Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A.N. To mrspencil for being my awesome 200th reviewer during the December challenge. I hope you enjoy my dear!

I'll never get your limits

John Hamish Watson is a source of never ending surprises. People assume to have him all figured out as a nice, normal bloke, but that doesn't even come close to scratching the surface of everything John is. Sherlock, at least, managed to understand the adrenaline junkie inside his friend from the start, but even if that is a big part of John, once again it's not all. Every now and then, the sleuth will discover something new to treasure in the John dedicated wing of his mind palace, and that is absolutely delightful.

Most people aren't only idiots. They're awfully...simple, and once Sherlock has figured them out they don't warrant a second glance. They're forgettable. Boring. John is never boring – and that's one of the highest compliments the consulting detective can pay to a person.

And he likes Sherlock's company in turn – which makes him more than a rare find. If the sleuth was a religious man, he would be thanking God daily for allowing their meeting.

When Lestrade calls them, for three bodies and a witness who can't be questioned (and what is that supposed to mean? Probably that the Yarders are too ignorant to do so), Sherlock is happy – and happier that John has nothing he should rather be doing, so he accompanies the detective with no guilty or irritated feelings, just shared enthusiasm.

The address is a nice two-story house in the suburbs, with a literal white picket fence and a dog whose anguished howling comes from the backyard. Sherlock wonders wryly if it is the witness who can't be questioned.

Instead, once inside, they see their witness. A twelve or so girl with long black curls and brown eyes. She's curled on herself on the floor, Donovan hovering uncomfortably over her. It looks as if she was trying to bring her outside when their witness' legs gave out and she refused to budge anymore.

The kid is crying, shivering and repeating...something. Sherlock tries to understand it – he doesn't know every language talked in the world, of course not, but h has at least enough knowledge of the major branches to get a general idea usually – but her words confound him.

"She's delirious," he pronounces; Sally nods subtly, and that should be his hint to rethink his conclusions. Instead, he calls, "John," in a plea for the doctor to help since the medics Lestrade has undoubtedly called aren't here yet. Not that he needs to prompt his friend.

What the sleuth doesn't expect is John replying, "No, she's not. She's clearly in shock though, so if someone could get her a blanket at least." There's a quiet scolding in his ever polite voice.

Donovan scrambles to obey, beating Sherlock to it by a fraction of second. It's incredible how much John can command people's obedience without exerting any particular effort, just by evidently expecting compliance. It's a talent he must have developed in his career.

In the meantime, the doctor starts talking with the kid. His voice is soft, reassuring. The young girl looks at him, obviously surprised and almost sizing him up. Then she replies something.

It's so irksome being the one who doesn't understand now: Sherlock is not used to it. John being more skilled than him at some foreign language is utterly unexpected – the man doesn't even know French, for crying out loud – and more so it is him knowing something Sherlock can't even start to identify. A pleasant surprise, though. They might get answers from their witness, now. (Unless she should be tricked into yielding them – John can't sustain a façade for the life of him).

"She'll answer – not in or to English, though," John announces.

Donovan, finally back with the requested blanket, shows her surprise and a bit of disappointment. Not even she is stupid enough to suspect the doctor to tweak the girl's answers, can she? Thank God that she's behind the kid who won't catch her expression. It would irk Sherlock to see one's cooperation unappreciated, so he thinks it would make the girl angry too.

"It's been a long time since I talked this, I hope my grammar is still up to par – I don't want her to scorn me – but anyway, tell me what to ask." Of course John already knows what to ask – the usual questions – but he's giving himself too little credit as always and being considerate of them all in one.

Some of the girl's answer make little sense though. "She says four dwarves did it, but I wouldn't take it as a description of an actual medical condition. Just that they were not tall. Oh, and definitely bearded," John recounts for them.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock can't help but query. Which language has mixed descriptors for facial hair and height? It's weird.

"Of course. She'd have said hobbit otherwise," the doctor assures. As if that's supposed to make sense.

