"Sherlock, you are being overdramatic and idiotic!" John Watson huffed at his friend Sherlock Holmes, as they both strode through the Charring Cross Road, yet again on another errand of the famous detective.
"But John, don't you see, all the clues are making it obvious! The gutter, that jewelry!" Sherlock was, as always, excitedly babbling, and John didn't bother to hide his eye roll.
"Forgetting here about the mere mortals!" He grumbled, trying to fall into step with his taller friend. "What is obvious for you, needs to be explained. Slowly, possibly with cha—"
"BILBO!" A shout from somewhere behind them made John stop short, breath caught somewhere painfully in his lungs.
"John? John, what is it?" Sherlock noticed him stopping faster than John anticipated it, and already was in front of him and waving a hand before his eyes.
But the shorter man ignored him in a favour of turning around and trying to spy who had called him.
"Bilbo!" Once again rang across the street, but John couldn't find the source of noise.
Funny, Bilbo isn't even his name, he is John Hamish Watson. But he's been having those weird dreams his whole damn life. Dreams, were he was called Bilbo, and he took off with a group of rowdy men and set to reclaiming their old kingdom, and eventually participated in a real war. When John was in Afghanistan, those dream/memories helped to go through the war fairly unscathed, at least mentally.
But John was sure that no one, short of his parents and sister, knew about his dream name. And hearing it shouted in a broad daylight stirred something in John. The dreams filled his memory, but now those images became more prominent, felt more real, as if they weren't dreams at all, but memories.
"Bilbo Baggins!" Now John finally spotted the person calling him. A tall man, clad in dark clothes, clean-shaved, but with shoulder-length hair. He was also very pale, striding through the busy street, doing his best to push people out of his way.
John took an unconscious step forward, wriggling from Sherlock's grasp on his shoulder. His world was titling on its axis, his believes changing, things being remembered and forgotten, and realising that he already lived a life, a life where he spent most of it alone short for one single year. And remembering that everything, everything in his previous lifetime was revolving around one man.
The man who was currently only a few feet away, impatiently waiting for a long line of preschoolers to pass. As soon as the last pair of children was out of his way, the man was instantly in front of John.
"Thorin," John said with disbelief and it was all the encouragement the man needed. He wrapped John into a tight embrace, crashing him against his chest, hiding his long nose in John's shoulder, while John (or was he Bilbo now?) clutched to his back, one hand threaded in his long (not as long as it was before and where is the beard?) black hair. John had his eyes closed tightly, almost painfully so, instead bathing in the feeling of those strong arms wrapped around him, and the mighty heart thumping in Thorin's ribcage against his own.
"Who are you?" Sherlock snapped at Thorin irritably, and John almost chuckled. Sherlock Holmes, not the one to be ignored and left out of the loop understanding nothing. And Sherlock was, undoubtedly, clueless right now. John though that he should, probably, savour the moment when he managed to render the best detective in Britain clueless.
"A friend," the dark-haired man snapped in answer, but then he pulled back and looked at John with askance, as if gathering courage for something.
The next thing John knew, Thorin was taking his hands in his bigger ones and kneeling in front of him, right in the middle of the blasted Charring Cross Road.
"Am I still your friend? Or if not, will I ever be granted the title again? Will I have the honour to redeem myself in your eyes, my hobbit? You gave me your forgiveness at my deathbed, but I know that what I had done to you is unforgivable. Now I know. No jewelry is more precious to me than you, my burglar."
"John, who is this man and what is he talking about?"
"His name is Thorin Oakenshield, he is the King under the Mountain," John answered his friend, tightening hold on Thorin's palms and hauling him up. "The rest you can deduce."
Finally managing to put Thorin back on his feet, John cradled his face in his palms, smoothing the stress lines around his familiar cold blue eyes with his thumbs.
"You foolish dwarf. Of course you are my friend, and of course I forgive you. What you don't understand, though, that you are more precious than anything to me as well, have always been, and when will you act upon it? It's long overdue, you know."
And then Thorin put his forehead against his own, closing eyes, and laying one arm on John's, no, Billbo's nape. It was an intimate gesture, the one that Sherlock could never begin to understand, shared only between family and lovers.
"If you are making all this show in the middle of the busiest London street in the broad daylight, you might as well kiss me," the former hobbit grumbled, softly nudging the man's nose with his own, earning a quiet laugh and a tender but firm press of thin lips against his own. He was quick to answer, and soon they were kissing the very air out of each others' lung.
"Better?" Thorin asked after ending the kiss.
"Much. Come on. If you found me in the middle of London, you certainly can spare few more hours. Sherlock and I still have the case to solve, and you are most welcome to join us. Isn't it true, Sherlock?" He turned back to his friend, who only clumsily waved his hand, clearly being shocked with what he has just witnessed.
"Oh don't mind me John, and do continue kissing and exchanging nonsense with your not-friend."
Thorin laughed next to him, having snuck an arm around John's shoulders.
"Don't be jealous. And while I do owe you an explanation, I am not going to abandon you," Watson made a face. "Do come on. Unsolved case, remember? Gutter, jewelry? You promised explain it to me with charts."
"I did no such thing", Sherlock strode towards them and extended his hand to Thorin. "Sherlock Holmes."
Thorin took it and gave a firm handshake.
"Richard North, but you can call me Thorin."
Holmes arched and eyebrow, but thankfully said nothing. Instead he just turned and continued on walking down the street, and threw over his shoulder.
"Do I have to wait for you any longer? It's a matter of utmost importance!"
Bilbo laughed at his friend's antics, and tugged Thorin's hand, smiling broadly at him.
"Come on then. We will have time to properly talk in evening. Deal?"
"Deal," the former dwarven king answered, letting the shorted man stir him to follow the mad detective.