you each off to the highest bidders.
The hobbits started at the words. "Sell us?" Sam demanded.
John shook his head, laughing unhappily. "You guys don't get it. You bloody don't get it. It's not just a matter of, can anyone else help you, it's a matter of, would they? Would they let you go home? You two are- the find of the millennium. Both millenniums: now and the last one. People have been searching for -longing for- sentient life outside of the human race since the world..um, yeah. Since the first stories were written. We have searched the globe over looking for anything, any sign of any other life, to the point that we are now sending shuttles into space looking for those mysterious people because we can't find any on this planet. For you two to be here? Right now?" he laughed again, incredulously, and shook his head. "No, I'm not trying to scare you blokes, but I think that he's absolutely right. Except I don't think that you'll end up in some pimp's den, I think that you'll end up in a laboratory while you're alive and a museum when you're dead. I'm sorry. I know that's not what you want to hear-"
Frodo felt his heart quicken as John spoke; the words seeming to close around him like an iron/steel trap even without knowing what they all meant. He looked wildly at the men. "What then shall we do?" he asked. "I know that you would say stay here, but Mr Holmes also desires to know who and what we are. Will he truly allow us to go home?"
"Actually, yeah, he will," John said. "You see, Sherlock Holmes might be the only scientist in the world who doesn't care about money, and actively doesn't want fame. Maybe he wants recognition in the scientific community, but that wouldn't be this. This would be fame, and fame kind of annoys him. All he wants in life is to solve puzzles. So, yeah, he's going to love your case. He's going to solve the problem; he's going to study you along the way. But once the case is solved and he can send you home he will. Mostly because he doesn't like people," he added as an afterthought.
Sam snorted. "Thet's all well an' good, it is," he returned, "but what about you two? From what you're a-sayin' we'd be a pretty prize for you as well. A chance t' show your quality, so t' speak," he added in a lower voice, and Frodo knew that he was thinking of at least Faramir as well, and possibly poor Boromir too.
The men were silent for a time before John spoke again. "No. I'd be tempted to; I'll admit that. I mean, when your flatmate takes cases based on level of interest rather than what will actually pay the bills that kind of money is tempting, but no." He straightened, looking up at them. "I don't think I could live with myself if I did that."
Frodo nodded solemnly.
"An' you?" Sam asked, turning to Greg.
"Same," the guardsman murmured. Then with a heavy chuckle, "I mean, we're friends, right? Friends don't sell each other into slavery."
Frodo nodded slowly, musing on the words. He could sense no lie in either man, but what did he know of men? He knew of Aragorn's faithfulness, and Boromir's fall, but not through corruption of his own making. He knew of Faramir's wisdom and Barliman Butterbur's kindness. Each of those men could have betrayed him to great gain of their own, and yet hadn't. Not even Boromir, who had tried to save his cousins from orcs and lost his own life in doing so. These two felt like those men had. True-hearted. Trustworthy. But was that merely a wish? A desire to stop running? A longing for a safe harbour against the world? What of Denethor, willing to deny his king, and to deny his people their rightful ruler as long as he remained in power? What of Bill Ferny, who would sell anything to anybody, as Aragorn had once told him.
"Do you remember the night that Strider the Ranger asked to be our companion and guide?" he murmured, not looking at anyone.
"Aye," Sam muttered. He gave Frodo a shrewd look. "Y'sayin' as Mr Sherlock looks fairer an' feels fouler?"
Frodo, who'd not been thinking any such thing, started, and Greg laughed whilst John made an offended noise and opened his mouth, but then said, "I was going to say something, but you're not wrong." He gave them a lopsided smile.
"On either count," Frodo laughed, and the indecision was broken. He gave Sam a fond smile and then turned back to the men, solemn again. "I, for my part, will stay and trust to your words, gentlemen. Sam may do as he so chooses-"
"As if'n y' think I'm a-leavin' you now, Frodo Baggins," Sam returned sharply. "It's there an' back again. Together. This might be 'there', but ain't 'back again' yet; not by a long road. If'n you're a-stayin' here then I am too."
Frodo nodded. Then he turned to John.
"Do you find this an acceptable decision, Mr Watson?" he asked politely.
The man raised a brow, but nodded politely. "Yes, I do," he agreed. "But I'd still really prefer John.
"He has t' say thet way," Sam suddenly interjected. "It's part of bein' head of th' Baggins family. Y' have t' know how t' pro'perly word things, an' ask questions even if'n ever'one knows th' answer already. It's formal'ity an' it's as much Shire gent'lehobbit speak as m' own speech shows as I'm workin' class. He has t' do business an' meetin's an' such this way; it's how he were raised."
Frodo looked at him in surprise, and then flushed as he realised the likely meaning behind several odd or confused looks the two men had given him. Of course they weren't going to be familiar with Shire form.
"Okay, that's - fair, and good to know," John returned. "I must say, I didn't realise that this was a formal meeting; I thought that it was just a bunch of new friends trying to talk through a problem. But yes, you can stay here, or should I word that more formally?"
The Baggins felt heat wash over his body and he instinctively pulled himself up straighter. "No, that will do. Thank you." He rose and bowed politely to his host, and then added earnestly, "Forgive me, John, Greg. I meant no offense to either of you-"
"Yeah, no, we weren't offended," John quickly interrupted. "At least I wasn't."
"I wasn't either," Greg hastily added.
"It's just - nice to have some context," John continued. "Now that I understand that your..formality is part of your culture I can...understand a little better how to communicate with you." With a straight face he added, "Now we just have to get Sherlock on board with Sam's way of speaking."
Sam snorted. "I reckon as thet'll be as likely as th' King's return." Then he paused with a stunned look on his face. Frodo glanced up at his friend, amused.
