Chapter 1 - Basil's Retires.

It was in 1903 that Sherlock Holmes retired from Baker Street, causing Basil great grief. He began having nervous breakdowns, and I believe (while I'm not boasting) that had it not been for my medical skill,he would have died. Not only that, but Watson moved to another house with his wife, and Mrs. Hudson moved with Holmes. The flat was left empty.

"Come, come, Basil," I had said. "Surely, though Holmes may have been the source of your deductive abilitites, surely he was not actually them! Surely you still possess..."

But he raised his long hand. "Without the confidence Holmes is taking care of the human world, and will always be there for extra information, I am useless."

Inspector Vole, the shrew detective of Scotland Yard, tried to mask his true feelings of delight at Basil's retirement, but with a transparent hood.

I decided to turn to medical practice, and moved to Dr. Watson's house to start my trade. My popularity with Basil brought me many patients, but I took the weekend off each time to visit Basil. I also told many a customer that he had retired, to a scowl or moan. This went on for a few months.

One day, a Thursday, I believe, I was arranging some papers in my office. I didn't here the door open quietly, or the footsteps softly coming up behind me. The voice saying "Excuse me" startled me, and I turned with a start.

There stood a meduim sized mouse, slightly plump, with a pair of spectacles on the tip of his nose. He wore a fashionable suit, like a lord might wear. His coat was bound together with golden buttons, and the rims of his spectacles were silver.

"Yes? May I help you?" I asked.

"Well, yes. Is it true that you once worked with Basil of Baker Street?" He had a pompous, arrogant voice, but it showed concern.

"Yes, and he still resides at 221B. However, he's retired."

Suddenly he turned pale and grasped me by my collar. He began to shake me violently. "He must help me! I'm being blackmailed!"

"Blackmailed? For what?" I questioned.

He paused. "There is no point in telling you if Basil will not help me." He became worried again. "But this may concern Ratigan!"

"Ratigan!" I echoed the word with terror in my heart. The ruler of the rat underworld, he had scarcely been captured, and only by Basil, and he always escaped shortly thereafter.

"Well, um..."

"It will take you all the way to Sussex, Dr. Dawson," he continued, "but you must stop him!"

"Well-- Sussex!" My face lit up. That was where Sherlock Holmes was living! "Certainly, old bean!" he burst out happily. "Basil would be delighted to see you."

First he calmed down, then howled with glee.

"By the way, my name is Reginald Ceasar."

It didn't matter to me. We would be back in buisness!

Chapter 2 - Someone Takes a Shot!

Caesar and I took a cab to Baker Street, both full of cheer. As we arrived, we hopped off the cab and continued. I knocked at the door, glanced at him with a grin, and waited. Since Basil had retired, Mrs. Judson had rarely answered the door busy, like she did when I first met him. However, I first heard her distinctively Scottish voice yell "Go away!" before me and Caesar and I quietly slipped in.

To my horror, Basil’s armchair had been torn through with a bullet, near where his head was usually rested. Clad in his dressing gown with an agitated face, he was pouring himself some brandy. His back was to us, and he stiffened up and called,

"Hello, Dawson! What case have you got for me?" without turning around. My mouth dropped, as did Caesar’s.

"Basil, how..." I began, but he spun around and said:

"Commonplace! I heard the knock and Mrs. Judson’s call, so I knew someone was at the door. I did not hear footsteps leaving, only quiet ones behind me. I knew Mrs. Judson would not walk softly, with the shock I’ve had, so I deduced that only you would have quietly slipped in, knowing it was not natural for her to scream. Now, this is Thursday, I believe, and you only come here on Fridays and Saturdays. So, I deduce you have a case for me. Ah, and I see it does not concern you! Only this gentlemouse here!"

"Astounding!" I cried. Basil smiled. Ceasar smiled, as well, knowing he would have a detective genious on the case.

"By the way, sir," he questioned in his authoritive manner, "what did happen to you?"

He gulped down his brandy. "I was shot at in my rooms."

Ceasar gasped. I blanched, as well.

"Shot at, Sherringford!" I cried, in my suprise calling him by his first name. "Yet you take it so lightly!"

He spun around abrubtly, brandy in hand, and stared at me coldly with his grey eyes and penetrating glare.

"I certainly do not, Dawson!" he cried sharply. "There was a knock at the door, which Mrs. Judson opened. A darkly gloved hand reached in and seized her face with a sponge in it's grasp. I strode over quickly to save her, but her assaliant dashed into the fog. As I stepped outide, our landlady groaned, and I helped her into a chair, leaving the door foolishly open. As I stepped past it, I noticed the mouse hole at Camden House, the empty building across the street, was open, and, further, the same black-clad hands were reaching out and clutching an air pistol, aimed stright at my heart! It fired before I could grasp the situation, or even dodge, and, had Mrs. Judson not slammed the door shut, giving me time to duck to the floor and hear the bullet shatter open the top of the door."

"But it has already been repaired!" observed our guest.

"I have spare doors, like everything else," Basil retorted. I later went over to Camden House to investigate, but it was empty, as usually, with no trace that a rodent had ever lived there."

"You didn't see him at the door, when he attacked Mrs. Judson?" I asked.

"No, not past her, with all due respect," he told me, carefully speaking.

"Have you any suspects?" I asked.

