Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins lay awake on the hard earth, exploring the starlit sky with his hands behind his head. Under these Dwarvish furs, he missed his warm and comfortable bed back in his flat, but heck, he missed so much of his old life that he found himself cataloging everything he missed, every little detail, into a special room in his brain. What was it Sherlock had called it? His mind palace, that was it.
Sherlock...
The name spiralled into the night air as Bilbo traced it on his lips. Just the thought of him was enough to make tears creep into his eyes. It had been years now since Sherlock had killed himself, and months since Bilbo was brought into this adventure quite unexpectedly, he still found himself wondering what exactly he was doing among these Dwarves, all thirteen of them, and the Wizard, Gandalf, who came and went with little warning and no explanation. The night of their arrival was still as clear to Bilbo as the sky now above him.
It had been a relatively normal Friday evening in his flat in suburban London. His old address in Baker Street was nought but a painful memory- Bilbo could not bear to stay there any longer, not in the kitchen now empty of chemicals and experiments, not in the cluttered living-room filled with books and papers and oddities Bilbo had thought better than to question. Every time he opened the fridge, he saw milk and cheese, plus bottles of wine and stacked boxes of chocolates he had received in sympathy for his loss. There were no body parts in the fridge. It was simply too much, or perhaps, too little, for 221B was bleak and empty without Sherlock Holmes. Bilbo left, leaving Mrs Hudson and heading to his new apartment in the outskirts of the city. It was nice enough there, it had been going cheap, and Bilbo furnished the place with armchairs and rugs from charity shops. He installed an electric fire, giving the place a mildly more homely feel, and soon found himself quite comfortable. On that particular evening Bilbo sat gloomily in his armchair with a fish supper on his lap. The TV was droning in the background, or was it the radio? He couldn't remember which he had put on earlier that afternoon, and had not the heart to look up from his meal. He put chip after chip in his mouth, feeling just as down as he always did when he came in from work to an empty house.
Until there was a knock at the door.
Bilbo cast his mind back to that morning, for he had heard a similar knock as he ate breakfast. Through the peek-hole he saw a tall grey-bearded man staring directly back at him.
'Probably selling something.' Bilbo reasoned, going back to his soggy cornflakes. By the time he left for work, the old man was gone, much to Bilbo's relief. He had little heart for conversation these days.
Laying aside his meal, Bilbo went to the door, where an old man welcomed himself inside. Not the old man he had seen that morning, another old fellow who introduced himself as 'Balin'. Across the next hour, a further eleven Dwarves arrived, along with the tall man who went by 'Gandalf Greyhame'. Almost immediately Bilbo's dinner was gone, as well as most of his food and drink. They stood around awkwardly, Bilbo had no table and chairs, he had no need for them. Another knock at the door and Bilbo winced. Dutifully he went to the door, and there his eyes met with a Dwarf so stunning Bilbo was at a loss for words. His long black hair, streaked with silver with braids through it fell down to his breast, and with ice blue eyes he looked down at Bilbo with a curious smile on his face. He wore some sort of chain-mail with a fur cape draped over his shoulders. Every inch of his being spelled majestic leadership. He was Thorin Oakenshield, and Bilbo was only happy enough to welcome him inside.
That night Bilbo heard the tale of how, far away in a land to the East, a dragon had made vagrants of an ancient race of Dwarves, and now the time had come to overthrow the beast and reclaim the Mountain Kingdom they called Erebor. Somehow, perhaps spellbound by gruff telling of this tale by the incredible Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo signed a contract they produced, legally binding him to go with these Dwarves and aid them on their quest. Bilbo packed a rucksack with clothes and all the little camping essentials he suspected these Dwarves had not come across, such as compasses and toothbrushes, and of course a first aid kit (Bilbo had been a Medic for the Army in Afghanistan), and thus he left his dreary flat and his mask of an ordinary, functioning human being, and went with them into the wild.
Back under the stars, Bilbo smiled to himself. Thorin had proven himself to be dark and mysterious, and at times highly critical of Bilbo's behaviour, but he hinted at a soft spot for the little Londoner, and Bilbo most certainly had one for him. Still, it was not love. Love was something else, something reserved for his consulting detective. Love was what he had felt for Sherlock Holmes, and never again could he love a person - or a Dwarf - as he had loved Sherlock, now dead and gone beneath a marble headstone.
If only he would come back...