Work Text:
Crouching Hedgehog, Hidden Dragon
“Perhaps I should not have been surprised to find the legendary Thief of the Arkenstone right here in the heart of London,” drawled a deep, silky voice that might have caught Bilbo’s interest by its timbre alone (yes, he did have a weakness for voices, blast and confound it all).
But then, the words finally registered in Bilbo’s brain and though a few years ago, his hand might be twitching for his favorite knife, there was, in fact, only one person this could possibly be.
“Sherlock,” Bilbo said pleasantly. “Haven’t a clue what you’re blathering about and if you’re looking for John, I haven’t seen him today yet. Piece of advice - stop putting human body parts in the wrong section of the fridge, buy the milk and while you’re at it, John is really, really fond of strawberry jam. Good morning!”
The famous ” ‘Net Detective” made a mock gasp and put a hand to his heart as if wounded. “To think I would live to see the day I’d be good morning-ed by my sweetheart’s dear cousin, as if I were selling buttons at the door!” Sherlock’s smile would have looked perfectly at home on a dragon. “John, I’m sure, has told you enough about me that you, intelligent man that you are, would know that I can and will prove that you are who I say you are. Would you like me to demonstrate or would you simply like to engage in a civil conversation?”
Bilbo was both thankful and highly irritated that neither Fili nor Kili were in the store at this time and other than Sherlock, there were no other customers in the store either. While John was a far more frequent visitor to Bag End Bookstore, Sherlock was known to drop in every now and then. Amazingly, he got on rather well with Fili and Kili and usually Bilbo was only too happy to point Sherlock in the general direction of interesting old books he managed to acquire. It kept him occupied while John and Bilbo had a bit of a chat to catch up. And when Sherlock did deign to talk to Bilbo, he was usually, at the very least, civil, if not actually friendly.
Today, however, was apparently different.
He casually reached over and flipped the store sign to “Closed.” He also made sure he had slipped one of his daggers beneath his sleeve - old habits that would never really die meant that he, despite the nice, comfy knit jumpers he favored, meant that he still felt utterly naked without some kind of weapon to hand.
“Oh don’t be so boring,” Sherlock sighed, airily waving a hand. “I’m not about to call the police on you, not when you happen to be the sort of Master Burglar with a romantic streak and a strong moral code. I simply want to know more about the Arkenstone.”
“I was an archaeologist, now I’m simply a historian who prefers selling books rather than mucking about with student papers in uni,” Bilbo responded steadily. “Burglary is not my division. Though, as I was interested in that historical artifact for purely academic reasons, it was stolen a long time ago from the Kingdom of Erebor but was subsequently returned. And to my knowledge, it still sits in its usual place above the throne of its king and that is the end of it.“
Sherlock’s expression softened immediately and suddenly, those keen, oddly-colored eyes - almost gold in this light - were unexpectedly kind. “My apologies. John is often at me for my … ‘people skills.’ That was a bit not good and I was unkind. I am sorry.”
Bilbo closed his eyes for a brief moment. “I do not need to be pitied.”
“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled. “It was a brave thing you did. And he’s a fool for not seeing it.”
Bilbo really, really fought the urge to facepalm but then, Cousin John’s boyfriend tended to bring out this reaction in most people, including John himself. So he did and then he sighed, “All right. I’ll bite. ‘Master burglar with a romantic streak and a strong moral code?’ “
Sherlock preened. “I find it very interesting that you keep newspaper clippings of all these mysterious restorations of various historical artifacts and artworks to their rightful owners, most of which were linked, but never proven to be the work of the rather legendary burglar known only as ‘Sting.’ “
Bilbo shrugged. “For all you know, I could just be a fan. Or maybe, as a historian, I would be interested in such things. Priceless historical artifacts should be shared amongst everyone, you know - for the sake of future generations, education, knowledge, all that claptrap.”
The detective smiled again and this time, the smile was less predatory and far more genuinely amused. “There is, of course, the matter of your skills with a knife. About as frightening as my John’s skill with a gun. Those poor sods who tried to rob you never knew what hit them, did they?”
“I had help from Fili and Kili.”
“The two princes? Ah, yes, I’d rather think they would be useful.”
Now that gave Bilbo pause. “Princes?”
Sherlock blinked. “Interesting.”
“What on earth are you talking about - ” Bilbo was sputtering. “Princes…”
“Oh dear,” Sherlock sighed. “John is not going to be happy with me. Not at all. There’s always something!”
“Princes… Fili and Kili… Sherlock, start making sense this instant or so help me - ”
“If he has a modicum of the intelligence and sense I’ve observed from him, then he probably still loves you.” Something caught Sherlock’s attention from outside the store and then, he snorted. “Scratch that, he is still in love with you.”
And of course, right outside the glass door, staring at both of them or perhaps Bilbo, more specifically, was a man Bilbo Baggins thought he would never see again.
Thorin Durin.
Bilbo, of course, did the only sensible thing one could do at this point.
He fainted.
- end -