Chapter 10 - Pieces to the Puzzles
"And what is this one?"
John barely glanced at the machine in question. "Microwave. It uses electricity to cook things really fast."
The hobit —John supposed that he had to call him a hobit now; he couldn't exactly argue with the seven tests Sherlock had already run proving the claim (the five still in progress he certainly could, but Sherlock's web of conclusions did seem to be tightening)— the hobit gave it an appraising look. "How fast?"
John shrugged. "It'll boil water in two minutes."
Their odd client glanced up at him. "Like your electric kettle?"
"Yeah, more or less."
"Can you cook other things in it?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, you can cook basically anything in it, but you don't really want to do bread. It usually turns out soggy."
"I see." The little bloke eyed the microwave suspiciously.
Sure you do. John didn't call him on it though. "But it'll heat up a great bowl of soup in about a minute or so, while on the stove it'd take.." he shrugged a little, "what, at least ten?"
The blue eyes widened, alight with (what appeared to be) curiosity and awe. "How does it do that?"
John really did try to think, but... "Sorry; I've - got no idea on that one."
The client looked a little unhappy with the answer, but he nodded and moved on.
"This is the stove, correct?"
John blinked. Didn't you stand there and watch me cooking beans earlier?
"...Yeah."
"Where do you stock it?"
"Stock it?" John echoed. Surely the creature didn't mean what he thought he meant, right?
The hobit grimaced a little. "That is the term we use back home for adding wood to the fire to keep it alight," he explained.
Yeah, he meant what John had thought.
"Well..we don't actually do that anymore," the man tried. "We used to, but... Now we have a way to keep the fire lit all of the time without ever having to burn wood."
Their little client's gaze whipped away from the stove to stare up at John in shock, and maybe even a little awe. "Do you know how?" he squeaked.
"Nope. Sorry. I know that part of it uses electricity to work, but..." John shrugged a little.
His companion sighed disappointedly. "A shame. That would be a useful thing to know."
"Yeah. Why do you think we invented it?" John deadpanned.
The hobit gave him a wry smile in return.
They'd been running tests since Sherlock got home; sometimes tests on various samples, sometimes Sherlock had been physically running tests on their client - tests which John was carefully supervising to ensure that his overenthusiastic flatmate didn't go too far.
Unlike Sherlock (who, as usual, was a little too nosy for the client to actually like him) he and the hobit seemed to be getting on rather well. Not, of course, to the point that he was going to show the bloke Sherlock's latest experiment, but then again he wouldn't have shown Lestrade or Mrs H the newest addition in the fridge either. In fact, he was still trying to figure out a way to dispose of it without either guest or flatmate noticing.
Yeah, good luck with that.
Right now Sherlock was in the living room studying his wall, which was plastered with the particulars of his newest case, while the client took the opportunity to indulge his "Took nature" (because apparently he was a quarter of a Took and that was very important because "Took nature" was what made him curious), and he was asking about everything in the flat that he didn't recognise, from the Rubik's Cube to the microwave and back again. Right now he was frowning with some intensity at the— John cursed inwardly.
"Jon?" the high voice began cautiously. "Is this not one of the items which Master Homes was using at the lab yesterday?"
John pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to be somewhere else, anywhere else other than here.
It didn't work.
"...Yes," he muttered.
The hobit's head whipped towards him so fast that watching it almost made John's neck ache, and he stared at the man as if in shock for a moment. John resisted the urge to take a step back.
"What?" he demanded.
The little bloke shook his head and returned his attention to the machine.
"Nothing. What is this, please?" The tone was surprisingly calm for the reaction he'd just given.
"Nothing?" John echoed, not believing it for a second.
"You merely reminded me of someone I know," the hobit explained. "It startled me. Now, if you please..."
So polite and so persistent. With a sigh the doctor surrendered. "That's a microscope."
"A my-crow-scope?"
"Yeah. It's for...er... finding the.. invisible clues in a case."
Another startled, almost scared, look was shot at him, but then the hobit immediately glanced away again, resuming his neutral expression.
"Invisible clues?" he echoed casually.
"Yeah, well, we of the modern life," a phrase which had practically taken on a life of its own overnight, "tend to call them cells and bacteria and... other things."
"Sells and backteareea," the hobit echoed, as if trying to commit the words to memory.
John was going to murder the bastards responsible for this. It was two thousand bloody ten; there wasn't a person in Europe who shouldn't know basic body structure and what cells were! Taking a grip on the worn tatters of his patience he began yet another long and somewhat convoluted conversation, this time on the basic physiology and anatomy that the little bloke should really have learnt back in primary school.
