Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Consider this: there are a million million million million million million– no nevermind, there are infinite universes. They are all at a party, vibing, chilling, forming a conga line, doing the macarena, drinking from each other’s cups, making out, sharing a slice of pizza, eating sour gummy worms and having either a great time or a grisly one. 

But– EEYYYYYY MACARENA! and a few universes turn clockwise instead of counterclockwise and several universes bump into each other. Whoops. Well, no harm no foul, no drinks spilled, no sour gummy worms wasted, no pizza smeared into lipstick, nothing exchanged except dust. 

Now consider this: people are just stardust, the filtered specks of the cosmos distilled into a particular molecular structure that adheres to no rules but those that we make ourselves. People are the amalgamation of things that were and are and will be and always have been and never will be again, they’re hardly lighthouses of constancy but they have the same face their whole life, evolving in a yawning blink before they can pump their expressions with enough plastic to stop it. 

But– EEYYYYYY MACARENA! and those dust people are tossed like a bottle at a boat and and now they’re clinging, not to the soft denim pants of their home universe, but to the pleated pleather skirt of a new one. Whoops. 

And that is why Thorin Oakenshield and Tauriel, along with some other, much newer names, wake up and say to themselves, in a tone and manner befitting each of their own loveable characters, “What the fuck.”

Because where a Hobbit once slept, a man with a shoulder injury wakes. Where a wizard had lay, a different kind of power-user sits up gruffly. Where an elf kept watch, a pirate looks around with wide eyes. Where a dragon hibernated, a magician struggles to unearth himself from the golden piles. 

A few specks of dust is nothing to the universes continuing their macarena.

Chapter Text

John Watson rises, grumbling about his shit mattress, and doesn’t even worry about where he is until he opens his eyes and finds he is not where he fell asleep. 

“Bilbo?” Thorin’s voice cracks on the name. The emotion causing the vocal trip refuses to show itself. 

“He got taller,” Kíli notes, bewildered.

“Is that normal for hobbits, Balin?” Fíli adds.

Balin responds, “No, lad. No it is most certainly not .”

John barely has time to look around, taking in a dense forest, his brain forming the sentence where the bloody hell am I and how do you know Sherlock (he’s got to be honest with himself: nobody is interested in the disabled veteran sleeping upstairs, it’s mostly the genius asshole that the disabled veteran writes about in his blog posts), but before he gets to open his mouth he turns around and sees about twelve men. Not one of them above five feet tall. John doesn’t know what a dwarf is, but even if he did it doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t know even one of these particular dwarves. And these particular dwarves don’t have the best track record for treating strangers kindly. Honestly, John better be glad he looks so much like Bilbo, because otherwise they’d already have picked up their weapons.

Or, at least, they would have tried to pick them up and then noticed that all of their weapons, as well as everything else made of metal, is missing. 

Just as John manages to say, “Alright, he drugged my medication. That’s great,” Erik Lensherr intones “Where am I?” and wields all the available metal (John’s gun included) in threatening formations around the forest clearing. 

At the same time that Erik demands to know “What have you done with Charles?” John asks “How did Sherlock manage to piss off you lot?” 

Both full-sized men recognize the similarities of each other’s questions moments after they’ve left their mouths, and they lock eyes. 

“Right, do you know what’s going on here then?” John asks Erik.

Erik shakes his head solemnly, “Until moments ago, I was playing chess with Charles in the study.”

“Yeah, that’s not… uhh, not ringing any bells for me,” John sighs. “I went to sleep in my bed in Baker Street– sorry, London, you’re not a Brit, are you?– and I woke up here.” Grinning sheepishly, John admits, “I’m pretty sure my uhhh– my flatmate drugged my medication. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s drugged me, but I really thought he’d make good on his promise this time. No offense, but all of you are probably a hallucination–”

“What do you take medication for?” Erik demands suddenly, violent ire blooming in his wrinkle-framed eyes.

John’s not as intimidated as a few of the dwarves (who are still staring and trying to determine if these people truly are Bilbo and Gandalf), and he frowns complacently. “Depression,” he states plainly, “my flatmate is the one who convinced me to start actually taking it– should have seen the state of the living room while he was researching–…”

Erik’s expression immediately drains of any anger, and the expression grows soft instead. He thinks of Scott, of his daughter, Lorna, of Rogue and Kitty. Kitty. Wait, Erik has done this before– or, more accurately, Logan has, but Erik was there. Twice, kind of. 

“You,” he points to Balin, who stands with a more alert air than half of the dwarves, and a more intelligent air than the other half, “Where are we?”

Balin purses his lips, “I take it you’re not… You’re not Gandalf the Grey, are ye?” Erik shakes his head, and Balin turns to John, “And you’re not Bilbo Baggins?” John shrugs, still somewhat convinced that he is not truly physically here, but convulsing in his bed while his drug-overdosed brain concocts fantasy tales to ease his passing. “Well, in that case, I must welcome you to the edge of Long Lake, in Rhovanion.”

“Never heard of it,” Erik replies.

John mutters, “Definitely a hallucination, then.”

“Now wait just one blasted minute!” Dwalin interrupts harshly, pointing his finger accusingly at both of the new additions to the party, “If you two aren’t Bilbo and Gandalf, then who are ye?”

“My name’s John Watson.”

“Erik Lensherr, Magneto, if you think that’s more appropriate. And, Mr. Watson, I don’t believe either of us are in the same universe we were in before.”

Thorin all but jumps into the conversation when it’s clear that neither Bilbo nor Gandalf are forthcoming. “Where’s Bilbo?” he snaps, “Gandalf is a wizard, he can take care of himself,” the other dwarves nod agreeingly, “but Bilbo’s a hobbit , he can barely hold up that needle of a sword!” 

“What about that time he saved us from the trolls?” Bofur interjects.

Gloin adds, “And the spiders!”

Kíli pipes in, “Or the elves just the other day.”

“And he managed to keep himself right safe in Goblin-town,” Gloin adjoins.

Balin points out, with a look that everyone recognizes, “Didn’t he save your sorry face from being smashed by that orc Bolg?”

Thorin cannot bring himself to accept these facts. “But he’s so small!” 

Erik laughs aloud, because he’s felt the exact same thing. He never started doubting Charles until he started caring, and by then the man was already in a wheelchair, so it wasn’t hard. Until Charles reminded him that he was capable of freezing a city block solid with a whim, and growing aneurysms in a person’s brain without their knowledge. Erik was forced to admit he had been wrong, and ableist, and that Charles was allowed to go to the grocery store by himself. 

“What’s so funny?” Thorin growls, reaching for his sword where it hangs in the air and crying out in frustrated aggression when Erik keeps it out of reach. 

“Everyone, just calm down,” John intervenes, putting himself between Erik and Thorin, who hesitate long enough for the other dwarves to convince them to settle down. “Now, let’s assume, just for a second, because I am not convinced,” John huffs, “that this is all real, and you fine fellows are not hallucinations from Sherlock’s latest experiment.” Thorin is staring at John’s face, so alike to Bilbo’s, with wide, doe eyes. Everyone notices except John, who has developed the uncanny ability, through being stared at in such a way very often by his flatmate, of being entirely oblivious to the fact. “Let’s go with Erik’s conclusion and say that he and I were thrown here from different dimensions, how do we get home . Because I, for one, am not happy with living in the woods with nine dwarves–”

“Twelve dwarves!” Bifur corrects, which is a shock to John, who hadn’t really been sure they were dwarves, and who is now sure that everyone has lost their goddamn minds.

“– twelve dwarves for the rest of my probably short life.”

Thorin snaps out of his gawking long enough to pull himself together and remember why they’re at Long Lake in the first place. “We don’t have time for this,” he barks, “we’ve got to get across this lake and up that mountain by the last light of Durin’s Day, or we’ll never get to Erebor, or the Arkenstone.”

