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My friend Basil of Baker Street does not restrict his services to our fellow mice; not only has he aided other beasts of Great Britain (the cases of the Vanished Goose and the Gull's Eggs come to mind), but he considers all Rodentia as his regular clientele, not merely all mousedom. We have gained splendid alliances, like the young street-rats who aid Basil as lookouts.
However, this sometimes caused difficulties when he took cases for our night-living cousins. If a hamster or dormouse came to us for help (knocking at our door just about the time of evening that a self-respecting city mouse begins to think of bed) and their plight caught Basil's interest, he would foreswear sleep as well as food to follow the trail.
Of course I went along too. "At least those blasted murderous gulls were diurnal," I muttered, stumbling after Basil and muffling a yawn, and was hushed by my partner.
Basil once spent three days and nights without sleep, living only on the heavily-sugared tea I forced on him. Missing gems, Lady Bijou's disappearance, the Red-Furred League, the Owl Society – all concluded in less than a week.
"Now rest, dear fellow!"
"Tush! I could take a dozen more, Dawson!" Basil said, drinking his tea. Blink. Blink. And he sank to the floor, insensate.
Good old brandy.