-0-
"So, in summary of what you are saying, all things, both living and not, are made of these small building blocks called cells, and because they are so small it is impossible to see them without a my-crow-scope. Correct?"
Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of explaining and arguing, and the hobit managed to reduce it all to one sentence. John didn't know when he'd last felt so completely frustrated by anyone (other than his flatmate, of course). He was not a teacher! He was a soldier and a captain, an army doctor, a former surgeon, lately a blogger and a GP... He didn't exactly work with people who had less than a ten-year-old's knowledge about science! If this turned out to be Mycroft's idea of a joke then the 'British Government' was going to find out (first hand, without sneaking through John's personal files!) how hard his fist was!
"Yeah."
"And this my-crow-scope shows one these small building blocks, these cells, not by magic, but by use of light and glass pieces shaped and placed - just so."
"Yep."
"Remarkable," the hobit murmured.
John felt his brows twitch a little, and quickly looked away to hide his frustration. The poor bloke should have gotten over this awe in secondary school, but here he was, 30 years old, marvelling over a machine that he really should be so familiar with that ten years ago he would have been ready to shove up his teacher's—
"Jon?" The quiet voice was hesitant. "Might I ask a favour?"
The doctor raised an eyebrow, curious. Their client hadn't asked him for anything since the fiasco of the map last night. Yeah, he'd asked a lot of questions (hard questions!), but his only actual requests since The Map had been that Sherlock keep some of the more personal information he was deducing to himself, and then later that the experiments stop. (Both of which had been ignored.)
"What is it?"
Frodo hesitated a moment longer, and then asked quickly, almost as if he was afraid of offending (well, he always seemed to be afraid of that), "May I see it?"
John blinked. "The microscope?"
"The cells?" the other returned quietly, and..was that — excitement beneath all that careful formality? Was the poor bloke really so eager to learn about the world?
"Of course you can," John agreed and moved to the microscope himself, nearly missing the delighted smile that spread across their guest's face.
"Thank you," and the hobit gave him yet another of those irritating little bows.
John sighed a little, but still, "No problem," he smiled. "Now, what do you want to look at?"
The poor creature looked a little shocked. "What choices do we have?"
"Well..." That was a good question. "Technically we could use anything." Technically, yeah, but it would probably be a disaster if John showed him how many life forms lived in a water droplet, and any sort of blood experimentation was definitely out of the question with this bloke. Dirt would be as bad as water... And there was absolutely no way that he was about to take a mold sample out of the fridge!
"True," the hobit agreed carefully. "Then we needn't look at - matters of the body, as Master Homes does?"
Master Holmes. Sherlock was never going to let that one go.
"Not necessarily," John returned, "but that would be easier to see than a lot of other things." And a disaster waiting to happen! His mind scrambled for a suggestion.
"What if we tried a strand of your hair?"
The hobit took what appeared to be an involuntary step back, his eagerness vanishing. "My hair?" he faltered.
"Yeah," the doctor smiled, liking this suggestion. "That'll be an easy way to see what it's like. Just, go ahead and pick a hair while I get out the slide."
"Slide?" the hobit echoed cautiously.
"Yeah, basically it's a glass plate that we'll put your hair on so we can study it."
"O."
Slide removed and carefully held in his hand John turned to collect the hobit's hair, only to find the little creature motionless, studying him as if he was some rare form of spider.
"What?" John demanded crossly, patience nearly at its limit.
A few more seconds passed before the soft voice murmured, "Nothing." His hand slowly moved to his forelock, where he cautiously plucked a hair and held it out to the doctor.
Would you quit looking at me like I might eat you!
John nodded at the hair. "Okay. Look at it and tell me what you see."
The hobit withdrew his hand, still gazing at the man and not at the folicle. "It's - my own hair," he returned hesitantly.
"Describe it," John suggested.
The cautious gaze dropped to the hair and remained there for several seconds, silently examining it. "It's dark," he finally answered, "and curly, and rather short, although not as short as yours, I dare say." He gave the man a cheeky smile. It looked forced.
"Yeah, no," John agreed with a (much more genuine) grin of his own. "D'you see anything else?"
"It shines," the hobit offered. "And there seems to be a white knob on one end which is rougher in nature and very different from the rest of the hair. However, this knob seems to be smoothing away as I run the hair between my fingers, so it cannot be made of anything permanent."
John was a little impressed at the thoroughness of the observation. "Okay, that's good," he nodded. "Now, just put your hair on this slide." He held it out and Frodo cautiously placed the strand on the glass. "Now I just place this here— you can clearly see that there's no magic involved, right?" The bloke was abnormally worried about magic. Which, yeah, it did make sense to be worried about that sort of thing if you'd been conditioned to think of the world in medieval terms. Poor sod.