Erik grins darkly, a shark-toothed smile that he last wore something like thirty years ago. “So, it’s ambition that drives you?” he rumbles.

“And revenge for a fallen kingdom,” Thorin snaps in answer. 

Erik sniffs somewhat contemptuously, remembering the days where he killed without thought while chasing the same ideals, but doesn’t reply.

Besides, there isn’t time to reply, because Tauriel makes herself known by pushing a man who is definitely not Legolas (no matter how much he looks like him) out of the foliage before her, and then stepping out herself.

“Alright, you dwarves have been nothing but trouble since before you entered Mirkwood,” she growls, “now what have you done to Legolas?”

Chapter Text

Everyone convinces Tauriel not to murder them where they stand (“except you, Kíli, you’re injured” “ Injured ? Why did no one tell me? I’m a doctor!” “You’re a what now?”), and then they all introduce themselves, in a big old circle, like kindergarten. 

William Turner Jr. is not Legolas Greenleaf, he’s shorter, and his hair is darker, and he seems very uneasy about being so far inland (though he believes his current predicament to be the work of his captain, Jack Sparrow, or some associated pirate)– even though the dwarves insist the whole party is already too close to water, being next to Long Lake (Will says it’s not the same, this water doesn’t move on its own, and it’s not horribly cursed). John Watson is not Bilbo Baggins, he’s much taller (and happy about it– finally! Taller than someone!), with less curly hair, and he’s almost sure by now that he’s not hallucinating all of this nonsense. Erik “Magneto” Lensherr is not Gandalf the Gray, he’s much grumpier, with hair cut short on his head and no beard, and he’s not giving anyone their metal stuff back until they’re all introduced (he’s had to do this to some of Charles’ more unruly students). 

Tauriel is annoyed beyond belief. She can’t go home with Not-Legolas like this! What will she tell Thranduil? “Oh, sorry, you’re son is now a stupid human in love with the ocean and some man named “Jack,” and he can’t speak his native tongue anymore”? She’d be executed, at best. She’ll have to see this whole nonsense through first. 

Thorin is absolutely nonplussed, and mildly angry, about the whole situation. Where is his tiny halfling friend? Why is he left with a mistrustful “doctor” instead? Why do they have to introduce themselves anyway? They’re wasting time! They need to get to the doorway before the last light of Durin’s Day– the day after tomorrow!

He voices as much to the group, unconsciously looking to Not-Gandalf for reassurance, before realizing it won’t come from Erik and huffing out a breath. “We can’t afford to sit around here, making nice. We’re on a quest.” The dwarves all nod in agreement.

“Durin’s Day is the day after tomorrow,” Dwalin growls, “We need to get a move on and cross this blasted lake.”

John shakes his head, “This young man– Kíli, was it?– Kíli won’t make it across the lake. I don’t know what did this to him, but the wound’s infected.”

“‘M fine,” Kíli insists weakly, but he leans heavily on his brother, who insists that he is not fine.

“I don’t know why you need to get to that mountain so bad, but Kíli can’t make that kind of trip in this condition.”

“Then we leave him behind,” Thorin intones solemnly. 

Uproar overtakes the dwarves– mostly Fíli, outraged that his uncle could treat his own kin so coldly. 

“We’re a company– we can’t separate like this!”

“Thorin, reconsider.”

“We can’t leave Kíli.”

“He’s got as much stake in this as the rest of us.”

“There has to be another way!”

And, at that, as with most times in which the impossible is requested, they turn to Not-Gandalf. Erik is also used to being looked at this way, though mostly by groups of people wearing bright yellow spandex and all manner of fancy power-specific items and weapons. 

“I don’t suppose you tiny fools have a metal boat?” 

The tiny fools do not have a metal boat. Tauriel insists she is better at medicine than John, which irritates John more than it helps Kíli, and the two bicker about whether antibiotics or a magical incantation will heal his leg faster– while Bifur insists that what they really need is some weeds from the lakeshore. This is about the state of things when Bard, the Bowman, approaches the lakeshore and hears them just inside the treeline.

“Who goes there?” he calls, cautious and callous as ever.

Balin advocates, silently, for silence. He wants no quarrel with anyone, especially the inhabitants of Laketown. Bofur, Bombur, Ori, and Gloin nod, agreeing. Dwalin grumbles, hands on his axe (graciously returned by Erik, after his self-introduction). Thorin ignores all warnings in favor of sating his pride, and emerges triumphantly from the edge of the forest.

“It is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. And company. Who are you ?”

“Bard. The Bowman. Bargeman of Laketown.” Now, looking at Thorin and the sundry members of the increasingly strange party that emerges from the undergrowth, his head cocks to the side. “Dwarves, humans, and elves? In one company?”

“It’s a long story, lad,” Balin sighs

“What he said,” John agrees, “I’m only really here in spirit. I’m probably not capable of physically interacting with this plane of reality.”

Erik groans, “Oh, stop being dramatic,” and he slaps John’s shoulder, “you’re as here as I am– you and that pirate fellow.” Then, he turns to address Bard, “Say, young man, how much of your boat is made of metal, by your estimate?”

At this point, Bard is more than a little unnerved. Such a multiracial collection of part members is already an anomaly, but their words prove even stranger than their appearances. And that’s saying something for a man who’s never seen jeans or plaid pajama bottoms. “I suppose the nails?” he offers, “Some of the repairs were done with metal rods, by my father, after the Smaug’s terror.”

“I feel it– in the rudder? And the bottom support– what’s that called? Charles would know. His stupid college degree, stuffing him full of useless knowledge. Insufferable man. Truly, I’m glad he’s not here.”

“Oh, I can feel the hatred,” John mumbles, rolling his eyes.

Erik is quick to correct him, “On the contrary; after the whole series of events with–” and then he sees the smirk on John’s face, on the dwarves’ faces, on Will’s face, even Tauriel seems to be affected by the clear, barefaced affection rolling off of Erik like a thundercloud. “Hrm,” he clears his throat, “Well, this should suffice, anyway. I’ve moved a submarine, I can move a measly boat .”

Nobody catches the hint. Which makes for an awkward several seconds. 

“That means you get in the measly boat,” Erik clarifies, with a wide gesture at said measly boat and the genuinely affronted Bard, who is demanding “ my “measly” boat? No. ” 

Chapter Text

Bard’s opposition is quickly overwhelmed by twelve dwarves, an elf, a pirate, a metalbender, and a guy with a gun (Bard doesn’t know what a gun is, but John is doing his best and pointing it in the right direction and everything). He sits quietly in the boat while everyone else climbs in and holds onto something at Erik’s request, and then they scream through the sky much more quickly than anyone is comfortable with. Well, Will is doing alright, but that’s mostly because his life consists of impossibility after impossibility thrust upon him by the illustrious Captain Jack Sparrow and his bullshit shenanigans, and at this point a man floating a boat through midair using the metal in the keel and the nails and in some parts of the hull just is no longer that shocking to him. Everyone else, however, screams in undignified squirts of fear unbefitting their various backgrounds. 

Out of respect, and as a partial thanks for the use of his boat, Erik leaves Bard’s boat at the edge of Long Lake, once they are on the other side of it. Everyone advises Bard to go back to Laketown and disregard their presence– and John reminds him that it is very likely that none of this is real– so Bard returns home and hugs his children and doesn’t even get that mad when Alfred jeers at him. Alfred hasn’t been recently threatened by twelve dwarves, an elf, a pirate, a metalbender, and a man with a gun… whatever a gun is.

Over in the ruins of Dale, the dwarves realized they now had around 36 hours to progress the last half a mile to their destination at the door to the halls of Erebor. 

