I am quite certain that the day we received the news in May of 1891 had seemed as though nothing was out of the ordinary. In fact, Mrs. Judson and myself were awaiting the arrival of my good friend Mr. Sherringford Basil, the famous detective.

I am Doctor David Q. Dawson; formerly a major in Her Majesty's military stationed in Afghanistan. I was a surgeon while serving in the military but I now am the associate and close friend of Basil of Baker Street.

When the knock at the door alerted me to a visitor's presence, I knew at once that it could not be my friend. For one thing, it was most likely that he and Inspector Vole of Scotland Yard were still arguing over which manner of investigation was more effective -- Inspector Vole's traditional methods or Basil's more eccentric methods. (Both mice respect each other greatly, but never could see completely eye to eye. It seems, however, that this old argument may have become more of a game between them than anything else.) Besides, Basil usually entered without knocking.

Our landlady Mrs. Judson opened the door to see a small group of street urchins on the flat's doorstep. Each of the children held a solemn look on his or her face. She ushered them inside to where I sat in my accustomed chair in front of the fireplace.

These children were the street urchins that Basil had recruited to be his extra sets of eyes and ears: the Baker Street Irregulars. I suppose you could call them my friend's private police force if you wanted to, but I digress. The Irregulars had come in handy more than once even before I arrived with Olivia Flaversham that one rainy night. They heard and saw everything that Basil could never hear or see in person due to the fact that my friend intimidated a great number of witnesses.

I noticed the children's solemnity immediately. It was a warm and pleasant day out, but it seemed as though the children had come from a funeral. Also, each child wore a black armband around his or her upper right arm. Instantaneously, I began to count them mentally. The Baker Street Irregulars were a small group and easily counted, but I wanted to be sure all of them were truly there. For a moment, I feared one had died.

My moment's distress was eased when I noted that all of the children were indeed present and appeared to be well. I was disturbed, however, by the looks on all of their faces.

"Come now, children," I kindly told them, "do tell me what's wrong."

"We need to speak with Mr. Basil, Dr. Dawson," Huggins, the Irregulars' leader, stated quietly. "We have grave news for him."

I immediately became alarmed. What on earth was going on?

The only girl of the group -- Huggins' little half-sister Gillette or "Gilly" -- sniffled a little. Ordinarily a tough girl who could hold her own with any of the boys, it shocked me to see her fighting back tears. I offered her my arms, which she immediately ran to. I held her tightly as she shook as a leaf in a windstorm would.

The door opened to admit my good friend Basil into the flat. He opened his mouth to speak, but halted his tongue upon seeing the grim looks on the Irregulars' faces. He stiffened so even his tail did not move.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, his powers of observation obviously going to work. "Who has died?"

"How did you--" Cushing began to ask.

"Under normal circumstances, you would've only sent one or two messengers. The entire group coming signifies that something unfortunate has happened. The black armbands signal a death since none of you has any all-black clothing," my friend responded with his usual logic. "Now, I ask again, who has died?"

"It's--it's the Master, Mr. Basil," Keaton, the shy one, answered.

I need not ask whom the boy was talking about. The Master was the person who lived above our flat: Sherlock Holmes, the famous human detective.

I turned to my friend and saw his great distress. Even under the fur, I could see his skin paling. His eyes grew wide with horror and disbelief. He stood rigid, resembling a statue. Obviously, the poor soul had gone into shock.

"Basil?" I called quietly to him.

He either did not hear me or chose to ignore me. He swallowed hard. Then he walked over to his red leather chair and sat down.

"How did you receive this information?" he asked.

"Gilly and I were coming to visit for a little while when we noticed Dr. Watson walk into his flat, hanging his head. We slipped inside -- I know you told us not to ever do that, Mr. Basil, but we felt it was important -- and began to listen," the leader of the Irregulars explained. "He told Mrs. Hudson that the Master had fallen to his supposed death along with his nemesis Professor James Moriarty over the Reichenbach Falls a few days ago. Neither his body nor the body of Moriarty was found."

"Good heavens, Basil," I whispered. "The poor man."

"They came back to us and told us about it," Rowe -- a very superstitious young mouse -- stated. "So, we cut up an old, tattered, black jacket and made the armbands. We came over to tell you since we couldn't decide who should be the one to go."