"None that is obvious, at least," their client countered. John glanced at him and the hobit gave him another cheeky grin, this one looking considerably more real. John rolled his eyes a little.
"No magic," he repeated, then pulled out the chair in front of him. "Climb up."
The little bloke clambered onto the seat and watched intently as John explained how the lenses worked, what the various knobs did, why the microscope had lights on it, etc. When the hobit appeared to be (semi)comfortable with how to work the machine John stepped back.
For a minute or so the kitchen was peacefully quiet whilst Frodo carefully worked the knobs. Then, the hobit became very still. The minute or so that now passed seemed to crawl by as John waited for some form of reaction.
He got it.
Their client abruptly spun towards him, so quickly that John thought he might fall off of the chair, and demanded sharply, "What. Is that?"
"Should be your hair," John shrugged, trying to seem unconcerned for Sherlock's (very expensive) microscope. "Want me to look?"
"Yes, please." He hopped off of the chair and John leaned in to peer through the eyepieces. The hair was a little out of focus, but the doctor couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. He adjusted the focus a little more and then nodded.
"Yeah. That's what a hair looks like when it's — if you were incredibly small, like.. smaller than an ant." (Much smaller.)
"It cannot be," Frodo protested. "Hair is smooth and thin and this is cracked like the ground in summer when the rains forsake the land!"
More poetry.
John pursed his lips. "Do you want one of mine? You can.. compare them?"
The hobit faltered in the midst of what looked to be the start of a long tirade and studied him warily. Slowly he nodded. "If you would be so kind," he agreed.
With a slight (unavoidable) twitch of his eyebrow (as the bizzarity of the situation crashed on top of him again) John plucked a semi-longish strand from his head and handed it to the hobit. He took it, glanced at it, and then stood there studying John with the strangest look on his face. Finally he said, "You truly don't believe in magic, do you?"
"Nope," John agreed.
The hobit continued to stare, hair still pinched between his fingers, frowning. At last he nodded and finally (!) placed the other hair on the slide and began the adjusting process.
He studied the hairs silently for a while, sometimes adjusting one or the other on the slide, sometimes adusting the knobs to see what each did; even going so far as to add one more of his own hairs to the mix. Once he was done he climbed off of the chair and looked up at John, a little abashed. "My apologies," he murmured. "It truly is my hair, and I should not have accused you of attempting to deceive me. It was completely uncalled for and I am sorry." He bowed low, humbly, to the doctor.
Okay, mate, okay! Don't overdo it.
"It's okay," he shrugged. "Don't worry about it."
Frodo still looked worried anyway. "Can you forgive my behaviour?"
Oh, for—! John took a deep breath. Exhaled. "Yes, of course I will," he tried. "I didn't take offence. You're new here after all." He smiled, trying to reassure his (very formal, very polite) guest. "It's not like you know how these things work. And," he quickly continued as the hobit opened his mouth, "yeah, you did doubt what I said, but it's natural for anyone to question something they don't understand. What matters is that you took the time to see if your opinion was correct or not, and when you found the facts you were willing to believe the truth. That's better than any apology, okay?"
The hobit gazed back, and then a little smile twitched his lips and he ducked slightly. "Very well," he murmured. "Thank you, —Jon."
The doctor shrugged a little. "No problem."
Frodo nodded, attention drifting back to the machine. "If I may," he began carefully.
John shrugged again. "Go ahead." Sherlock could never resist the lure of the microscope for long either.
"Why is it important to see these cells and backteareea, and hairs which look the size of logs and such things?"
John blinked. Okay, a question wasn't quite what he'd been expecting, but he recovered quickly. "Most of the time it's not, but when you're a detective" (scientist) "you've got to know that sort of thing."
"Why? How does being able to see these things possibly help Master Homes?"
"Well... okay, let's go back to cells are like blocks. D'you remember that?"
"Yes."
"So, all building blocks —all toy building blocks," he hastily corrected himself, "— are made out of wood, right?"
"Yes."
"But they're all— well, they all can be different types of wood, or different colours or shapes?"
The hobit smiled at little. "They can be, yes."
"Okay," John nodded. "Cells are the same way. A metal pan is going to be made of different 'blocks' than a plastic bin, or a glass mug."
The hobit was nodding slowly. Encouraged by this John continued. "And, going a bit deeper, an aluminium pan is going to have different 'blocks' than an iron one."
"A what?"
"Uh..." John almost kicked himself. "An oak tree is going to have different blocks than an ash," he hastily corrected. Metals, plastics, and all modern materials were out; plant life and trees were in, at least as far as the bloke's vocabulary was concerned.