“Now will you thick-skulled idiots listen to me,” John grumbles, “and let me treat this man– Kíli, was it?”

Fíli nods viciously, and Tauriel is quick to second the motion.

“He’s right,” Fíli insists, “Kíli needs help.” Even the man in question has realized the frailty of his protests, his bravado. 

Several of the dwarves still look hesitant to comply– after over 150 years of waiting, they want to find the damn door and take back their home– they want to finish this quest just to pry that mountain open so they can focus on getting their burglar and their wizard back and then enter Erebor together, as a company, as they began this quest. 

But Balin heaves a hefty sigh. “Since when were dwarves the first to leave behind their kin and countrymen?” he demands, “Be ashamed and rest the night. We’ll go up the mountain tomorrow.” And so the dwarves set about their normal camping routines. Bifur goes for firewood and Bofur sets up tinder and Bombur prepares a simple meal. The other dwarves scatter, obeying Balin’s instructions to the letter. 

Balin, Thorin and Fíli linger nearby, worried for Kíli’s fast-fading consciousness. Tauriel insists that she can be of help to John, and so John advises her to absolutely help him, please, for Christ’s sake he’s not even sure if anybody here is the same species. Will and Erik also stick around, for the same awkward reason that one clings to the person they showed up to a party with for the duration of the night. 

“Alright,” John addresses the dwarves and elf, “what did this to him? The flesh is bordering on necrosis at this point.” This jargon gets no response from them. “It’s poison,” he clarifies, feeling acutely what Sherlock claims to feel very frequently.

“An orc’s arrow pierced his flesh,” Thorin intones solemnly. 

John wonders what in christ’s name an orc is, and why Thorin has to speak like he’s auditioning for Merchant of Venice . 

“Great, well the poison has likely reached his bloodstream by this point, even though no major veins or arteries were hit, because you lot decided to leave him like this for so long and made him run all over the bloody country.”

Erik is the only one present with even the slightest knowledge of modern medicine, as we know it in our universe, and so he asks, “What can we do for him?”

“It was a morgul shaft,” Fíli tells them mournfully, “nothing can be done.”

John grumbles, “Nothing my arse,” and removes his jumper and then his undershirt, and then quickly shuffles back into his jumper and uses the undershirt as a tourniquet around Kíli’s injured leg. “That’s gonna slow the poison as much as it can be slowed,” he tells those gathered, “I don’t suppose anyone’s got any antivenom laying around? He’ll be down for a week with it, but it’s all I know that works for poison, except a specific antidote.”

Thorin shoots up dramatically from where he’d been sitting, which brings him to just about eye-level with John’s kneeling height. “Morgul blades aren’t poison ,” he spits derisively, as if John is just the biggest idiot for not knowing, “the blades break off inside the flesh itself and make their way to your heart.” The fire leaves his eyes some as he explains, “You die in agony, gasping for breath and delirious.”

John’s doing his best to stay composed and doctorly here– Kíli needs it, he’s whimpering in his fever dreams and too weak to toss with their malice– but he heaves a sigh anyway, “Yes, that’s just a convoluted way of saying ‘poison,’ please shut up.”

Thorin looks severely affronted, and almost hisses a reply, but Balin settles him back to a sit with firm pressure on his shoulders and murmurs about something about “Bilbo.”

“Alright, does anybody who is not a dwarf have some input?”

Erik nods to the negative, “That was always more Hank’s specialty than mine or Charles’.”

Will looks contemplative for several moments before confirming, “Are we sure that this is not some kind of curse? I know how to handle curses.” He doesn’t mention that his usual method involves killing the curse-caster, because that hardly seems relevant. “Or, is it a type of magic? I think I remember a time when magic was involved, but Jack got us out of that one.” Will really is doing his best to be helpful– he doesn’t want this young man to die, but he also has never even considered healing damage done to a body, since he prefers to deal it. 

But his words strike a cord with Tauriel nonetheless, who gasps with recognition and shouts “Kingsfoil!” which rouses the dwarves’ singular collective brain cell and they all run about in the hills and cracks in the decrepit old buildings of Dale pulling weeds.

“What’s, uh, what’s kingsfoil?” John asks.

Tauriel is busy setting up a small mortar and pestle out of two interestingly-shaped rocks, but she answers, “For humans, a weed. For dwarves, a potent healing herb. If I can supplement it with my magic–”

“With your what ?” John cries.

“I knew this place had some magic in it,” Will grins.

“– then it might be enough to heal what the Morgul shaft has done to him.”

John is a proud man– almost as proud as Erik used to be and Thorin is– but he’s not so stupid as to let his pride interfere with helping someone. Tauriel knows more about dwarves, and about the dimension John and everyone else have found themselves in, so he’ll let her take the wheel. “What can I do?” 

Already, Tauriel is handing John some rocks as the dwarves return with handfuls of leafy sprigs of plant, damp with early-evening dew. “We need to mash these into a paste. If he can swallow some, that’s best, but we need to let it soak into the wound as well.”

So John and Tauriel work in tandem, grinding the leaves to draw out the juice and then rubbing it into Kíli’s wound. John says he’s got an idea to get Kíli to swallow some of it, and Tauriel gives him free rein while she sets Kíli’s head in her lap and begins a slow, lyric incantation that makes Will feel like something finally makes sense, even so far from the ocean. John returns with a refilled skin of water from one of the dwarves, and he shoves the rest of the kingsfoil mash into the opening and shakes it with the precision of a gym-buff mixing their protein shake before gesturing to Tauriel to lift his head. Luckily, Kíli’s conscious enough to swallow instead of choke, and John has him drink as much as he can while Tauriel’s incantation picks up in intensity and John, as the only one from a universe where magic is not a conceivable outcome to medical distress, believes once again that he is having a seizure in Baker Street as Tauriel’s hands begin to glow.

But by the next morning, Kíli is fine. He’ll be limping for several days, but he’s alive and not collapsing and he gives John his undershirt back with his thanks (although John shoos him off to thank Tauriel, who did much more than him and who made googly-eyes at him the whole time, through the drool and the muttering gibberish and the really unflattering faces Kíli made while mostly-unconscious. John supposes he’s a hypocrite if he judges her for that, since he’s seen Sherlock in much more ridiculous and unseemly straits, and look at him now). 

“Gotta love magic,” Will tells him.

Erik is pondering, “I wonder if this is a type of species-wide mutation? If only I could tell Charles…”

John is thoroughly exhausted by all of it, and he would like very much to get home to his own brand of crazy– that is, jumping off of rooftops and semtex vests and locked-room murders and running on rooftops after your crazy partner– thank you very much.

Chapter Text

Alright guys, you caught me, I do not have a fresh chapter for today. I'm sorry. Sue me. Life has recently hit me like an aluminum baseball bat to the left temple. Every day for the past two weeks. Anyway, I'm doing my best but I did not have time to write a decent chapter today, and I did not want to serve you, my lovely readers, a steaming pile of horseshit. 

HOWEVER, before you go .

I have something that is in the works and, as an apology for the late chapter, I will give y'all a chance to preview and weigh in on it. Because, to be honest, you guys would be the target audience. It's not crazy original, it's actually almost the same concept as this fic, but with the movie Inception.

And so, we would have a cast of characters along these lines:

Robert Fischer(guy getting inceptioned) --> Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders; tough-talking mobster guy)

Eames (hired help for the job) --> Eddie Brock (Venom; garbagefire disaster-man; reporter)

Ariadne (grad student dream architect) --> Kitty Pryde (X-Men; tiny badass with ill-defined power set)

Arthur (group's singular braincell) --> Cameron James (10 Things I Hate About You; fool for love; kinda a dumbass in general)

Cobb (protagonist and local one-man disaster) --> well i mean it's Leonardo DiCaprio my dudes you gotta gimme a minute to pick one... any suggestions??

