I come back from the dead to post another one-shot. I love this story so much you guys; I wish I could get more inspiration (or maybe it's just that I need more time…it's one of those. Possibly both).

Anyhoo, this is based off of that scene in The Fellowship of the Ring (also in the book) when Frodo is showing Bilbo the Ring at Rivendell, and Bilbo sort of goes all Gollum on his heir. Hope that clears things up somewhat…

God bless and have a great day (or night)!
ThePro-LifeCatholic

I don't own the rights to BBC Sherlock or The Lord of the Rings series (either the books or the film adaptations). What I really wish I owned was enough time to actually write everything that I want to write…but sadly, I don't see that happening anytime in the near future.

Quick little note: This one-shot was written by me (ThePro-LifeCatholic).

I figured we should let you guys know who wrote each one-shot, since this story is being co-written by myself and my sister, SimmonsButterflys.

Mrs. Hudson had her moments of determined resolution. She would demand that her renters take responsibility for their own messes and clean up after themselves. Of course, by this, she usually just meant Sherlock. Today had been one of those days.

"I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock!" had been the first words from the landlady's mouth that morning, and the day had only gone downhill from there. Later that same morning, when John Watson received a text message from his former flatmate, he had hurried over to 221B Baker Street as quickly as he could. What he hadn't expected was to find Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, standing in the middle of his flat with a feather duster in hand and a desperate look in his eyes.

"Can you help me tidy up the flat, John?" Sherlock asked meekly. If it had been anyone else, John would have thought it a plea for help. But, as everyone knew, Sherlock Holmes never begged. All the same, John agreed to assist Sherlock, and soon the two were busily clearing surfaces, rearranging furniture, and sweeping up the several inches of dust that had gathered on every object.

"I don't see why you need all these papers," John muttered, picking up a stack of old newspapers. He wrinkled his nose and fought back a sneeze as dust wafted from the paper. Sherlock glanced up and reached over, snatching the papers and setting them on top of a growing pile of oddities.

"I may need them," he answered curtly, tossing a pillow behind him. John shook his head.

"They were at least a decade old," he pointed out. Sherlock shrugged and retreated into the closet by the front door. Soon he was throwing random odds and ends onto the recently cleared floor. Dr. Watson sighed and moved into the kitchen. He frowned at the sight before him; Sherlock had obviously been in the middle of some complex and hazardous science experiment. As much as John wanted to clear it up and throw everything in the trash, he was reluctant to move anything in case of explosions. Better leave the kitchen area to Sherlock. A sudden cry from the detective sent John running to the front room.

"What?"

Sherlock kicked some boxes out of his way, brandishing a long metal pole. "I found your old cane. Don't know why I kept it."

John stared at the cane; a strange light sprang into his eyes as he moved closer to Sherlock.

"My old cane…" he murmured softly, a small smile twitching at the ends of his mouth. He reached towards it gently, almost endearingly. "…I should very much like…to see it again…one last time…" With a sudden movement, John Watson lunged towards Sherlock, arms outstretched. Sherlock jerked backwards. He could've sworn that John's eyes had grown to at least twice their original size, a wild, manic light gleaming inside them. His mouth opened wide, revealing rows of sharp fangs. His groping hands looked like clawed talons, snatching at the cane.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was pulling a pan of freshly-backed biscuits out of the oven. She hummed softly to herself, wondering if Sherlock would be wanting any. No doubt he'd be hungry, especially after cleaning up his whole flat. He really wasn't that messy, she mused to herself. No; he just waited a long time between cleanings, and he was a bit of a hoarder.

A strangled, very un-man-like scream sounded from a floor above, followed almost immediately by a loud *thunk*. Then a door opened and slammed shut, and footsteps pounded down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson wiped her hands on a dishtowel, mentally preparing herself to receive a disheveled flat-renter with complaints about that "curly-headed bloke" who was so prone to terrorizing the other people in 221B. The landlady certainly hadn't expected Sherlock himself to appear in the doorway to her kitchen a second later, panting for breath. He looked at her, wide-eyed, then glanced over his shoulder.

"Is something wrong, Dearie?" Mrs. Hudson asked, an aura of concern springing up around her. Sherlock didn't respond; he looked from her to the stairway. Within his mind palace, the poor detective was struggling against a cacophony of emotions, including shock, confusion, and disbelief. But how could he describe what he had just thought he'd seen?

"What the BLOODY HECK, SHERLOCK?!" John's voice sounded bewildered and angry. Very angry.

Instead of answering, Sherlock ducked out of the kitchen, tightening the knot of his scarf and turning up his coat collars. Mrs. Hudson followed him out.

"Where're you off to now, Sherlock?" she wanted to know.

"When John comes looking for me, don't tell him where I've gone," was Sherlock's reply. He flung open the door to the flat, stepping out into the London air. Turning on his heel, he marched briskly down the street, disappearing into an alley-way. As Mrs. Hudson looked on, John came down the stairs at a quick pace.

"Where'd he go?" the army doctor asked. Mrs. Hudson shrugged, and pointed outside…in the opposite direction Sherlock had gone in.

"I think I saw him go that way, Dear. Didn't tell me why he was leaving; he just up and left without any explanation!" She paused when she saw the black and purple mark on John's head. "What's happened to you?"

"Nothing too serious," John said dismissively. "At least, nothing worse than what Sherlock's gonna get when I catch him." Without another word, John Watson started down the street, peering down the side roads as he went.

Mrs. Hudson watched him a moment. Then with a reserved sigh and a head shake, she shut the door and went into the kitchen. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes; she'd never understand them.