"But what is aloo— al-you—"
"Later," John groaned. "It's - just a different type of metal; let's worry about that later. Would an oak tree and an ash tree be different from each other?"
"Yes."
"So their basic components, their cells, which are the essential pieces that make them what they are; they'll be different too, right?"
"It stands to good reason," the hobit agreed.
English professor.
"Right." John pushed back his annoyance yet again. "So, Sherlock can take a little sliver of the oak and a little sliver of the ash, and look at them together under the microscope, just like you did with the hairs, and he'll be able to tell which came from which tree, just by looking at how the 'building blocks' are shaped."
"The cells," Frodo said slowly. His brow was furrowing again. Not a good sign.
"Yeah."
The hobit nodded. Still frowning.
John gave in with a sigh. "What's wrong?"
With a sigh of his own the client admitted, "Forgive me, but I still do not understand how this is helpful to Master Homes." John noticed that the tips of his ears were turning pink. Again. He'd noticed them doing that a lot over the course of the morning.
Maybe that's one of his 'tells' for embarrassment.
"He can do the same thing with - clues that pertain to cases," John tried. "Like... Okay, mate, he's a detective," he hastily reminded the (rather squeamish) bloke. "He solves crimes. That's what detectives do. They solve crimes, and puzzles, and catch criminals. Okay?"
He received a hesitant nod.
"So, if a person dies and there's no obvious wound to tell us how it happened Sherlock can look at the person's blood and such, and he'll be able to figure out if the victim was poisoned, and if so, with what."
The hobit winced a little at the mention of poison, but (thankfully!) made no comment.
"And he can figure out what brand of cigarette produced a certain pile of ash, which could help him figure out the last hours of a—leading up to a crime, or pinpoint a certain suspect out of a group of other people. It's really a very useful tool in detective work," John concluded cheerfully.
Frodo was still frowning. "But, what has this to do with me? I haven't been poisoned or...as far as I know I've not used a sig-er-et, yet Master Homes was studying me at Bart's yesterday; my blood and spittle. Why? What was he looking for?"
That - was the question he'd really hoped their client wouldn't pick up on. He tried for casual. "We didn't know for certain that you hadn't been poisoned in some way, so..." He shrugged, trying to let the words trail away, but the hobit's eyes had already narrowed in suspicion.
"The drugs," he stated flatly.
John winced.
"..Yep."
The hobit's jaw clenched a little. "Master Watson, I believe that I stated quite explicitly—"
"Look, mate, Sherlock's a detective," John protested. "Double-checking and triple-checking everything is part of his job! It's really nothing against you; he doesn't take anyone at their word except himself. And sometimes he even questions that," he added thoughtfully. The man in the car boot in Surrey definitely came to mind...
"I need samples of everything you're wearing," a posh voice barked, and Frodo jumped nearly a foot into the air before turning to face Sherlock Holmes, standing in the doorway with that intense energy almost rolling off of him.
John straightened, alert and ready for action. The hobit, however, tipped his head back so that he could look Sherlock in the face and returned coolly, "I see, and what clews do you expect to find in scraps of my clothing?"
John smirked at the choice of words, but had to admit that it was necessary. Sherlock was being rather an arse currently (John personally thought that it was at least partial retaliation for Frodo constantly being so slow on the uptake), and their client had quickly learnt that simply asking 'why' or 'what do you need those for' only earned him a rather snappy, 'For the case!'
"Placement."
But of course the git could always do that.
"Placement?" the little bloke prodded.
Sherlock stared him with narrowed eyes for about three seconds before, "It's obvious at a glance that the cloth is handspun; the threads are too irregular for anything less. Fiber choices are all natural: wool, flax, silk; all fabrics easily produced in the 12th century. Given your base knowledge and alleged history nothing less than regionally available materials would do, apart from the silkworms. By studying the fabrics of your clothing I'll be able to determine what region the materials used come from and likely place your city within a thirty mile radius."
John wasn't surprised when, after a few seconds thought, their little client turned to him for an explanation.
"Basically, he thinks he can figure out where Minis Tirith is by studying your clothing," John explained, bracing himself for another round of twenty minute explanations.
"Yes," the hobit agreed quietly. "But, if you will pardon the question, what is a raideeus?"
John blinked. Stared. Finally he spoke. "You... understood what he was saying?"
"Yes, he spoke quite plainly," the hobit nodded. "The only words which I did not understand were 'raideeus' and 'twelveth senchury'."
John knew that he was gaping but he couldn't help it; his brain reeled at the simple 'yes'. Twelve hours of explaining everything to this little bloke, and now—
"Radius is the distance from the outer edge of a circle to the exact centre, in this case the likely area the materials used would be found," Sherlock barked. "Twelfth century means the medieval period, referring to the likely time period your clothing seems to be based on. Any modern dictionary would tell you this; that's why I gave you the book!"