I sat in my chair, utterly horrified. The newspapers of Mousedom rarely -- if ever -- mentioned human affairs in their articles. Obviously, this was the reason that Mr. Holmes' death had been left out of our newspaper and why we did not receive this dreadful news earlier.

The girl whimpered in my arms, and I held her a little less tightly. Unknowingly, I had begun to squeeze her body against myself.

Despite what I originally thought might happen, Basil's voice remained steady as he told them, "Thank you. It was kind of you to tell me this."

Gilly's older brother tapped her on the shoulder, causing her to pull out of my grasp. She wiped away a few tears and began to walk to the other Irregulars. Then, she seemed to change her mind and turned to Basil.

Now keep in mind that Basil is not really fond of children. He can act cold, even rude to children. He has gotten a bit better -- especially since the Flaversham Case -- but children are not at the top of his list of favorite things.

The little mouse threw her arms around my friend, hugging him tightly. He stiffened once more, not returning the hug at first. Then slowly, almost mechanically, his arms encircled the girl and held her for a few moments before releasing her.

"As I said before, I appreciate you giving me this information," Basil told his private police force. "I look forward to seeing you all again at a later date, hopefully with more...uplifting...news."

Gilly nodded and returned to her brother's side. Then the Baker Street Irregulars walked out the door into the bright sunshine, not a trace of happiness on their features.

I gazed after them even as the door closed behind them. For several moments, complete silence filled the flat. Not a sound was uttered in our flat at 221B Baker Street beneath the same flat of the late Sherlock Holmes.

The all-consuming silence was unexpectedly pierced when the melancholy music of a violin reached both Mrs. Judson's and my own ears. I turned my head to see Basil seated in his chair, eyes closed and saddened expression on his face. The tune was none that I had ever heard before, and it took me a moment to realize that Basil was improvising the piece, the mournful tune breaking my heart.

"I would like to express my most sincere grief, Basil. I had no idea..."

"Neither did I, Dawson. Neither did I."

The music of the violin expressed without words the deep grief that not only my friend felt but the grief I felt as well. Mr. Holmes had been neither my teacher nor my hero as he was Basil's teacher and hero, but I knew how much my friend must have been suffering the loss and I had respected the famous human detective. Besides, it was horrifying that such a brilliant person could meet his end so tragically.

"Mr. Basil, would you like me to serve the tea and crumpets now?" Mrs. Judson asked half-heartedly.

"If you or Dawson would like some," he replied neither opening his eyes nor putting down the violin. "I must confess that I am not hungry at this point in time."

Although not hungry myself, I decided that it would not do to waste perfectly good tea and crumpets. Mrs. Judson and I shared them as we listened to Basil play.

Crescendos were followed by sudden pianissimos. Short, crisp staccato notes were followed by long, smooth legato. Each change in the music practically screamed the torrent of emotions going through my friend.

Basil hardly took anything lightly. A failure in a case he could take quite hard. In fact when I first met this extraordinary detective, I had noticed how his mood could change so quickly and dramatically. One moment he had been joyous over a promising clue and the next moment he had been positively heavyhearted when the clue had shown itself to be a dead end.

"Mrs. Judson, I shall be taking no cases today," he stated, his voice soft so as not to interrupt his music.

"Yes, Mr. Basil."

I opened my mouth to speak some sort of comfort to my good friend, but my voice left me. There was nothing I could say, and I knew it. My years of medical experience had taught me that each must deal with his or her grief his or her own way. Still, I would be here when Basil needed me.

I dare say that one never takes the death of one's hero and teacher lightly. I had studied at the feet of the Master himself, learning his methods and picking up new tools to use in my own fight against crime. I knew that I could never overshadow the legendary Sherlock Holmes -- and, in truth, I held no desire to do so -- but I had vowed to myself that I would be Mousedom's own great detective, using the Master's methods to guide me.

As I played my violin, my fingers and bow moved of their own accord. I no longer controlled what piece I was playing. I would begin a sonata and find myself in the middle of a dirge. I began pieces by Wagner, but would end up with a melancholy tune most likely composed by Mozart. My thoughts, emotions, and music jumbled together into a piece that I doubt I could ever play again.