And then our remaining main cast members would be Mal (deceased and insane projection wife), doing her best to fuck shit up but also kind of struggling to exist because the man hallucinating her is not quite in this reality right now, Yusuf (nervous chemistry man), just trying to make sure nobody dies down there goddammit, and Mr. Saito ("tourist" who can hold his own surprisingly well given a gunshot wound to the chest), who is very confused and doesn't know how to explain what's going on to any of these people, since he has only a very basic grasp of what's going on here in the first place. 

This proposed fic would not interfere with this one, since I wouldn't start writing it until this fic is finished. 

So. What y'all's thoughts? Yay? Nay? Don't give a fuck? Lemme know cause I'm excited.

I have thought long and hard (about ten minutes on my drive home from class today) about whether to just give up on this week's installment, but that would mean another two weeks of wait for y'all and I know if I had to wait that long for a fic I might explode, so if at all physically possible, you will have your chapter tomorrow. Be prepared for William Turner Jr. to be useful!

Scream at me in the comments, nothing brings me more joy!

Chapter Text

But now, the last half-mile of the exceedingly long journey of Thorin and company, which seems to be getting longer by the day as new tasks are added to the to-do list– you know, at first it was just go home , but then there was the part with the dragon, and then it was kill dragon, go home , but then Gandalf pointed out the whole bit with the Arkenstone, so then it was get Arkenstone, kill dragon, go home , and then they needed someone smaller and quieter so then it was find burglar, get Arkenstone, kill dragon, go home , and they found the burglar– so one step done!– except no, now the burglar is missing, and the wizard, so the new plan is climb mountain , open door, kill dragon, get Arkenstone, find burglar and wizard, return freaks to wherever they came from, go home . The plan has become very convoluted, but the first step in it is to climb the mountain for the last half-mile to the door that will lead the company to the halls of Erebor.

Now where is the blasted staircase.

The dwarves look high and low for secret tricks and easy paths, and nothing turns up. The sun is rising in the sky and even the freaks seem at a loss. Will has, at this point, shrugged and admitted that he is “no landlubber,” and therefore he wouldn’t even know where to start looking for a staircase on a mountain. Unless that mountain was underwater. Then he might be able to help, maybe. 

Thorin is starting to panic by the time Tauriel laughs a high, almost smug, incredulous laugh that grates on his ears in a way that only elves can. “It’s right there!” she cries, with quite a bit of confidence for an elf speaking nonsense. Nobody sees anything except a carving of some dwarven ancestor or other in relief on the side of the sheer mountain cliff.

Erik sees the pattern next. “Ahh, my back is not going to be happy with me for this.”

Then John sees it, “Jesus, we’re all idiots. Sherlock’s got to be laughing at me somewhere right now.”

And then Thorin sees it. The staircase is the carving, and he is a fool. He can’t say that out loud, mind, he has a reputation as a king to be upheld. But, for one fleeting moment that he will deny even to himself, he knows it. He’s dumb.

They climb the strange, sideways staircase up the mountain. It takes the better part of three hours, since most of the company is working with such short legs. Even Erik, with his professed “bad back” manages it faster than Dwalin, who is the fastest among the dwarves (usually Kíli is faster, but he’s still limping in the back with Fíli and Tauriel’s support). Will makes it up first, with John fast behind, and they frown at the clearing in front of them while they wait for everyone else to catch up.

“There was supposed to be a door, wasn’t there?” John clarifies.

“I’m fairly certain they were fixed on a keyhole,” Will agrees, “which usually implies a door.”

“It’s a puzzle then?” John raises an eyebrow. 

Will shrugs noncommittally, but he’s thinking about magic, or being on the wrong mountain– there’s a lot of mountains, after all, it would absolutely be understandable if the dwarves managed to arrive at the wrong one.

The dwarves spend an awful lot of fuss, once they get to the top, in replaying the same old prophecy (“Prophecy?” Will had echoed, “Now those I know.”) they had been wearing thin since they began this quest. “Last light of Durin’s Day” this and “where the thrush knocks” that– all of the people from the various locations in the multiverse have no clue what any of this means, and both Erik and John assume it’s bullshit. Erik is convinced he could open this door just as easily in three weeks as now, and John thinks the prophecy is a clue to be considered and not an omen to be obeyed. William Turner Jr, however, knows curses and magic better than anyone– probably better than the dwarves or Tauriel, even– so he’s thinking hard. 

The sun begins to set, the traitorous bastard, before they’ve made any headway. The dwarves, being dwarves, start to hit the mountain with their big (not actually that big, but they’re also four-foot-something, so we give them some credit for trying) axes– as if they could chop down the mountain or something. Tauriel, being an elf, has decided that, since she doesn’t know anything about the situation, she can’t do anything for it, and it isn’t her problem anyway. Erik, being himself, is trying to find something metal to work with, but the dwarven treasures are all too deep within the mountain for him to do more than shake them. John, being Sherlock’s flatmate, is trying to overthink the whole thing, but, because he is himself, it isn’t getting him much of anywhere because the answer is very much not complicated. 

And then that absolute fucking bastard the sun slips down behind the horizon of the valley bellow them, and there rises a collective curse in all sorts of native languages– Sindarin, common Westron, English, German. If you want the American-English equivalent: god fucking dammit .

But there is no more light from the sun on Durin’s Day, the last of autumn, the motherfucker of days for this poor company. After about two minutes of waiting, like something miraculous might happen if they just stare at the wall of rock, everybody turns and begins to trudge towards the staircase to descend three-ish hours down the mountain. 

Except Will, who is well-acquainted with the magic and curses of the ocean, and who knows them to be slippery little fuckers who speak in every word except the one you need and act in the opposite of their intended outcome. Magic is a tricky bastard, and it is usually hiding something from you. In this afternoon, Will has heard everything about a thrush knocking except for the actual thrush doing the actual knock, and he’s figuring that part might be important. So he waits while the dwarves sullenly lead the way back to the proverbial fire-escape of their ancestors, while the moon rises and casts snowy beams over the metamorphic rock of the Lonely Mountain, while a small bird– maybe a thrush, but it’s kind of dark so maybe a sparrow or something, Will doesn’t know– lands on a small rock and begins banging a seed of some kind against it. 

Will goes oooohhhh , and he wants to shout at everyone to come back, because look, you guys, it’s that bird you were talking about before , but also he doesn’t want to scare the bird away. Who knows if that would, like, disrupt the magical proceedings or whatever. So he discreetly picks up a pebble and chucks it at Tauriel’s head– she’s closest. 

She whips around, fury and vengeance burning in her eyes, but does not immediately impale Will with an arrow (something he appreciates, as a man who knows what it’s like to have died, and to have lived that way for quite a while). But she sees what’s up and she gets everyone else’s attention. They creep back with stealth equivalent to, say, a horse in a hospital.

By then the moon is shining just right, and Will is pointing furiously to a little hole in the wall, mouthing frantic words that absolutely no one can make out.

“You know you can talk, right?” Ori says.

“It ain’t goin’ to make the moonlight run away,” Dwalin chortles, and the thrush flies off, much to Will’s disappointment. 

“But I found the keyhole,” Will tells them, gesturing to the little hole in the rock. It definitely had not been there twenty minutes ago when that bastard the sun was still kicking around. 

Thorin is immediately overjoyed, so much so that he forgets to voice the comment about how surprised he is that Will managed to be useful. He rips the key off of his neck and sprints to the door. The rock swings to the side like it has hinges and reveals a dark, dank, dusty, mysteriously cobweb-free hallway reaching into an indeterminate dark.

“We’ve done it,” Thorin whispers, breathless and melodramatic, “we’ve returned home.”

“I mean, except for the bit about Smaug still living in there,” Glóin reminds everyone.

