Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be, no money made.

Because everyone can use a laugh now and then... (Oh, and if you happen to be one of the two people who get the title, yes I do have an indecently long memory!)


This Is The Tale Of The Little White Mouse

MacLeod was grading papers when the phone call came. Reaching round the stack of work, he picked up the receiver.



It took a moment or two for MacLeod to actually identify the speaker as Methos -- the voice sounded...like the ancient Immortal was desperately trying not to hyperventilate. "What's up?"

"I...just...can you come over here -- please?"



Before MacLeod could complain about being literally screamed at down the phone line, the line went dead. Puzzled beyond all reason, MacLeod shrugged. If he was going to find out what was wrong, he was going to have to go over to Methos' apartment.

With another glance at the pile of grading still to be done, MacLeod got to his feet. "This had so better not be Methos' idea of a joke."


Fifteen minutes later and MacLeod had arrived at Methos' apartment. He could feel Methos' buzz as he approached the door, which rather precluded the idea that this was some sort of juvenile prank, but... He moved to knock on the door, only to have it swing open on its own.


"I--in here."

Methos? Nervous? MacLeod shook his head and followed the sound of Methos' voice into the kitchen of the apartment. There was Methos, pressed up against the edge of the counter...cowering?

"Do something MacLeod!"

MacLeod opened his mouth to ask 'what', when he spotted something on the floor. It was small and white with pinkish ears and a long tail.

"Methos, it's a mouse," MacLeod stated.


Bemused to the point of wondering which parallel universe he had somehow stepped into, MacLeod carefully stepped forward and scooped the mouse up. It was clearly someone's escaped pet, given the ease with which it was caught. Right on cue, there was a knock on the door.

"Excuse me," called a harassed sounding woman. "Mr Pierson -- I'm sorry to trouble you...my son's pet..." Before the woman could finish, MacLeod was at the door, handing the small creature over. "You're not Mr Pierson," she commented.

"No -- but that is your mouse?" MacLeod replied.

"Yes...yes -- thank you..."

"Tell your son to keep a better eye on it," MacLeod commented, smiling.

"Oh I have," the woman agreed. "Thank you again."

With that she departed. MacLeod shook his head and closed the door. Now to find out what was wrong with Methos. He returned to the kitchen to find the ancient Immortal slumped on the floor beside the counter he had been cowering against.

"It's gone...thank the gods and large Highland barbarians, it's gone."

MacLeod blinked. "You want to..." And finally it clicked. "You are scared of mice?"

Methos' head jerked up and MacLeod found himself pinned by the expression in the ancient's eyes. "One word, MacLeod. Not one word."

"The fourth horseman of the apocalypse is afraid of mice." MacLeod shook his head. "Now I really have seen everything."