When I opened my eyes what felt like decades later, I noticed that the sky had grown dark and the street lamps had been lit outside. I gazed at the clock. I had arrived home at precisely three-oh-nine in the afternoon. Now, it was eleven-thirteen at night. I had been playing for eight hours and four minutes without stopping.

Ordinarily, my violin could soothe away my pain. Today, however, it provided little comfort to the terrible truth that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

I noticed that Mrs. Judson and Dawson obviously had gone to bed earlier. I set my violin down on its stand, being careful not to break it. I did not wish to awaken them, either.

Thoughts of retreating to my bedroom for rest were quickly rejected. I walked quietly through our flat, stealthily reaching the passage that led to the flat above.

After a few moments, I had reached the passage leading to Mr. Holmes' and Dr. Watson's flat. As I quietly walked through the quiet flat, I happened upon Toby, the Basset hound I had trained which belonged to the Master.

Toby whimpered sadly in his sleep. His quiet whines touched something in my heart that I often times would push aside in order to view a case more scientifically. That's when the last of my denial melted away.

Sherlock Holmes, the Master, was indeed dead.

I touched Toby with a gentle paw, trying to steady myself while trying not to awaken the loyal hound. It felt as though my knees would turn to jelly and my legs would fail me any moment. Unfortunately, my need for support awoke Toby.

Ordinarily Toby is a frisky fellow, but tonight he seemed as melancholy as my music. He whimpered and whined at me, telling me without words what I already knew. I rubbed his nose and muzzle -- something I do not do often though I do feel a sort of affection towards him -- in an attempt at giving him some comfort.

"I'm sorry, old boy," I whispered. "There's nothing I can do."

A footstep close behind me alerted me to the fact that we were not alone. Mentally cursing myself for my inattention, I broke into a run, making sure to avoid my secret passage. I would squeeze out under the front door and then enter my flat through my own front door.

My pursuer had other ideas. With one large hand, he scooped me up into his grasp. I squeaked a little and tried to wriggle free, but it was of no use. I had been caught.

"There, there, do calm down," a familiar, kindly voice told me. "I'm not going to harm you."

I turned my head to see the face of the famous Dr. Watson. I should have known earlier! Still mentally cursing myself for my inattentiveness I stopped my struggling since it was obvious that I could not get away.

Dr. Watson reminds me a great deal of my good friend Dawson. They both were surgeons in their respective queens' militaries and had been stationed in Afghanistan. (This fact often leads me to wonder if the pair might have crossed paths at some point.) They also both have that kind demeanor that I often times will lack when in pursuit of some fiend. Even though they are both kind souls, they also know when to hold their own in a fight and can do so quite well. I have nothing but the highest respect for Doctors Watson and Dawson.

"That's the way. There. You see? I'm not going to harm you," the good doctor told me.

Despite the fact that I knew so much about him I had no idea what he intended to do with me. After all, I was an intruder in his home. With me being a mouse he obviously could not turn me in to Scotland Yard. Not only would it be embarrassing to him but I am also certain that if Inspector Vole ever saw such a sight, he would never let me live it down.

His other hand reached down from above towards me. I closed my eyes and prepared for whatever he would do to me. I was unprepared, however, for when I felt a light pressure on the top of my head rubbing back and forth.

I opened my eyes and turned my gaze upwards once more. Using his forefinger, Dr. Watson was actually stroking my head!

Most mice -- including myself -- would ordinarily try to wriggle away from such contact. Tonight, however, I did not try to struggle. Not only was the doctor's grip firm enough to keep me for as long as he wished, I felt that the action seemed to soothe his distraught self.

He slid his finger underneath my chin and began gently rubbing there. I held perfectly still and involuntarily closed my eyes. It felt...comforting...in a way. At first, I could not understand why such contact felt this way but I soon reached a possible reason. I could do nothing for the Master, but this way I was giving a little comfort to one whom shared my grief.

I felt us moving and the sound of Toby's paws softly padding against the floor following us. Within moments, we seemed to be lowering ourselves -- obviously into a chair. I could picture it in my head: Dr. Watson seated in his accustomed chair as Toby followed him and sat beside him.

The hand that held me released me and set me down on his thigh as the one that had been stroking me began to stroke Toby. My first impulse was to flee and even crouched down in order to sprint away, but I remained.