Oh right, the giant, fire-breathing dragon. Forgot about that guy.

Chapter Text

“I am not going in there with a dragon !” John cries. “I’m not your burglar!”

Thorin grumbles and explains it again, slower, like John is a toddler being told why he has to eat his meat. “Yes, but you are a version of our burglar. The dragon will kill a dwarf on sight.”

“And he won’t kill a human on sight?”

Thorin shrugs. “Besides,” he points out, “you have that magic rock. That should help.”

Rolling his eyes, John mimes, “Ah, yes, my magic item: gun.” It gets a snort of laughter from Erik. 

“I’ll go with John,” Erik finally sighs. It’s already probably something around 8:00 in the evening. He wants to finish this and go to bed. Erik has no qualms about using the riches Thorin is a little too enthralled with to suffocate a dragon. 

Tauriel is still uninterested in all of this dwarven tomfoolery– it’s just some gold, who cares, get more– but she says “I’ll remember you both when you die.”

“I do not want to die today! I still have a boyf– a flatmate to get back to.”

“As do I,” Erik agrees. “That’s why I’d like to finish this nonsense as soon as possible and get back to him.”

So, after a lot of dwarven-badgering, Erik and John enter the tunnel. They’re here to defeat the dragon, if they can, but mostly to get the shiniest of the many shiny rocks: the Arkenstone. Both of them think giving it to Thorin is a bad idea– but they don’t really have a better one, so. 

They creep silently through the tunnels. Erik, in his old age, is less agile than John, but even in his prime he wasn’t capable of that kind of stealth. Erik doesn’t know John was a soldier– he doesn’t really know anything about him, just like John doesn’t know Erik created an army and tried to decimate humanity that one time– but they’ve both calmed down now, as people, so it’s fine. But John is quieter, for sure. 

Had the dwarves bothered to check, Tauriel would have been the quietest. But they didn’t, so she’s still sitting outside feeling a little annoyed by the whole scavenger hunt. 

When they reach the main cavern, it’s hard not to gasp aloud. But you can’t rally gasp in your head, so John and Erik just gape because holy fucking shit that is some money . 

“Alright then,” Erik whispers, much to John’s consternation, “this is some material I can work with.” One wrinkled eye winks at John. “Time to kill a dragon.”

“That is meant to be an expression– ” John starts, but is cut off by an undignified squeak when all of the gold in the room starts to shiver and partially melt and pool into the floor.

Somewhere, far, far across the cavernous sea of gold, someone shouts in a wordless panic and begins to yell at them: “Yeah, no, please stop that, I’m sure we can talk this out like reasonable people! Depending on what reality this is… Do you speak English!?” 

“Are you a dragon!?” John yells back.

There’s a quiet, “Why the fuck would I be a–” before the much louder yell comes back, sounding exasperated, “No! I am not a dragon!”

“Then yes, we know English!” John replies. Turning to Erik, he grumbles, “For Christ’s sake, Erik, put the metal down.”

“But it’s been ages since I’ve really gotten to maim someone,” Erik pouts.

“ Unfortunately , you’ll have to keep waiting.”

Together, John and Erik pick their way across a thin walkway above the room and they meet their new strange friend in the middle. He has floated himself up on little, green, magical symbols that have drawn themselves on thin air.

“Sherlock!?” John splutters.

“Who?” Dr. Stephen Strange returns. “You’re not Dr. Everett Ross, are you?” he clarifies.

“Uh, no. You’re not– you’re not Sherlock Holmes, then?” John’s face falls. 

“No, Dr. Stephen Strange. Nice to meet you…”

“John, John Watson.”

“And Erik Lensherr,” the old man cuts in, “I’m guessing you’re here for the same reason we are?”

“Inter-dimensional whoopsie-daisy? Yeah.”

“Can I just say that is a fantastic mutation you have, Dr. Strange– such a pleasure to meet another mutant so far from home.”

Stephen frowns, “Yeah, um, not a mutation, one, and two, I’m pretty sure nobody here is from the same universe.”

“Oh, we know all about that,” John grumbles, still peeved at having to deal with Stephen’s face not matching his goddamn identity . “There’s twelve dwarves and an elf outside waiting for us to bring them a shiny rock with untold, probably magical powers. Oh, and a pirate. He’s not from around here either.”

“Alright, that’s a lot weirder than I expected,” Stephen admits. 

“You’re telling me! You’ve got my boyfriend’s face!”

“Oh, we’re saying it out loud now?” Erik clarifies, and then sighs a relieved sigh. “I miss my husband.”

“I’m officially weirded out,” Stephen says, “and I’ve seen a Norse god’s brother come back from the dead. But this is weird .”

John grumbles something about for Christ’s sake being gay isn’t that weird .

Stephen immediately corrects him, “No, I mean the fact that three out of the four people who got universe-shuffled are in same-sex relationships. I feel like I should call a human resources representative about this. This is clearly homophobic discrimination.” Erik and John do not miss that joke, and everyone is now cackling wildly. The absolute absurdity of it all!

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen a dragon around?” Erik checks, “Or a glowing white rock?”

“I think I replaced the dragon here– Tony’s gonna have a fit, but everyone’ll be fine– and I did see a shiny white rock, but we are not giving that to anyone, I think it’s possessed.”

“Ghosts now. Right, back to the seizure theory.”

Stephen asks, “What’s the seizure theory?”

Erik answers, “It’s John’s theory that his flatmate– boyfriend, my apologies– has drugged him, and that we’re all figments of his imagination while he lapses into a seizing come on his bed and hallucinates from an overdose.”

“That’s… that’s pretty graphic, don’t you think?”

“I am not talking to you,” John huffs, “you’ve got my boyfriend’s face and I am very upset with him for drugging me.”

They make their way out of the cave and have a very hard time explaining Stephen Strange’s very… well, strange presence to the gathered party. But Stephen promises that, given the Avenger’s track record (“who are the Revengers?” Bifur clarifies. “The Re vengers are different, but who knows maybe Tony or Cap called them in, I don’t know– I’m talking about the A vengers. With an ‘A’.”) the dragon is probably long dead, and the mountain is theirs now. So sorry, he never saw that Arkenstone thing (he already made a portal to some random volcano and dropped it in. It was creeping him out). 

The dwarves have completed their quest– sort of. They can begin to rebuild their kingdom– maybe. They’re home– ish.

But Thorin is not satisfied. “What about Gandalf, the wizard?” he demands, “What about–… what about Bilbo?”

Instead of answering, Stephen narrows his eyes. His expression grows more concerned, muttering “Is it every single person involved with this–?” until he finally looks all around the group and says, “Alright, who here is gay– who is a man that is interested in other men?”

Thorin huffs, but Balin gives him an extremely pointed look, and both of them nod jerkily. Will raises his hand, as does Erik, and eventually John. Fíli raises his hand too, but then Kíli yanks it down and says “I don’t think he was talkin’ to us,” and Fíli says “Well I am.” Tauriel raises her hand, but clarifies (mostly for Kíli’s benefit), “I’m not that way, but Legolas isn’t here to speak for himself.”

“Who’s Legolas ?” Stephen asks.

Tauriel points at Will. “The version of him from this universe.”

“Absolute discrimination lawsuit waiting to happen,” Erik jokes.

Chapter Text

They all go inside the halls of Erebor to sleep, and Stephen notices Kíli’s limp, and he asks if he needs that looked at, and Kíli tells him that Tauriel and John already took care of it. Stephen is more than excited to learn that John is a doctor as well (he misunderstood and thought Tauriel was a doctor, but she remains insistent that one magical incantation does not a healer make , and then Stephen is more than excited to learn that Tauriel also uses magic, even if it’s very different from his). 