A light flush stole into the client's pale face again and, sure enough, the tips of his ears pinkened. "Your pardon, Master Homes," he bowed a little. "I meant no slight upon either you or your gift. The fault lies entirely on myself and my - inability to use it."
He was so ridiculously formal! What was with this bloke?!
Sherlock glared down at their client for a few seconds before snapping, "C-E-N-T-U-R-Y!" He then turned and stalked out of the kitchen, throwing back over his shoulder as a parting shot, "I need those samples!"
"Then we seemed to have reached a standstill, Master Homes," Frodo returned quietly. John heard the detective stop in his tracks. "For there are things which I need of you as well, if I am to willingly comply."
Sherlock reentered the room, scowling at the hobit.
"My needs are simple," he continued. "I require only a scissor to make the cuts, a needle and thread to mend them," Sherlock was rolling his eyes, ready to interrupt, "and a private room where I may make my selections without interference."
The words were deceptively quiet, but the minute he said 'private' John knew that this was their client's real goal. Thirty minutes of just being in the same room as Sherlock Holmes was more than most people could stand, let alone three hours of intensive study and excessive energy focused solely on one person. There were definitely reasons that clients didn't usually stick around during the investigation. Too painful.
(For anyone who didn't know him personally, of course.)
"Toilet," Sherlock snapped back.
On the other hand, when he does something like that... John groaned inwardly.
To John's surprise, after considering it for a moment the hobit nodded. "I believe that would do. And the tools?"
"Of course," Sherlock returned, looking expectantly at John. The doctor huffed a sigh, but moved towards the junk drawer and began rummaging for the thread that he knew ought to be in there.
-0-
Once their client was ensconced in the loo with his "required items" John made his way into the living room to find his flatmate lying on the sofa, eyes closed, hands steepled together in that thinking position of his.
"Right," John began.
"On the table is an envelope addressed to Zachariah Conner. Take it to the address listed and give it to him. Tell him that Sherlock Holmes is calling in that favour."
John's brows rose at the assumption that he was willing to run errands, but it still hardly took more than a glance before he found a thick manilla envelope addressed to said Conner perched atop the stacks and piles of Sherlock's books, papers, old crime scene photos (better put those away before the client notices them!), and other detritus. He picked it up, and then stood there arguing with himself about how pointless anything he said would be.
"Problem?" Sherlock's careless voice cut across his thoughts.
"Er... You're not going to.. I dunno, bother him while I'm gone, are you?"
Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.
"Because I get the feeling that this bloke is really private. Like..possibly even more private than you."
One eye cracked open slightly and slid lazily towards him. Encouraged, John continued, "And I think that if you bother him while he's..in his private spot—"
"Toilet," Sherlock supplied irritably, eye sliding shut again.
"—R-ight." And if that didn't blow up in their faces before the end of day John was going to be shocked. "But he's not going appreciate it if you—"
Sherlock had opened both eyes now and was glaring at John as if daring him to go further.
"—if you bother him while he's working—"
"Working?!" Sherlock scoffed.
John levelled a glare of his own at his flatmate. "Look, you want this case, don't you?"
"Afraid he'll vanish while you're gone?" Sherlock mocked.
Well, if John was honest...
"He has nowhere to go," the detective sneered.
"Mate, you can always find someplace," John retorted.
"Oh, yes. The sewers and the cesspits. I hear that Vauxhall Arches is particularly nice this time of year—"
"Any of 'em will do if you're desperate enough," John countered quietly.
"He's not."
"You're sure?"
Sherlock heaved what sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh. "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. Lestrade is obviously an authority figure, indicating to the creature, erroneously I might add, a measure of intelligence. If Lestrade says that I am the only one who can help him, as he did, then the creature will understand that 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."
"He's - not a creature," was the only retort John could think of.
"He's as much a one as you," was the dismissive comeback. "Envelope."
Stifling a sigh of his own John let the subject drop. He'd tried. If Sherlock didn't have a client when he got back it wouldn't be John's fault.
"What's in this, anyways?"
"Evidence."
John's stomach nearly flipped. "Your DNA findings?" he asked, trying to sound casual. Sharing that sort of information would probably be the proverbial straw that broke the client's trust.
"Volcanic ash," Sherlock corrected.
"Oh!" Okay, good. That's good.
"There were trace amounts in the sample I took from his feet. Volcanoes bear highly unique signatures, and a trained vulcanologist will be able to accurately read which volcano the ash is from and how long ago the eruption was."
John thought that through a moment. "..Pinpointing the location of Minis Tirith."