"Hobbit?" Sally echoes, shocked. Why does she know some words in this mystery language? And if she does, why didn't she recognize it before? Sherlock hates being inferior to Donovan, though he has no problem – hell, he likes – when John's competence shines. "What are you speaking, John?" the sergeant asks.

"Sindarin," John says simply. Sherlock has never heard that name, but Sally clearly has, because she has the gall to snicker. The sleuth glowers at her, but it's useless; their witness clams up and even with John's gentle coaxing she refuses to utter another word. "Oh, wonderful, Sally!" John bits back in irritation.

In the meantime, the paramedics Lestrade undoubtedly called for her finally arrive. John apologizes once again to the girl, asks her if she'll be fine without an interpreter (Sherlock doesn't need to know the language to read John) and at her tiny nod he follows Sherlock to the actual crime scene.

The three bodies are in the sitting room, each shot multiple times. The girl's parents and her big brother. Upstairs, overlooking the room, there is a door slightly ajar that must be the girl's room – the reason she saw them without being noticed and killed herself.

"Why did you take so long?" Lestrade queries, annoyed.

"We were talking to your witness," Sherlock explains.

"In Sindarin," Sally sneers. She followed them to 'show them in', useless as it was, but apparently because she can't let it go.

"Well, yes, I don't care if you talked in bloody Klingon either. What did she say?" the detective inspector inquires curtly.

"Not much," John apologizes.

"Because Donovan laughed at her," Sherlock points out helpfully. The sergeant sends him a dirty look, but at least Lestrade will undoubtedly have words with her about proper behaviour later.

John explains what little they know, and then the sleuth is finally free to analyse the crime scene. Between what he sees and the girl's words, what happened is all too clear. "They want you to think it was a robbery ended in tragedy, but it is not. The man was a manager. He'd recently fired a lot of people. Some of them decided to take revenge. The son worked with his father, and you'll find that your murderers worked in his same section. They did take something randomly in order to make it look like a burglar and they might be just in dire enough need for money to be so stupid a not to throw it away, but maybe try to pawn it, so you have it all too easy".

Really, this wasn't even a two. Sherlock suspects he's been called in for his linguistic prowess – Lestrade has heard him blabber in enough languages when high – even though it was John's that ultimately resolved things.

They leave after that, and once at 221B, Sherlock says, "What you did, talking to that girl, it was good. Very. Donovan is an idiot." He'd like to praise John with more adequate words, but after Baskerville the doctor remains wary each time the sleuth is the one offering too enthusiastic – though always very well deserved – praise for a change.

"Thank you. And I already know, I'm certainly not letting her laughing get to me. I'm not a teenager anymore – and I've never cared for gits' opinions, not even then. Besides, I'm sure that she's ridiculously deep in many fandoms of her own."

Fandoms? Might this be a Sindarin word too, Sherlock wonders. Oh, no matter. "Whose language is Sindarin, anyway?" he wonders, curious.

"The elves'," John replies with a grin.

"Ah. Ah. Ah. Sometimes, John, you have a very peculiar sense of humour," the sleuth says. Elves? Really?

"I'm not joking," his friend insists, now without smiling.

Well, this is odd. He has not drugged his flatmate. Ad John doesn't indulge in various substances like he used to. At least not that he knows. So what? "John...you do know that elves don't exist, don't you?" Sherlock queries, his voice carefully even – not even a hint of his worry in it.

"Of course I know, Sherlock. It doesn't mean that they can't have a language. That's the result of a writer who doubles as a professor with definitely too much free time, and no internet to spend it on."

Oh. Now it makes sense. John is not drugged, nor delirious himself, or anything. Just another pop culture reference the detective has deleted if he ever knew it. "And how many people know Sindarin?" he asks. This could be very useful.

"Well, not that many. I mean, Tolkien – the writer – obviously has heaps of fans, but definitely not all of them bother to learn Sindarin. I'm glad I did, though. Not just because it helped with the investigation. I think that girl needed to connect to someone, if for a short while," John replies.

He very much does not expect the sleuth's next question. "Could you teach Sindarin to me?"