Thorin is visibly unnerved, but the loss of the Arkenstone has been essentially forgotten in the loss of Bilbo and Gandalf. The dwarves’ celebration of reclaiming their home is not the feast and festivities they once imagined. It’s quiet drinks and wondering how they’ll get Bilbo and Gandalf back. Victory dampened with loss.

Which is why Stephen grumbles himself to consciousness in the morning because this is a super depressing– what would Peter call it? Vibe? Yeah. This is a super depressing vibe. Does not pass the vibe check. And Stephen concocts a plan. 

As a narrator, it’s a little dishonest for me to phrase it like that– because it isn’t like this is a morally dubious, complicated, or even long plan, the way those words come off on the page– the way you might have read them in your head. But it’s a plan. And he concocted it. So.

And the plan goes something like this: “if I can leave this cave now, then maybe we should all go back to our own universes now.” Stephen hadn’t been able to use his sling ring inside the magically-sealed halls of Erebor before William Turner had found that keyhole and the dwarves had sent John and Erik inside. But now that that magical warding had been lifted? It certainly can’t hurt to try. 

So he tells everyone this while Bifur and Bombur and Gloin are making breakfast– Thorin is still moping, “If Bilbo was here, he’d be asking about second breakfast already,” in his own, aggressive tone– and everyone seems to think this is a fine idea. 

“Sure, you get everyone home,” Dwalin grumbles, “but are ye goin to be bringing anyone back fer us?”

Stephen rolls his eyes. “Uh… yeah. I don’t want anything like that messing with my universe. Fixing stuff like this is kind of technically my job, where I’m from anyway.”

“You sound like Gandalf,” Fíli says, laughing. Nobody else seems to think so, but he thinks it was funny. 

“Does anyone have any objections?” Stephen double-checks.

“I just want my brother back,” Tauriel complains.

“At least you still have your boyfriend,” Will whines. “I miss my boyfriend.”

And then there comes a chorus of “I miss my boyfriend too”s from several people, and Stephen agrees, but he also groans– for chrissakes we’re all grown men, stop whining when there’s a clear solution to the problem literally wrapped around my finger– and he says, “Alright, then finish your breakfast and let’s get going.”

Unfortunately, after breakfast, everyone gathers ‘round and a problem quickly presents itself when nobody can decide who should go home first. 

Tauriel, Will, and Kíli think that Will should go home first so they can have Legolas back, and return him to his father before the elf king sends an army after their heads. After some debate, Gloin, Ori, and Bombur seem to agree that an elf army is not the best kind to have after you.

Thorin is adamant that John go home first so they can have Bilbo back– “who knows what he’s facing right now!” Thorin insists, and John rebuttals “Probably half a pint of hell, I’m sorry in advance about that.”– and John says he would like to go home first, and Balin, Dwalin, Bifur, and Nori think that’s the best plan too.

Erik says he would really like to get home first, but he can be patient– and most of that argument is spearheaded by Ori, Oin, Dori, and Fíli, who think Gandalf should be returned to them first because Gandalf always seems to know what to do. 

And all of this is just way too much effort for Stephen to decide and so he sits down on the ground and closes his eyes and says, “Alright, I’m thinking of a number.”

Before anyone can blink, Fíli barks, “2,815,665,433,001.”

Stephen opens his eyes. “It’s between one and ten.” 

“Oh that’s easy,” Erik says, “Nine.”

Stephen’s expression does not change– although, internally, he is thinking what the fuck how did he know it was nine what the fuuuccckkk , because he does not know that Erik lives with a telepath and has used this to develop an extreme skill in guessing games. He looks at the Will/Legolas group next.

Will shrugs, “Um… six?” Six is usually an unlucky number– which Jack has always said makes it actually the luckiest number there is.

And finally, Thorin speaks over John to confidently interject, “Three,” which John seems very disappointed by but accepts with the grace that he has learned from living with the stubborn bastard that is Sherlock Holmes.

Stephen Strange nods, stands, and says, “The number was nine. Erik goes first. Then Will. Then John.”

Of course, like toddlers, everyone hates this decision except for the people who wanted Gandalf back first. They all grumble and complain, because let’s be honest with ourselves these men may be anywhere from 30-something to 80-something, but they hardly learned anything like emotional intelligence in that time, did they?

Chapter Text

Everyone is ready to go. Those from other universes will be traveling with Stephen, just in case they happen to realize they’re more nearby their own universe than they thought they might be, and everyone from Middle Earth will stay in Middle Earth. John has his gun. Erik has his wedding ring. Will has… whatever Will has, he’s got it. And Stephen has his sling ring poised to open a portal just outside the front gate of Erebor. 

The portal flickers like a novice’s, but that’s probably just interdimensional interference, so it should be fine, and everyone waves goodbye and steps through. 

They find themselves in the forest in the middle of nowhere, but there’s people milling around that don’t seem to give one singular flying shit that Erik and co. just portalled themselves into the middle of their camp. They’re uncertain, thus far, if this is actually Erik’s universe or not– and they receive instant confirmation that it both is and isn’t when Erik himself– or, at least, someone with his face, powers, and mannerisms– steps onto a stage and begins addressing the crowd as “My mutant brothers and sisters.”

Erik looks viscerally embarrassed by the outfit this version of him is wearing, as he well should be– it’s hideous, and he’s got this stupid looking helmet on, and a cape. I mean, it’s really bad. Stephen kind of gags a little on reflex. 

“Sorry,” Erik whispers, “this must be the leftover timeline from before Logan went back in time to fix everything.”

Which, of course, is the first everyone else is hearing of this, and they all look at him like he grew an extra head because they’re just barely not self-aware enough to realize that they are currently, essentially, time-travelling themselves. 

So Stephen sling-rings them out of there as discreetly as one can in the middle of a race-war-mongering pep-talk– which is not discreetly at all, and this time people definitely care because it’s not suspicious to portal yourself into somewhere right before the pep-talk, but it’s super suspicious to portal yourself out of somewhere right in the middle of the pep-talk– and everyone starts yelling about spies and something about betrayers of the cause and all of that before the portal closes and they find themselves outside an official-looking government building next to two extremely started young men, one of whom bears a vague resemblance to Erik.

Erik blinks, at himself and then at Charles and then back at himself. His 76-year-old brain is visibly racing, and he looks to Stephen for confirmation, and what is Stephen going to do? Say ‘no’ to giving his younger self advice when one possible outcome is Erik leading a race-war-mongering pep-talk in the woods in the middle of nowhere at 76-years-old? Uh, no thanks, spoil away, buddy.

Erik immediately turns back and looks both Erik and Charles in the eyes– Charles, in his wide-eyed youth, can already tell that this is just as much Erik as the man he was just talking to (before being rudely interrupted by whoever the fuck just popped into existence next to them) because he has already started to root around in old-Erik’s head. Young-Erik has no fucking clue who this is. 

“You both love each other,” old-Erik says flatly. “You know it, I know because I remember being you, and you will both save yourselves a lot of trouble if you just admit it. I know it’s the 1960s and it sucks being gay right now but in 2015 in America they will make it legal and you two will get married and it will be great and we adopt almost an entire school because you ,” and he points accusingly at young-Charles, “can’t say no to anyone who needs help. Trust me when I say that if you try to beat around the bush you will spend the large majority of your lives separate and miserable. That, and you’re being a bad influence on Alex and Hank– by the way, tell Alex to go get Scott before that child causes more trouble for himself.”

Young-Erik opens his mouth just enough to say, “Who are you?”

And old-Erik grumbles, “I’m your great-uncle Philip, who do I look like!? I’m you! I’m you when you’re 76-years-old, but I’m you! Now goodbye I’ve got to get back to my husband– Charles, please practice more at chess, I can beat you much too easily at this age.”