Sherlock's face lit up a little in that way that it seemed to whenever John finally 'got' an important clue. "Exactly. Now—!"
John nodded and marched out the door. In seconds he was back.
"Sherlock?" he began hesitantly. "Have you considered the possibly that this might be a hoax?"
"The thought had crossed my mind," the detective murmured, eyes closed again. He'd returned to his 'thinking position' the moment John left, it seemed.
"And?"
"Improbable. Too many details add up to exactly what he claims."
John nodded, still not convinced. "Could Moriarty do that?"
"Not his style."
"Yeah—"
"There's no crime involved."
"Yeah, okay, no. No, I agree. It's not his style." John took a breath. "But could he fool you into thinking that he was...like this bloke?"
Sherlock's eyes opened, giving him an annoyed glare. "No."
"Okay."
"It's not only the details; it's the lack of other details. Missing calluses, uncertainties in wording, gaps in his knowledge, details that would be there if he'd spent even a month in the 'modern world'. No. There's too much attention to what you would call 'the insignificant details' for a hoax."
"Oh." What else was there to say? He turned to head down the steps again. Then came back again. "What about—"
"No."
John huffed. "You don't even—"
"You were going to ask if this is some form of government conspiracy. No."
John pressed his lips together. Clenched his fist. Then...
"Someone rewrote him, Sherlock. You didn't spend the evening with him. Somehow, someone has wiped all knowledge of Europe from his mind. He has no geography, no science, no form of proper history— I-it can't just be that his entire community is like this and leave it at that! He has nothing! He's constructing his own geography, his own history! You can't just say that his community is like this because if they are what happened to his people?!"
"They're morons," Sherlock returned dispassionately.
"It's got to be more than that!" John protested. "Morons don't invent seven hundred mile long mountain chains. They don't rewrite the world to put 'The Sea' on the left. He believes, Sherlock, that he walked across the world in six months, but he never saw any electricity? How do you explain that?"
"Maps can be faked—"
"But he says he walked them," John countered, more quietly than before. "You say that he's not lying, so how could he have done that?"
Sherlock's jaw twitched almost imperceptibly. "Still working out the particulars," he admitted.
John nodded, remembering the devastated young man from last night. "He really believes it, Sherlock," he muttered.
"Yes, we've established that," his flatmate countered irritably. "Now, Conner! I cannot solve the case without clues!"
"Right, fine; going!" And John hurried out of the living room again.
He was intercepted at the bottom of stairs by Mrs Hudson, who, with a comment of, "Oh, good, there you are, love; just take those, will you?" thrust a carton of eggs and a bag of tomatoes at him, her own arms already juggling a covered pan which smelt wonderfully of bacon and beans and a basket filling the air with the aroma of sticky buns.
"Wha—"
"I thought," Mrs Hudson was continuing her march up the stairs. John hurried to follow, "since it is the first day, that I'd make you boys a proper breakfast. Just this once though, mind, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."
"Yeah, no," he agreed half-distractedly. "Thanks, Mrs H; he's going to love this!" One never knew; Sherlock might even eat, since there were sticky rolls.
"I hope so, dear," she agreed cheerfully. "How is the case coming?" (After the hobit had fallen asleep on the sofa last night John had run downstairs to warn the older lady that they had a client staying with them.)
"Eh..." John shrugged a little. "Honestly? This one might give him a serious run."
"Oh dear," she frowned. Near the landing she paused, turning back to John with a worried look. "You don't think it's that dreadful man again, do you?"
"Moriarty?" At her grimace and nod John sighed. "He doesn't."
She gave John a searching look at that and then nodded and bustled to the entrance to their flat, knocking with a cheery, "Ooh-ooh!" There was no answer.
Mrs H bustled into the room. "I made you some breakfast, dear, just this once, since you have company," she announced, heading for the kitchen.
Sherlock didn't move, apparently thinking.
"And I'm expecting you to eat some, young man," she added in a motherly, scolding way. "This could be a very long case and I don't want you getting sick because you forgot to eat."
Still nothing, even as John hurried by as well.
Once out of Sherlock's sight John raised a brow at Mrs Hudson. "Well, I guess we know why he wanted me out of the flat so quickly."
"It's a good thing," she reassured him conspiratorially, setting her bundles on the stove. "You'll be able to eat something before he has you running all over town."
That drew a chuckle out of him. Then he began helping her pull dishes out of the cupboards.