John grins widely. "Of course, Mellon. That means friend, by the way, and it's the first word anyone learns – you'll see why. Or read why. Do you prefer starting with the movies or the books?"

"What?!" Sherlock yelps, sounding definitely alarmed. "No, no, neither. I don't mean to do either . I only want to learn the language. When they teach you French they don't drag you forcibly to watch Les Miserables, after all. Elves, really?!"

"Because fawns are so much cooler. Sorry for liking elves, Mr. Narnia. If you do despise them, why do you want to learn their language?" John teases gently, quite puzzled.

"Do I need to explain how mightily useful it would be sharing a secret language with you? If we get both kidnapped, we can plan our escape without being understood," the sleuth bits back with a huff. Not to mention that he's always wanted a friend to use codes with – and now he has one.

"Useful. Right. Of course." The doctor seems a bit disappointed by his adjective's choice. The detective always disappoints, doesn't he? But why? "You know what?" John adds, "You're still reading the books. Because the day we are kidnapped by another Tolkien obsessed fan, who will understand us and get angry, if you can discuss with him the respective merits of Arwen Undómiel and Lúthien Tinúviel – Lúthien is a lot cooler, by the way – maybe our kidnapper will see you differently and rethink the decision to shoot in punishment for attempting escape."

"And why can't you be the one discussing that for the both of us?" Sherlock positively whines.

"Who is our kidnapper more likely to want to shoot?" John bits back with a smile.

"Thank you for reminding me that I'm instantly hateful to people," the sleuth replies with a grimace. He usually has much more control over himself but – he didn't expect the jab. Not from John.

"What? No!" the doctor protests vehemently and immediately, "I meant, you're the genius detective who must be stopped. I'm just the sidekick, and it's easier that people don't deem me as a threat – or in plainer words, consider me useless – on my own. No need to waste a good bullet."

Sherlock actually snorts at that. "However did we get caught by people that idiotic? Useless? You have so many different skills that I'll never get your limits, John. And you're at least as dangerous to criminals as me – sometimes more."

As always, Sherlock's praise surprises his friend. He's lucky not to be the blushing type, otherwise he'd definitely be red now. "They got lucky," he says instead, referring to their scenario. "And...thanks."

"Since when do you thank people for stating facts?" the detective wonders, puzzled. "Anyway, you're welcome."

"When the facts are flattering," John explains quietly. It's not often that people recognize the width of his skills. He's used to being taken for granted. Of course he's grateful.

"Facts don't flatter. Facts are facts," the sleuth replies stubbornly. Flattering is a form of manipulation. He's not manipulating John – not now.

"Tea?" the doctor replies, eager to shift the conversation. As nice as being recognized is, starting a philosophical discussion with the detective is not worth the hassle. Sherlock nods.

"Anyway, given that you'll be enjoying Tolkien's – or at the very least Tolkien-inspired – works, do you prefer them in the chronological order of the events happening or in the order the movies came out?" John asks.

"Whatever you did, John," is the sleuth's uninterested reply.

"Oh no, I was all messed up. I saw the first movie, then read the corresponding book – which is last in chronological order – then went to read the creation myths, of which there's no film, and left the middle book chronologically – and last movie trilogy – last," John laughs.

"Whatever you did, John. It worked well enough for you," Sherlock insists. And if he wants to share the same experience with his dear friend, he doesn't say. That's bit pitiful, isn't it? But if he has to suffer through this, he's getting something out of it.

"Whatever you want, but don't complain it gets confusing then," John concedes. "Movie night tonight then?"

"Since you deem it a necessary evil." Sherlock shrugs.

"It's not that bad, I promise. Though I warn you, Sherlock. I heard enough hobbit jokes from my old friends, and I'm really tired of them," his friend states.

"Got it," the sleuth assures. Obviously he wasn't going to mock John. Why does he put Sherlock in the same category as brainless people? "I'm pointing out if characters are idiots, though."

"Of course," John agreed. "After all, they are."

They are? By John's standards? Sherlock thought. Oh joy.