For all that Bilbo had longed for his hobbit hole, his books and armchair and garden, it feels wrong when he steps through his door, like pulling on clothes he’d outgrown, or a new pipe that lacked well-worn teeth grooves. He finds himself sitting alone at his dinner table, too many empty chairs crammed into the small space and he sings to himself when he clears the many unused dishes he can’t help but lay out for supper. “That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates.”
The overwhelming pressure in his hobbit hole, that crowds around every movement and leaves the air heavy, is the silence. There is no raucous laugher, no flutes or fiddles or drums, no late-night stories of lost kingdoms and great battles, and Bilbo doesn’t quite know how to deal with all of the quiet he had so mised on the journey. He finds he cannot sleep without the snores of his dwarves in the night. And when he does find sleep, he jerks awake, voice hoarse and screams still on his tongue; dreams of warg howls and dragonfire, or shining stones and so so much blood, of lies told and words unspoken, of promises broken and trusts betrayed, and so damned many things left unsaid.
Bilbo welcomes the shunning he receives from several well-to-do hobbit families, uses it as an excuse to hole himself up underground and wish for rougher company, for mountains and woods and great cities of men. It crosses his mind, from time to time, that he could set off on his own again and visit his remaining dwarves so far to the east, but there is a monument there in Erebor, built to honour Thorin and Fili and Kili, and Bilbo does not think he has the heart to see it. And so he stays in Bag End and withers away, pining for the dead.