-0-
Breakfast (or as their guest insisted for himself, second breakfast, "Since I already had one," he laughed) was a brilliant success. Mrs Hudson was utterly smitten with their guest, who had insisted that the landlady eat with them (well, John had been going to insist too, but someone beat him to the punch), and kept calling him a shameless flatterer. He insisted that he spoke nothing but the truth of one who made such wonderful sweet rolls (and he also claimed that was high praise coming from a hobit). She also brought them news that two people had come to the flat last night looking for Sherlock and Frodo Baggins. Their names? Yussef Walitch and Sam. Their client was in shock when he heard that a potential 'Sam' had shown up, and when Mrs H described the pair (at John's request) he was practically beside himself with excitement. Apparently a "young man with curly hair, a little shorter than you, Dear" (meaning Frodo) "wearing a grey cloak and a very handsome Medieval costume" was an accurate description of Frodo's friend from the tower. What was more, they were planning on calling again this morning.
At this news Frodo finally seemed to come out of his shell. He began smiling, and visiting with what might even pass for cheerfulness, complimenting the food, asking questions of Mrs Hudson's life, and when asked regaling them with tales of friendship and food and laughter and boyish pranks and food (apparently Frodo loved food, which stood in painful contrast to the borderline anorexia his body currently displayed) from his own life. John was pretty sure that he learnt more about their client in that one meal than Sherlock had in his entire night's studying. (Not that he would have ever believed what the hobit was saying if Sherlock hadn't first proven their client's..um, uniqueness.) John actually got a decent meal in his belly before Sherlock started him running errands, as Mrs H had promised (which would have made the meal a success all by itself!). And wonder of wonders, Sherlock even got up and had a sweet roll and tea! (Even if he did keep giving John irritated looks the entire time for being here and not there with Zachariah Conner.)
They were deep into their third cups of tea and Frodo was in the middle of a story about a bet to get someone (another cousin, apparently called Fatty) into a tree when the doorbell rang. Everyone started a little (except possibly Sherlock), but their little guest nearly leapt out of his chair in shock (or possibly alarm) at the sound. John had to stifle a chuckle as the wide blue eyes turned towards him...yeah, and that was definitely alarm.
"That's the doorbell," he offered, rising to answer it.
The hobit stood as well. "May I join you?" he asked.
John almost said yes, but the memory of Chinese acrobats flashed through his brain.
"Eh, why don't you hang back a bit until we're sure of who's out there," he suggested.
The other nodded in understanding and the pair hurried down, the hobit stopping just before he could round the corner of the landing to the front door, whilst John continued down.
An average-looking man about his age, appearing to be of Middle Eastern descent, stood on the step looking anxious, but trying to put on a polite face, and beside him was a sturdy-looking kid with a wild head of curls, dirty blond instead of dark brown, a grey cape... and a pair of overly large dress shoes. The little bloke was almost vibrating with anticipation, or more accurately, John thought as he studied the barely composed face, anxiety.
"Good morning, sir," the man began, and John realised with a start that this was the man from the booth in Camden yesterday whom Sherlock had questioned. "My name is Yussef Walitch, and this is Sam. Forgive us for disturbing you this early, but my friend and I were hoping that you could help us."
"We're a-lookin' for—Mr Frodo!" Sam yelped, ducking under John's arm and dashing forward.
"I'm here, Sam," a high, clear voice laughed, ringing through the air as John had not heard his guest's voice do yet, and John turned to watch 'Sam' pelt towards the stairs. Frodo was heading down towards him just as quickly, and they met at the carpet, embracing as if they'd separated for a month rather than a night. Sam was almost crying.
"You're here. Bless y', sir; you're alive!" he choked into Frodo's shoulder.
"Sam," Frodo murmured softly. "My dear Sam."
A soft laugh behind John recalled his attention and he turned to see the orange juice seller giving the pair a warm look.
"You'll have to forgive him," the man smiled. "He's been half-frantic with worry for his friend all night. I honestly don't know what he would have done if Frodo hadn't been here."
" ' feared as I'd never see y' again," the new hobit mumbled. "This place is so huge, an' I didn' know where t' look..."
"Shh, hush now," Frodo softly soothed. "I'm here, Sam. You found me. I'm all right."
"Yeah," John muttered, glancing back at the pair. And then, "Yeah! Frodo's been about the same, and that was without knowing anyone was here."
The man's smile widened and he held out a hand. "Yussef Walitch."
"John Watson; nice to meet you— properly this time," he added with a grin, shaking the man's hand.
"Y' ain't hurt, are y'?" Sam demanded anxiously.
"No. No," Frodo quickly reassured him. "And you?"
"No, I'm fine," the other hobit returned shakily. "You're all right," he repeated, still sounding on the verge of tears.
"Come on in?" John offered again. "Sherlock'll want to hear about how you found him."