"Decided to stay, have you?"

The doctor chuckled, then reached with the hand that had held me and began to stroke me once more. If he noticed my clothing, he either did not notice or ignored it.

Toby and I exchanged a glance, each knowing that we were needed for this simple request of the doctor: to just be there with him. We listened attentively -- Toby sitting beside Dr. Watson and I in my crouched position on his thigh -- as the doctor talked about his years with the famous Holmes. I admit that Toby drifted off once more in the middle of the doctor's memoirs, but the hour was quite early in the morning (about midnight) when he did.

I stayed awake for a few hours more, but I grew uncomfortable in that crouched position. I lay down on Dr. Watson's hand that no longer stroked Toby. I listened as he continued to talk, occasionally pausing in his stroking me and speaking to take a sip from the water glass on the small table beside him.

Eventually, my eyelids felt as if someone had coated them with lead. Despite my attempts, I kept finding them closing themselves. Stubbornly, I held onto wakefulness.

At about four in the morning I heard the snoring from Dr. Watson, signaling that he, too, had fallen asleep. I no longer had to remain there. However, I could not find the energy to stand and return to my flat. Instead I allowed my eyelids to finally close, the quiet snoring from the doctor lulling me into a deep slumber.

Mrs. Judson awoke me that morning -- about seven o'clock if my memory serves me correctly. She had called urgently to me, obviously worried about something.

As I came into the room still slipping on my jacket I noticed that my flatmate had gone missing. At first I thought that perhaps Basil had stepped out for a few moments, but the way Mrs. Judson was looking around told me this was not the case.

"Mrs. Judson, what is the matter?" asked I.

"It's Mr. Basil! He's vanished, and his bed has not even been slept in! When I came in fifteen minutes ago I thought he might've gone to bed, but when I took a peek in his room he wasn't there!"

I did my best to calm the frantic woman as I assured her that I would look for him immediately. I had a credible idea where he might be, but I wanted to check before I jumped to conclusions.

I went through the passage that led from the flat to what was now only Dr. Watson's flat. I walked across the floor, quietly calling for my friend. Instead of Basil Toby greeted me with his customary growling response. Now that I think about it, maybe I should have re-stitched my torn cuff with a different thread. I am beginning to suspect that the catgut in the thread was offensive to Toby's sensitive nose.

"Toby, listen. I need you to find Basil," I told him, trying not to show any fear. "Where is he?"

He seemed to consider whether or not to listen to me. I had never given him an order to find somebody before. Then he turned and began to trot towards the fireplace where Dr. Watson sat in a chair in front of it. He stood in front of Watson.

I sighed. I should have known he would not listen to me.

He gave an impatient, quiet woof so as not to awaken the doctor. Seeing that he had attracted my attention, he pointed at the sleeping doctor.

Now curious about his actions, I climbed up the table beside Watson and looked over the fellow. Even asleep he looked tortured over the death of his dear friend. My heart went out to him. As my gaze followed the length of his right arm, I gaped at what he held in his open hand.

Lying there curled up in a tight ball in the doctor's hand was Basil of Baker Street!

My friend was curled so even his tail curled around his body. His breathing kept a steady, slow pattern, alerting me to the fact that he was asleep even though his closed eyes had already shown me that.

I slowly climbed down next to him and reached out to touch his shoulder. I shook his shoulder slightly.

"Basil?" I called quietly, trying not to awaken the slumbering giant above us.

Basil muttered something unintelligible, but remained asleep.

"Basil!" I called once more, a bit more urgently.

He slowly opened one eye to look at me, the other opening even more slowly. Obviously, he had gotten little sleep that last night. His normally bright green eyes had been dulled by fatigue. He slowly uncurled himself from his unusual sleeping position.

"Dawson, what on Earth--?" he began to ask, but I cut him off.

"Shh!" I hissed. "We have to leave before Dr. Watson awakens!"

My friend blinked with bleary eyes at me, but nodded slowly. He cautiously stepped off of the doctor's hand. Together, we slowly climbed onto Toby's outstretched nose whose owner walked slowly over to the hidden doorway that led to the passageway and lowered us carefully to the floor.