Young-Charles nods, kind of dumbstruck and kind of awestruck.

And then Erik nods to Stephen, and Stephen raises his eyebrows, as if to say are you done now? And then Stephen sling-rings them to a quiet study, where two old men are sat in comfy-looking chairs playing chess. 

“Erik?” Charles murmurs, before he’s even looked up from the board. He knows his husband’s mind when he feels it. 

“Hello, love, I’m home,” Erik sighs, and he picks Charles up in a hug that audibly cracks his back in ways that it probably shouldn’t at his age.

Gandalf rises from his chair. “Well,” he coughs, “this game is entertaining, but rather complicated for an old wizard like myself.” He eyes Stephen up and down. “I suppose you’re here to take me home?”

Stephen nods.

“And why are Bilbo and Legolas dressed so strangely?”

“William Turner, actually.”

“And John Watson.”

“Oh, my apologies, lads.” Gandalf turns around, “Well, Charles, it’s been a pleasure. Thank you ever so much for your hospitality.”

“And thank you for letting me win at chess, for once!” Charles replies, “I’ll see you again, Gandalf.”

So Gandalf, Stephen, John, and Will head back through another sparking portal to Middle Earth.

The dwarves are overjoyed, and they keep asking if the other universe was anything dangerous, and Gandalf tells them very firmly that they shouldn’t be so close-minded about other universes, he really had a lovely time. Then the dwarves and Tauriel rush Stephen, Will, and John back through another portal because we still need an elf and a hobbit, dammit!

Chapter Text

“What kind of universe are we looking for here?” Stephen asks Will. It was pretty easy to find Erik’s universe. Mutants don’t exist in every universe out there, and then Charles Xavier acted probably more like a homing beacon than anyone truly realized. 

This doesn’t produce much of an answer from Will, who isn’t especially sure how any of this cross-universe stuff works anyway. He thinks for a minute. “There was definitely pirates,” he says, “and curses. Lots of curses.” 

John grumbles about how he’s never going to get home at this rate. Stephen sighs, “There’s pirates and curses in almost 95% of universes, statistically. Do you have anything more specific? Even a person would help.”

“Oh! Then how about Captain Jack Sparrow?” Will suggests, “He’s my husband.”

“Two men can get married on a pirate ship!?” John cries.

Will rolls his eyes, like of course they can, didn’t you learn that in pirate school . But John didn’t know this– and neither did Stephen– because the education systems in most developed countries are much more interested in stuffing kids full of propaganda-laden half-truths that can be recited at will with no real effect in society whatsoever than they are with teaching children history, literature, science, or anything else involving critical thinking, and therefore left out the part where a lot of pirates were gay. “Yeah, but we had to have the second mate officiate it. You know, I think Joshamee was more nervous about it than Jack and I– I mean, we were really just doing it because he got dared to while he was drunk and some of the crew told me about the retirement benefits for married pirates, and we just decided ‘ah, hell with it,’ because everyone already knew we were–… well, anyway. Jack’s about this tall, dark hair, stumbles more than walks.” 

Stephen and John blink at each other, and Stephen says, “Alright, let’s look for Jack Sparrow–”

“ Captain Jack Sparrow,” Will corrects.

“And I’m Doctor Stephen Strange, but you don’t see me parading that all over,” Stephen mumbles. He used to get hung up on it, but when you live with Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, and even Natasha Romanov (who knew she had a Ph.D. in international relations?), among other stupidly impressive people, you could lose hours out of the day calling them by their “titles.” Of course, the implications of the word doctor are somewhat lost on Will, because where he comes from a doctor does not need anywhere close to eight years of schooling at an institution where it costs hundreds of thousands of dollars a year just to exist on campus. So Stephen drops it and opens a portal to a dimension containing someone genetically similar to Captain Jack Sparrow.

Their first try is nowhere near correct, and this becomes rapidly apparent by the time they’re being chased by anthropomorphic, metal playing cards and a woman with a weirdly big head in more ways than one is screaming that they’re going to be guillotined. 

So, um, not that one. Stephen throws open a portal to another dimension containing another person genetically similar to Captain Jack Sparrow and Hatter Tarrant Hightopp. 

They don’t need to spend more than two minutes in this next universe to know it’s not right, because they encounter a nice couple walking past and both of them are giant anthropomorphic lizards. That, and it’s the middle of the desert, which definitely is not an ocean. 

After they finish screaming– what the fuck why are the people giant lizards why are the lizards wearing clothes jesus fucking christ stephen do you wish they were naked no no i do not please just get us out of here Jack is not in this universe I promise – Stephen portals them to another universe. 

This next universe seems like a normal woodland scene at first, but then there’s just way more singing than normal and it’s all perfectly matched pitch and nobody does that in the woods except a cult, and then there’s a giant woman– and I mean huge , like 50 feet tall and screaming kind of huge– and they quickly decide this universe is not likely to be the right one, so another portal it is. 

Next is clearly not the right universe, unless the industrial revolution happened in the last two days, but they don’t immediately find themselves traumatized, so they don’t immediately abandon it either. They wander around the eerie outside of a large factory before finding a door leading inside and, being the nosy bastards they are, they enter. It is not until they find a chubby boy being sucked up a drainage pipe surrounded by what the party hopes is chocolate that they experience the horror they had felt in universes prior and Stephen immediately opens another portal before the Oompa-Loompas even get a chance to start singing. 

Then they portal themselves right onto a boat on the open waters of some ocean or other. Will takes one deep breath and says, “Yeah. This is the Black Pearl alright.” 

“It is?” a slurring voice asks. “I thought I’d somehow gotten on the wrong ship.”

Will crosses his arms, rolls his eyes, and chastises, “Jack, you know the Black Pearl like you know the tips of your own toes, there’s no way you’d think she was a different ship.”

Jack waves his hand noncommittally. “Yes, but you weren’t on it, and to the best of my knowledge you’re part of the boat herself.”

“There’s no way I’m physically part of the Pearl.”

“Wasn’t there that one curse–?” Jack mumbles.

“Lifted, remember?” Will reminds him.

Stephen is already looking around for Legomyeggo or whoever he is, but John approaches Jack politely and asks. “Sorry, but have you seen a man that might look something like Will, maybe a little taller? A little blonder, perhaps?”

Jack takes a long drink from the bottle in his left hand and throws his right around Will’s waist. “There was one man… just woke up in my bed and demanded to be shown respect. I told him he was my husband, I thought you’d been cursed again, but that didn’t really,” Jack makes a face like one might make at a misbehaving toddler, “didn’t really sit well with him. He’s been up there for a while.”

And in the crow’s nest atop the mainmast, a blonde head pokes out, spies John, and screeches, “You! I know you! You’re that hobbit with Oakenshield’s company! Where is that dwarven miscreant?”

Stephen grumbles something about not another problem child and opens a portal to his left, which promptly drops Legolas next to them. 

“Not quite a hobbit, sorry,” John explains, eyeing Legolas’s bow warily, “but we did come to take you back home, so we would appreciate it if you didn’t cause any more trouble.” 

“Don’t try to fool me, hobbit–”

“Alright, Lego-man,” Stephen interrupts, “I want to go home, so I’m just going to hurry this along– thanks for the help, Will, Jack, have a wonderful… retirement. Or whatever. Aaand goodbye.” 

And then the portal swallows them all and they’re back in Middle Earth.

Tauriel is visibly relieved, and says something in Sindarin to Legolas, who takes to explaining whatever happened to him in the past two days with the put-upon airs that only nobility can effectively pull off. He seems peeved that Kíli and Tauriel grew so close since his universal swap, but he doesn’t try to shoot anybody (not even Thorin, even though Thorin is being a pissy prick about not having his boyfriend back yet), which is definitely helpful. 