The other man hesitated. "Actually, I really should get to my booth—"
The doctor offered a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, and technically I'm supposed to be working today too," he nodded. "I'm sorry. I really do understand, but if I know Sherlock he'll want to hear your side of the story, and if you leave he'll probably hunt you down and scare off your customers. Trust me. I can't tell how many times he's done that to my patients."
"How in Middle Earth did you get here?" Frodo was now demanding of Sam. John paused, wanting to know that as well.
"Oh, same way as you, sir, I reckon," Sam shrugged. "Set down on a bench; stood up in Camden Mark'et. Ridiculous way to travel, sir, beggin' your pardon."
Frodo laughed. "Agreed. Far worse than eagles or oliphaunts."
"Now, I'd love to travel by oliphaunt, sir; can y' imagine?" Sam returned eagerly.
John frowned at the pair. What were they going on about?
"It wouldn't be too high?" Frodo asked, cocking an eyebrow at his friend.
"Well, mebbe so," Sam nodded uncomfortably. "But to try it, even jes' oncet! That would be a tale to tell back home, an' no mistake!" His eyes were shining at the thought.
Frodo's smile softened. "As if we haven't strange enough tales to tell," he murmured.
"Aye," Sam sighed, his own smile fading. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr Frodo, but where are we?"
"Don't answer that!" commanded an imperious male voice from above them all. Four heads whipped towards the sound. "The validity of the witness's testimony is compromised if you tell him anything. A witness's testimony should stand by itself, without regard for either the defendant or prosecution's claims."
John winced as he saw their client's face change from startlement to that carefully neutral expression which John had become so familiar with over the last several hours—the one which Mrs Hudson and (second) breakfast had managed to drive away earlier. The other hobit glared up at Sherlock indignantly. John's mind immediately began scrambling for damage control as he hurried towards the stairs, his guest(s), and especially his idiotic flatmate.
"Now see here!" the newcomer barked. "You've no call t' be sayin' such things, an' to Mr Frodo o' all people!"
"Peace, Sam," Frodo murmured. "It will not do any good."
"But, Mr Frodo," the other protested. "He oughtn't an' y' know it, 'specially not—"
"Peace!" Frodo repeated a little more forcefully, and 'Sam' quieted into angry mutters. John paused. Maybe he wouldn't need to intervene? "Besides, he is right. If Merry and Pippin were to tell us a wild tale such as this you and I would both be more inclined to believe them if we knew that it was impossible for Merry to have told Pip what to say."
"..Aye, that's true enou'," Sam agreed reluctantly. "But still, to claim that you—"
"Therefore," Frodo interrupted again, "you should probably speak with Master Homes as soon as possible." He looked back to Sherlock and said politely, "Would you not agree, Mr Homes?"
"Not only a peerage, but a high-ranking one, reluctantly accepted, possibly given on the sole merit of your friendship with the 'king', possibly for something you feel you didn't do..." was Sherlock's cryptic response.
The blood drained from Frodo's face. Next to him, Sam's own turned bright red.
"Both," Sherlock concluded.
"HE DID IT!" Sam was storming up the stairs, and, was that murder in his eyes? "You've got no call to go talkin' 'bout things as y'—"
"Sam, don't!" Frodo half-yelped, panic sending him bolting up the stairs after his friend. John followed quickly.
Sam immediately stopped in his rampage and turned around, still clearly livid. "But, Mr Frodo—"
Frodo, two steps lower than the newcomer, just looked up at Sam and murmured, "Don't." The word barely audible. "Please, don't."
Sam stared back, anger and pleading, and...pain? on his face. John waited, watching the pair. Apparently their client was still trying to hide a few secrets from Sherlock. Above them all Sherlock was watching too, silent. Analyzing.
With a sigh Sam gave in, bowing his head a little in acquiescence and coming back to Frodo's side. A little of the colour seemed to return to Frodo's face.
"Interesting," Sherlock murmured.
"Shut up, Sherlock," John offered from the landing, for the overprotective Sam had whipped back around at the word, fire igniting his brown eyes again. Frodo grabbed his arm at the same moment.
Sherlock blinked at his flatmate as if he had only just realised that he was there. John snorted.
Then he remembered their other guest. Turning back toward the door he saw that Mr Walitch hadn't left, seemingly transfixed by the commotion. John offered him a smirk which he hoped didn't look too tired. "Did I mention that he's a prat?" he asked cheerfully.
The orange juice vendor shook his head carefully. "You're certain that he'll need me?" he asked reluctantly.
"Yeah, you'd better come up."
A/N
'I cannot solve the case without clues' is actually a paraphrase of Robert Downy Jr's Sherlock, "Data, data, data; I cannot make bricks without clay!" I really loved that movie, and that Sherlock too.