My good friend stumbled as he jumped off of Toby's nose shortly after I had jumped down. Seeing his exhaustion, I slid my right shoulder under his left arm, wrapping it around my shoulders. I had no idea what had happened, but I would ask later.

I opened the passage and led my friend inside. Bidding Toby a fond farewell and giving him my gratitude, I closed the door behind Basil and myself.

Even in the darkness, I could see how tired he was. He leaned against one of the walls of the passageway wearily. Sliding his arm around my shoulders once more, I began to lead him back to our flat.

While on a case Basil will and can work with little sleep (the excitement he feels while he works most likely fuels his body to work those extra hours), but he was not on a case. Whatever he had been doing had worn him out. This was possibly from staying up too late while the emotional exhaustion of grief had set in, but how would that explain him being held in Dr. Watson's hand?

"I apologize, my friend, for causing you and Mrs. Judson any worry," said he.

"Apology accepted, dear boy," I told him. "However, I am not sure if Mrs. Judson will be as forgiving as I."

He groaned at the thought of what she might say to him. I did not blame him for doing so. We had both been lectured -- him more so than I -- like a pair of disobedient boys when we did something that irritated our most gracious landlady. The only way to get away from it was to just let her scold us, but Basil would at times redirect her attention so she would forget the lecture.

We walked in silence towards the opening of the passage that opened into our flat. Mrs. Judson was seated in my friend's favorite chair, but quickly vacated it upon our arrival into the sitting room. Annoyance crossed her features until she realized the state my friend and her employer was in.

"I'll fix some tea and breakfast," she stated, forgetting the lecture that must have been on the tip of her tongue.

As she disappeared into the kitchen, my good friend gave a small laugh.

"I say, it looks like we barely avoided that one," said he in a light jocular tone as he lowered himself into his favorite chair.

"Quite," I agreed, sitting down across from him.

I waited for the explanation as to what had happened the night before, but I received no explanation. For several moments, we sat in silence. Basil reached for his violin (which I am ashamed to admit that there are days when I agree with Mrs. Judson and wish for something awful to befall it like during the Flaversham Case), but his paw fell short. I watched as he sighed and just let his paw hang over the arm. "It's all ready for you in the dining room when you want it," Mrs. Judson informed us as she bustled back into the room several minutes later. "I suggest you hurry unless you want to eat it cold."

I thanked her and aided my friend in rising from his seat. It seemed as though he lost more energy with each movement that he made -- especially when walking.

Basil and I ate our breakfast in silence. Once or twice, however, I had been needed to bring him around before he nodded off into the fine oatmeal our housekeeper had been kind enough to make for us. It truly was a delicious breakfast, but my mind took little notice at the time.

Using my clinical eye I noted the bags under Basil's eyes, the result of a long night. His ears and eyelids drooped, but constantly would snap to attention as their owner forced himself to remain awake. His tail lay limply on the ground. Sleep loss and the state of being emotionally drained had obviously caused this behavior. The remedy was to send him off to sleep.

"Basil, what were you doing there?" I asked suddenly, interrupting the silence.

He jerked his head up to gaze at me with blurry eyes.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"What were you doing in Mr. Hol--er, Dr. Watson's flat?"

"I...I suppose that I just...wanted to be sure..."

My heart went out to Basil. I had lost a dear friend once and had been in denial for several hours. I myself had gone to his flat in order to see him only to find that what I had heard was indeed true. I should have realized that that was the reason earlier.

Still, that did not explain why I had found the detective sleeping in Dr. Watson's hand.

"I know that it was hard to believe, Basil, but it apparently was true. The Irregulars would never say something like this as a joke. They know that you only want facts based off of what they saw or heard. However, I have to ask you another question."

"I am all ears, doctor."

"All right. Why were you sleeping in Dr. Watson's hand?"

He paused, gazing down at his oatmeal with new interest. I waited.

"Well..." he said slowly, "he caught me for one thing."

"What?!" I asked, incredulous.

"He caught me when I was with Toby. Rather foolishly, I did not take much note of my surroundings."

Catching his disgust at himself, I assured him, "Whenever someone is in mourning they do not always think clearly. Please continue."

