Disclaimer: Based on Basil of Baker Street by Eve Titus and Basil the Great Mouse Detective, Disney's adaptation. Characters therefore not mine; I'm only playing with them to satisfy my own odds and ends. Hehehehehe.


It had started with dreams, that was what stopped Basil from taking any real notice. He hated dreams, of course - there was no fact, no scrap of solid evidence in any of them that they could ever be anymore than subconscious fantasies. So these dreams of Ratigan again, they were dismissed as unimportant, put to the back of the detective's mind as he carried on with any cases as normal. Success after success followed Olivia Flaversham's departure and Ratigan's fall from St Stephen's Tower, when Big Ben struck ten on that terrible, rainy night.

Scars remained from that battle atop the tower, deep ridges in Basil's arm, chest and back from where Ratigan's claws had raked him. Fur refused to grow in those patches, serving as a constant reminder of his near death.

Cases since then, though fraught with danger, had seemed somehow dull; he had yet to find himself once again dangling three hundred feet in the air, clutching onto the skeleton of a broken zeppelin for dear life. With Doctor Dawson by his side, life was never boring, but at the same time, it never had that thrill that he had once known. As for the perpetrators of the crimes he solved presently... suffice to say, none of them were quite as criminally insane or as shrewd and intelligent as the sewer rat had been.

Tonight, then, was a night like any other. After a hard day of forensic investigation, Basil had brought the mastermind of a small opium ring to justice. Now, clad in his purple dressing-gown, a lit pipe in one hand and the day's newspaper in the other, he collapsed in his armchair for a well-deserved rest.

"I rather fancy a bit of culture tonight, do you not agree, Basil?" The voice of his colleague Dawson caught his attention away from the headlines.

"Hmm... not in the slightest. I am feeling quite tired. Perhaps I shall walk with you to the theatre, though, and see what is on the programme?" After all, they hadn't been out to the theatre or the opera together for weeks. The newspaper was neatly folded and deposited on the pouffe, the pipe extinguished and the dressing-gown exchanged for a brown overcoat and deerstalker hat.

"A night out might do you good, old chap. You have been working yourself terribly hard recently, eh?" Dawson winked at the super-sleuth, holding the door for Basil as they stepped onto the street. There had been rain earlier, so the cobblestones were still wet and the moon shone off the grey in an odd way, casting eerie shadows as the mice walked along the pavement. In the distance, Big Ben tolled out the eighth hour of the evening to the sound of horses' hooves on the roads. In all, it was another typical London night.

It was a pleasant walk to the theatre, in all, though from the humidity in the air and the decreasing heat, Basil deduced that there was a storm fast approaching. Seeing the good doctor to the theatre only proved that there was nothing playing that he wanted to watch (the choice was between one of the famous William Mousespeare's plays or Christopher Mouselow's 'Ratstus' - either way, both he had seen before), so Basil said his adieu to Dawson and began a leisurely stroll back to Baker Street, taking a diversion along the new Thames embankment that the humans had erected.

The river could be beautiful at night, what with the flickering reflections of the stars and street lamps, but the thin mist that hung above water at this time of year gave the setting an almost supernatural feel. Basil could not help but perch on the leg of a bench and watch over the waters for awhile. An ache in his arm brought his mind straight back to the past. His eyes lit upon the clock tower as he carefully massaged the persistant scar.

Ratigan's body had never been found, which left the professor himself and the bat Fidget as the only two of Ratigan's gang unaccounted for. Basil had seen the heartless genius plunge his subordinate out of the skies into the Thames; it was only natural to assume that the crippled bat had drowned there. It was less believable that Ratigan would have fallen into the river... unless the wind was in the right direction to blow him that way. It was a possibility, of course, and it was the only likely possibility there was. After all, there was no way anyone could have survived that fall.

What a terrible night that had been. The aching wounds over his small body reminded Basil of this constantly, but empathy - something he had learned from that very case, from that little girl Olivia - caused him to wonder what Dawson and Flaversham the toymaker had felt, at seeing the great detective mauled, beaten and mangled, being helpless to go to his aid. Even now he could see the horror on their faces as they watched Ratigan drag him down to his death... or, that would have been the result, if not for his quick thinking. As always.

The clouds were closing in. It seemed Basil had been right about the rain. The first droplets advanced towards him down the river as he rose from the bench to continue his now-brisk walk to Baker Street. The shower was quick to turn into a heavy pounding storm. Thunder tore through the skies and flashes of lightning illuminated the alleyway shortcut that Basil was hurrying down, deerstalker clutched tightly over his head.

There was a strange 'woosh'ing noise all around him, but the mouse put it down to the winds whipped up by the storm; he was little suspecting that a pair of claws would clamp over his mouth and nose, or that, as some sort of rag was pressed up to his face, a sickly smell would permeate his mind, overwhelming him and numbing all his senses into oblivion...