Chapter Text
"Go away, Toby."
Sherlock Holmes lazily batted at the dog, cursing the fact that he hadn't returned him to his kennel. It happened rather often, but the mutt was typically quiet and well behaved... and, if he was completely honest with himself, he liked the company. However, tonight Toby was trying to get his attention by repeatedly nuzzling his arm where it lay across his face as he reclined on the settee.
Toby's persistence earned a huff and a mild glare from his employer, but at least he was looking at him. The grey eyes narrowed suspiciously, somehow peering through the haze of recently injected cocaine. Watson would not have approved, but Watson was with his wife, and boredom was unbearable. Yet, Holmes was beginning to think perhaps Watson's continued words of caution should be heeded after all.
On top of Toby's head stood a mouse. "Stood" was the appropriate word, as it was on its two hind legs, hand - paw - on a hip, and appeared to wear clothes. No, not just any clothes. The mouse wore a suit, and a deerstalker cap.
"What the devil?"
"Ah! Mr. Holmes, I presume?"
Holmes blinked, and frowned. The mouse had squeaked, and gesticulated as if they were being introduced. The mouse... sighed?
"He doesn't understand me. No doubt the pitch of mice voices makes it exceedingly difficult for humans to detect any enunciation. Toby, to the desk, if you please. Ahem, that way. Toby."
The mouse patted Toby's head, and gestured to the desk, squeaking... er, commandingly, all the while. This happened a few times before Holmes rolled his eyes and stood. If he was going to hallucinate, he may as well play along. He stood by his desk, leaning on the edge with a hand in his pocket, an expectant expression on his face.
"Toby," he commanded, "come."
The mouse held on for dear life as Toby rushed forward.
Basil straightened his hat and jacket, trying to regain some dignity as he clambered up onto the desk. He tried to pull a piece of paper to the center of the desk, managing a short way before Holmes realized his intent and positioned it for him. A pencil was provided (worn, but still as long as Basil was tall), and Basil started to slowly write in comparatively large block letters.
I NEED YOUR HELP
Holmes closed his eyes, rubbing a temple. "I must be mad."
NO. MY NAME IS BASIL. I LIVE UNDER YOUR FLAT. MICE HAVE OUR OWN SOCIETY, LIKE YOURS
Holmes sighed, no less incredulous that this conversation was happening in the first place. "Basil. Why make your presence known to me now?"
Basil pointed to the first line.
"Yes, you need by help. With what?"
CATCH A RAT.