"After he caught me, he stroked me and took me over to his chair where he sat down. When he released me in order to stroke Toby I thought about running, but decided against it. So I stayed and listened as he talked last night. He would rub his finger against the top of my head and under my chin. I dare say that it was rather uncomfortable, but I allowed him to continue. He fell asleep at four this morning, and I fell asleep soon afterward."

Well that told me that he had only received about three hours of sleep. It was little wonder that the poor chap was exhausted. Still I found it odd that Basil had remained to put up with the stroking, but I soon remembered that it was sometimes best for some people with the same troubles to spend some time together. Both my friend and Dr. Watson were grieving over the loss of the man who held their respect and had been highly regarded by them. It would help both of them if they spent a little time together.

"Basil," I began sternly when I noticed him nodding off as he finished his oatmeal, "as the resident physician I order you to take the day off and get some rest."

That brought my friend to blurry-eyed attention. A spark of the fire that I knew belonged to the detective flickered in those tired eyes. I smiled inwardly to myself.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"You will be taking no cases today and possibly tomorrow if you argue with me. You only had three hours of sleep last night if what you're telling me is true."

Basil has always been headstrong, and he showed his stubbornness that morning by glaring at me with those tired green eyes of his. The physical and mental exhaustion turned that normally intimidating glare into something I could easily ignore. Besides, there are times when I must be doctor first and friend second, and that day was one of those times.

"Doctor, I assure you that I am-- "

"Too exhausted to take any cases today and be able to logically deduce anything with your normal precision," I interrupted. "Basil, I am telling you this as your friend and as a physician: You will get some rest!"

To tell you the truth I was quite satisfied with the way he attempted to glare at me once more. This showed that the old fire that had burned in the detective since long before I met him beginning to flare up once more. If not for my tight control, I would have started grinning like a fool!

"Dawson..." said he in a warning tone, but I knew I had the upper hand.

"Don't try to argue with him, Mr. Basil," Mrs. Judson stated, standing beside me. "He is the doctor."

"I am living in a flat full of traitors!" exclaimed my friend, throwing his hands into the air in a show of disbelief.

"If you wish for a second opinion," I began, smiling smugly, "I could have Mrs. Judson bring a friend of mine here. I'm sure that he could determine which of us is correct about your present health."

The annoyance that had fueled Basil's objections began to burn out. Grumbling, he stood up from his chair only to fall back into it. His body was giving its own protest against his wishes.

"I suppose that I have no choice in the matter," he stated with a wry smile.

I stood up and helped him to his feet. His body -- though lighter than mine -- seemed like a dead weight against my shoulder as I helped him to his room. He sat on his bed, pulling off his shoes as I waited for him to lie back and go to sleep. I would make sure that he stayed true to his word.

Lying on his back, he gave me a small smile and stated, "I never thought I would have to go toe to toe against you, Dawson."

"Of course not," I said smiling. "That was why I won. You were totally unprepared for it."

He merely raised an eyebrow at me before closing his eyes. I stood in his room for several minutes watching him, making sure he was not faking his acquiescence to my order. As soon as I was satisfied I left his room quietly, not wanting to awaken him.

I admit that Dawson's argument with me helped bring me out of my sadness somewhat. The day after I rested I felt like I could face the world. I would continue where my teacher and hero had left off, and I would do this in honor of his memory. I also, however, took quite a different duty upon myself.

For the next year I visited Dr. Watson two to three times a week from seven in the evening until about ten o'clock at night. I would listen attentively to when he talked or simply allow him to rub his fingers against my fur. After the first three or four times I found that it was quite a pleasurable experience when I relaxed. I could almost see why Toby enjoyed such contact so much. (However, playing my violin is still my main method of relaxing.)

However, the good doctor left to find quarters of his own away from 221B Baker Street. I was most sorry to see him go, but I understood his want to leave bad memories behind. Besides, he was actually getting married (a state of being that holds no interest for me whatsoever). However, this also meant a bit more trouble for me when it came to gaining Toby's assistance.

I did not travel through the passageway to the flat above for a full two years, certain that new tenants were looking over it. It would not do for them to try to kill me.

In the spring of 1894, I had just finished a trying case with greatly satisfying results when I heard footsteps from above. When the flat above Dawson's and mine had been occupied, it had been easy to block out these footsteps since we had grown quite used to them. Now, it was harder than ever since not many people walked in that flat very often.