Chapter Text

Now, it’s John’s turn to be returned. He’s beyond relieved, because now he can go home to his boyfriend and slap him in the back of the head for experimenting on him in his sleep and possibly causing a hallucinogenic seizure in the middle of the night. He can finally wake up– presumably in a hospital bed.

Stephen pokes his head in one portal, makes a confused face, clarifies, “You’re ‘Sherlock’ is a man, right? And he’s not Japanese?”

“Uh, yes, man, and no, not Japanese.”

“Cool, so not this one.” That portal closes, Thorin puffs irritatedly from behind, and Legolas makes a comment in Sindarin, which Tauriel adds to in kind, and they both laugh. He opens another, “This looks more likely,” and they both leave Middle Earth behind. 

This is probably not the right universe, but that becomes irrelevant quickly when Stephen and John turn a corner and come face to face with–

“Tony?” Stephen shouts, pointing at a man who certainly looks like Tony Stark.

The man next to him seems suspicious, and looks at his companion. “Sherlock?” he coaxes.

Both John and Stephen balk. “ Sherlock!? ” they cry. 

The other-Sherlock turns to his buddy, calling him “Watson–”

“What?” John replies, and then realizes he is not being spoken to. 

“Who–” Stephen begins, but is cut off by the other-Sherlock.

“You’re a surgeon? Nope, you were a surgeon– what did that to your hands?” 

Before he can continue, John mutters, “That’s definitely a Sherlock, but not my Sherlock– trust me, we’d better go.”

So they run off down an alley, and they throw a portal open and jump through it before the other-Sherlock and other-John can catch up. 

Then they have the right universe– right street, even! They open up the door and Mrs. Hudson has her TV on too loud again so she doesn’t hear them go upstairs and open the door to one Sherlock Holmes tentatively, determinedly, holding out a biscuit towards the couch.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Quiet, John,” Sherlock whispers, without looking up, “there’s a shorter John hiding behind the sofa. He’s turned himself invisible– marvellously interesting, really, I can’t tell how he’s doing it. He looks just like you though– John!? ” And Sherlock drops the biscuit and runs across the room and looks John up and down and wraps him in a hug, and then looks over his shoulder to look Stephen up and down, and he stops at the face. “John, why does this man have my face? Doppelganger? Twin? Mycroft already hid one sibling from me, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was another.”

“Neither. But I’ll tell you later,” John promises. “First we need to get the short man with my face out from under the sofa.” John approaches the sofa– the biscuit has disappeared off of the floor already. “Bilbo? Bilbo Baggins? Thorin sent me, I’m here to get you back home– or, I guess Dr. Stephen Strange is here to get you home.”

“Thorin sent you?” Bilbo says, and then he crawls out from behind the sofa and takes off the ring and becomes visible once again. “Thank goodness. I thought I’d have to eat the biscuits this man was dropping and never see second breakfast ever again!” 

“He speaks English!” Sherlock exclaims.

“Yes, I speak Common. If you hadn’t been chasing me, maybe we could have had a conversation!” Bilbo huffs.

“You kept stabbing me with your tiny knife.”

“It’s a sword. Her name is Sting. And you were in my bed!”

“That’s not quite right, you were in our bed.”

“Sherlock, are you telling me you’ve been stabbed and– one, you didn’t tell me that the moment I walked in the door– and two, you were trying to feed and domesticate the person that stabbed you!?” John takes an exasperated breath.

And Stephen takes this chance to say, “Okay, so I’m going to take Dildo home–”

“Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins. I’ll have you remember that, Wizard.”

“– John, I hope your boyfriend has not been stabbed too badly–”

“Happens all the time, Stephen. He’ll be fine.”

“Don’t patronize me, John.”

“Then stop getting yourself stabbed!”

“– it’s been lovely, I’m going home, have a nice life.” Stephen throws his portal back open with his sling ring and him and Bilbo step through.

Once back in Middle Earth, Bilbo is greeted with as much warmth as Thorin can fit in four feet of dwarf and three feet of hobbit, and then the rest of the dwarves get their hands on him.

“Wait, wait wait,” Stephen interrupts, “Bilbo, can I borrow that ring?”

“What?” Bilbo coughs. “I mean, I suppose.” He doesn’t want to be suspicious, so he hands the One Ring to Stephen, who immediately opens a portal to the biggest volcano he could find in proximity– Mt. Doom– and tosses the One Ring through.

“Why did you do that!?” Bilbo screeches.

“That thing was so clearly cursed, I have no clue why you were even wearing it.”

Gandalf shrugs, “He is somewhat correct. That ring had no place in the possession of good people.”

Chapter Text

The dwarves are overjoyed at the reunification of all their party members. They finally have that feast, and they drink and eat and scream and sing until morning, and they tell Gandalf and Legolas and Bilbo all about their misadventures while they were gone. 

They thank Stephen profusely, and they try to offer him buckets and buckets of gold. However, Stephen specifically remembers squandering his wealth in a grief-fueled medical shopping spree, and Tony has enough money in his back pocket to buy the entire stock market twice (which Natasha and Cap are very adamant is unethical, but Tony counters it by saying most of it funds the Avengers, but that’s a whole other can of worms). So Stephen declines monetary compensation. 

He does, however, ask, “Do you guys have any cool magical items I could take with me though?”

They do. They have several. They give him, like, twelve, and Stephen says “Perfect, thanks” and then he says “It’s been… you know what, I won’t lie, this has been exhausting and frustrating, but you’re all very nice people normally,” (they are all quick to inform him that dwarves are hardly ever pleasant to be around; the dwarves seem rather proud of this) “So, goodbye.”

Stephen sling-rings a portal open and hauls all twelve of his magical party-favors with him. He comes face to face with the whole Avengers team eating brunch at the island in the kitchen. 

“Stephen?” Wanda looks incredulous over her Lucky Charms. 

Tony has his back to him, but Stephen can see his irritated expression in the hunch of his shoulders. “If I turn around right now,” he snarks, “and I see my wizard boyfriend– who has been missing for three days and left us alone to take care of a dragon , thank you so much for that, babe– standing there in his stupid wizard outfit, I will be beyond peeved.”

“Prepare to be beyond peeved then, Tony,” Steve chuckles.

Tony spins slowly in his chair, sees Stephen, and just lets the chair keep turning until it’s facing the other way again. “That’s it,” he says, “I’m beyond peeved. Annoyed, even.”

“It’s too early for this, can you just make up with him already?” Bucky mutters, almost asleep over a bowl of oatmeal. 

“I need time to cope! He was super rude– didn’t even say goodbye!”

Natasha sets down her store-bought cinnamon roll and gives Tony a look , which can be roughly translated to: I am fucking exhausted, and if you would like to make a scene right in front of my salad cinnamon roll, you will find everything in your garage moved six inches to the left by lunch . She doesn’t verbalize any of this, but Tony gets the picture.

“Alright, fine,” Tony relents, “Bring it in, Stephen, I missed you, you stupid idiot.” 

Stephen uncrosses his arms, sighs, and hugs Tony back. “I missed you guys too. You will not believe what I’ve been through these past three days.”

Clint snorts, “What you’ve been through!? We had to kill a dragon!”

“Ha, ‘we,’” Bruce laughs, “you and I both know– I might not remember, but I know– that you guys just let Hulk and Thor go ham for half an hour.”

“I needed the workout,” Thor says in between sips of coffee. 

“And the rest of us had to work ground control and cleanup–” Natasha explains, “why do you think we look so exhausted?”

“What were you doing in the meantime, Wizard Man?” Tony mutters into Stephen’s shoulder.

“Well, I woke up in a room filled with gold, and then a doctor and a metalbending old guy opened the door to let me out, and I met some dwarves, two elves, a pirate, and an actual wizard– and then it got really weird…”