"Well...okay," John nodded.
"Mebbe I should say, as likely as Mr Bilbo havin' his book finished when we get back t' Rivendell," Sam corrected himself weakly, and Frodo laughed.
Once finished he looked to the closed kitchen door again and sighed. "He going to be insufferable, isn't he?"
"Probably," John admitted. "Do you want me to-?"
"No, I shall go." But it was still not without reluctance that he rose from the table and approached the door. Behind him he could hear Sam following.
At the door he paused to knock, but his knuckles barely brushed the door before it flew open with a slam. Instinctively the hobbit threw himself backward out of danger. A barely-registered hiss of metal told him that Sam had drawn his sword again. It was immediately followed by the sounds of a scramble at the table.
Sherlock ignored all of this, his focus boring into Frodo. "You're staying then?"
"We are," Frodo answered grimly. "I still do not-"
"Good! I need two more samples from each of you, one of blood, one of hair. John!" looking up at the man, who was by now at the hobbits' side. "We're going to Barts; I need the mass spectrometre."
"The mass- What for?" John returned.
Frodo gave the detective a frosty look. "More samples?" he demanded.
"You heard me the first time." And then to John again, "The element isn't in Sam's blood, or at least it doesn't appear to be. This could be due to faulty equipment, or it could be that somehow Sam avoided coming into contact with it. Both choices need more study. Ideally, approximately ten more hobits would arrive in London to be tested, but since that seems unlikely we'll need to take more samples from these ones to determine what it does and whether it is in Sam's body or not."
"Yeah, really unlikely," John sighed. "Okay... Okay."
"No, it is not O, K," Frodo returned sternly. "You already have taken more than enough blood from each of us-"
"And if the make-up of your blood is crucial to unravel this case and send you home?" Sherlock returned condescendingly.
"I understand that it is not common," Frodo retorted. "However, what has this 'el-em-ent' to do with Sam and I returning to Minas Tirith?"
"Possibly everything," Sherlock answered. "The composition of your own body alone is a fascinating study. The combinations and amounts are such that if the common elements alone were put together in a human's body he would die. The human body wasn't made to sustain those levels of chemicals; consequently one would naturally assume that the mysterious element is what keeps you alive; however if it isn't in your companion, a fellow hobit who hasn't left your side throughout your journey, then the nature of this element must be different altogether, again asking why it's there and what it's for. Perhaps it holds the key to finding Minas Tirith; perhaps it doesn't. Further testing is necessary to determine the answer, requiring further samples. Would you prefer to give them here, or at Bart's?"
"Yeah, we're not doing it here," John immediately jumped in. "This flat is not sanitary."
Frodo looked up at him. "Sam did."
"Yeah. Yeah, he did," John nodded. "And we are not doing it here again."
"The question remains though, are we doing it at all," Frodo sighed. Mr Holmes immediately began to talk again, but Frodo ignored this, taking a few steps away so that he could think. He knew now what Mr Holmes thought, and wanted. Likely he would continue to want this el-em-ent until Frodo himself left. John had already told enough stories about his adventures with Sherlock that Frodo was certain the healer would go along with nearly everything his friend said. Perhaps they didn't want fame, or to sell himself and Sam (the reminder of that danger made his heart beat quicken), but they were asking for the very thing which John had said would bring fame. Then too, it was possible to do things with blood, whether freely given or forcibly taken. Magic things. Things which Frodo wanted nothing to do with and still was not convinced that Mr Holmes was not secretly trying to do.
"Master Lestrade," he finally spoke, "what do you say? Mr Holmes already has one 'sample' of our blood. Do you think that he truly needs another?"
The guardsman looked startled at being addressed, but thought through the question and after a moment, nodded. "It - actually seems pretty reasonable to me. I mean, it probably wasn't a very big sample in the first place." He looked questioningly at John.
"It seemed like plenty to me," Frodo returned softly.
"No, you're right; it was only an ounce or so," John agreed. "He's probably used up most of it on the tests he's been running all day."
"I would think that'd be fairly obvious," Sherlock muttered.
Sam scowled. "By your leave, Mr Frodo, I'd say no. Who's t' say what he's actually a-doin' with 'em in there, with none t' watch him? F'r all we know he could be a-workin' f'r th' enemy, a-tryin' t' hurt y' again."
John Watson rubbed a hand across his face in frustration and sent Greg a look which plainly said, Do you see what the problem is?
For a moment the guardsman gaped at them, and then weakly said, "We don't - do that here, in England."
"So you continue to say," Frodo sighed. And I don't have the knowledge of either magic or sience to know whether you are telling me the truth or no. "I wish Gandalf was here."
"Aye," Sam nodded.
"Why?" John asked.
"He knows magic," Frodo answered absently. "He could look into your minds and tell me whether or not I should trust Mr Holmes. But he isn't here, and I have only my small knowledge to guide me in this matter." He fell silent again.
"He could - look into our minds?" John echoed sceptically. Frodo ignored this.
"Aye. He's a wizard. He can do thet," Sam answered.
"Of course he can," John sighed.
"Ridiculous," Sherlock snorted.
-0-0-0-
A/N: On chopsticks: Frodo is not making fun of the Chinese people or their culture, and I truly hope that he (and I) didn't sound that way. He is actually critiquing my own personal lack of ability to use chopsticks. I love attempting to use them when I eat Chinese, but I REALLY don't have the hang of it yet, as John's poor demonstration attempt and Frodo's subsequent struggles showcase.
A/N 2: From here on out if a character starts to consistently spell a word correctly there was simply another spelling lesson that I opted not to tell you about. Hopefully that's most of them.