After a few weeks of this, I finally ventured through the old passageway to see the flat in unaccustomed tidiness. I stared in wonder at the cleanliness of the flat that once belonged to the famous Sherlock Holmes. Still it held some of those old touches that defined it as the Master's flat such as the chemical corner and the acid-stained table.

I heard a familiar bark and turned to almost be run over by Toby.

"Toby, heel!" I ordered as firmly as I could with a smile nearly splitting my face in half.

He responded by stopping and giving me a very wet lick with that long tongue of his. I actually laughed. I had missed having him so close by!

That was when voices reached my ears. Humans were obviously entering the room. One of these voices belonged to Mrs. Hudson, the landlady and formerly the housekeeper of the Master himself. Another belonged to Dr. Watson while the other belonged to a familiar man whom I had believed I would never see or hear again. I froze in disbelief for to be able to hear that third voice was quite impossible. The dead did not rise from the grave! Before I knew it, the trio of humans had entered the room and was not far from where I stood with Toby.

"Holmes, I cannot say enough how much I appreciate having you back!" Dr. Watson told his close friend the famous Sherlock Holmes.

"I can guess how many times, doctor," Mr. Holmes stated, eyes twinkling merrily. He turned his gaze to Toby and I. "Now what have we here?"

Immediately I braced myself for a run, but Toby nudged me, almost knocking me over and keeping me in my spot.

"Traitor," I muttered under my breath.

Dr. Watson knelt down with Mr. Holmes, looking me over.

"It appears that mice have moved in," the Master stated, looking me over.

"Mice!" was the indignant cry of Mrs. Hudson. "I was positive that we had none!"

"Apparently not, Mrs. Hudson."

The doctor looked me over suspiciously, then smiled brightly.

"Holmes, I do believe that this is the same mouse that visited me a few times a week until I moved out of this flat two years ago!" exclaimed he.

"Is that so?"

The Master held out his hand to me. Boldly I stepped onto that hand, thinking that it would vanish beneath me and end up being a dream. However, I quickly discovered that the hand was indeed solid. He was truly alive!

He lifted me to his eye level and examined me further. I knew he must have noticed my clothing, but he apparently did not wish to discuss it for he did not mention it.

"I would like to thank you for looking after Watson for me," he told me. "I trust it did not inconvenience you too much?"

I merely squeaked a reply, producing a laugh from both men. He set me down on the ground and walked towards his chair at the fireplace. As soon as the three humans' backs were turned I sprinted to the doorway of my passage.

I reached my flat in a matter of moments, scurrying past Mrs. Judson at such a speed that she almost dropped the teapot she was holding.

"Mr. Basil!" she indignantly cried.

I merely laughed merrily, knowing full well that I would hear her berating me later. However, I did not wish to hear it now. Dawson leaped back out of my way as I scurried past him as well.

"What on Earth has gotten into him?" he asked Mrs. Judson.

"I have no idea, but I suspect that he's finally gone mad!"

I shouted from the sitting room, "If I've gone mad, then sanity is truly a sorrowful experience!"

My flatmate stared in amazement as I pulled out my violin so quickly that it must have seemed like it had merely appeared on my shoulder.

"I say, what has gotten into you, Basil?"

"He's alive, doctor!" I exulted. "For the past three years he's been alive!"

He did not have to ask me whom I was speaking about. A look of disbelief crossed his features before he began to smile broadly. He began to laugh with me as I pulled the bow across the strings of my violin.

As I listened to each string I adjusted the pegs and fine-tuning screws accordingly until it was perfectly in tune. Then I began to play a song that my elder brother and sister used to dance with me when we were growing up in Sussex. It was a sprightly tune that resembled a jig.

"What in Heaven's name?!" Mrs. Judson asked barely managing to set down the tea and crumpets she carried before Dawson bowed politely to her and asked her to dance with him.

Within moments, the three of us were dancing joyfully around the flat without a care in the world. While Dawson and Mrs. Judson danced with each other, I followed them in a slightly modified dance in order to be able to play my violin at the same time. Our laughter and my music rang throughout the flat as we continued the celebration.

I can not recall any other time when I had felt so joyful. What had started out as a sorrowful experience had ended in the most wonderful memory I have ever had.