His grey eyes lit up, and he pointed up his index finger. "Indeed. My attacker, supposedly in a swamp on Dartmoor, is the ex-spy and traitor to the Queen, who was involved in the case of the Nasal Tweeting and Psychotic Rat of Sumatra, right-hand man of Professor James Ratigan, Captain Sebastian Doran!"

Ceasar shuddered at his tone of voice, and I at the name.

Chapter 3 - Bolting for Sussex.

"Doran?" inquired our visitor slowly.

"Indeed," returned Basil. "He has made several attempts on my life, with an interesting variety of guns. After the supposed demise of my nemesis, Ratigan, he is unemployed, and spends most of his time slaughtering the blameless and aiming to do so to me. But whom," he added, swooping down on our client, "might I have here?"

"My name is Reginald Caesar," he told Basil, somewhat hesitantly and after a short pause. "And I am being blackmailed."

"Oh?" Basil raised an eyebrow. "Whatever for?"

Caesar scowled. "You are retired. Will you take the case?"

Basil snorted. "Normally, I would. But my assault was not coincidence, I perceive. Perhaps our nemesis suspected you may call on me. How long had you been planning this visit?"

"Well, shortly after the matter came to a point of interest. I learned you were retired, so I went to the Paddington district to consult Dr. Dawson."

"H'm! Could anyone learn about this?"

Our visitor scratched his chin. "Yes, I publicly made plans. I've read Dr. Dawson's accounts of your adventures, which was also well known."

"So it's possible the blackmailer could have tried to stop me from coming to your case by shooting me and preventing my interference! Do you mind if I smoke? Ah, that's good. However, despite the singularity of all this, without Mr. Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street, I am quite helpless."

Caesar paled. "But you must, Mr. Basil! It will take us to the Sussex Downs, and you may see your hero!"

Basil had lowered his eyebrow. Now he raised them both. Basil stood silently for a moment, puffing at his odious pipe. Then he sunk into a chair, and smiled up at our visitor.

"Pray take a seat, Mr. Ceasar. I can deduce little about you, either than you live in Devonshire, have been in the Orient, where you had a job, and suffer from coughing spells."

He had been getting into a seat by the fire, when he lept up, startled, nearly losing his balance. "However did you know?" he asked, bewildered.

Basil, in return, smiled. "Devonshire is filled with moors, which me and Dr. Dawson know well. The sole of your boot is stained with excessive dark, yet greenish, mud. Surely you live in the countryside and have tramped about outside. You are slightly bent, from bowing to many figures of authority- or an authoritive employer. Your handkercheif if stained slightly dark from coughing, and I noticed your throat swells when you have a period of mum. My studies into the like show you have had a stage of coughing."

"Why," stammered the shocked Ceasar, "it's so simple -- so absurdly, childishly simple!"

"How often I hear those words," mused Basil comically. "But pray, both take a seat. Mrs. Judson will stroke up the fire and make her world famous cheese crumpets. Now then, explain the nature of your case."

We both sat down, and Ceasar leaned forward slowly to begin his story. "Well, Mr. Basil," he said, with an air of authority, "I am from a Japanese family.

For generations, we have worked for a family of carrot dealers. My father, on vacation, visited England looking for love. Fortunatley for yours truly, he found it. He married his English wife here in England."

"Her name?" inquired Basil suddenly.

"Well, sir," he answered pompously, "she died a week after I was born. On the ship back to Japan. I was born in Sussex."

"H'm," said Basil quietly. "How did your birthplace result there?"

"My father was heading for a ship in the South, and went through there."

"Where was the ship?"

"At a dock just off Sussex."

"When was this?" inquired Basil sharply.

The mouse flushed. "1858, sir," he responded.

"Making you 53?" asked Basil quickly. His dapper mathematical genious never ceased to astound me.

"Yes, of course," returned Ceasar, brushing it away. "Anyhow, my father died at a ripe old age working for the same man his father had. And I did, as well. That is, until 1874."

"This grows interesting," muttered Basil, taking down the stocking from above the mantle and filling his pipe. "I urge you to proceed."

Inhaling, our visitor continued. "I was a slim, healthy man towing wheelbarrows of carrots about. All the wheelbarrows were scattered about on his land, and I was arranging them into two straight rows."

Basil leaned back and closed his eyes. "Yes?"

"Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a darkly clad mouse wearing black leather gloves sprinking something on one of the carrots in a wheelbarrow I had already arranged. The he picked one carrot out, and sprinkled the rest. He placed that carrot on the top of the pile. Before I could do anything, he was off like a shot."

Basil's eyes shot open. "Like the gloves I had described?"

"Yes, much like them."

"What else did you notice?"

"Only that he was wearing a black cape and black hood."

"Ah. Pray continue."

Inhaling again, Ceasar continued. "Well, at the end of the day, I was worn out and tired so that I snatched a carrot of a wheelbarrow and greedily devoured it. My employer stepped out, also tired, and ate another carrot off of the wheelbarrow. I noticed a twinkle coming from the vegtable as he ate it, but before I could do anything, he went wild-eyed, choked, waved his arms, and collapsed, dead."

I had leapt from my seat, startled, at his recollection of his employer's death, but Basil merely puffed harder on his pipe. He leaned back, closing his metallic grey eyes.

"H'm. This is really most singular. But, please, continue your narrative."

Ceasar began to dab at his brow with a blue hankercheif, yet continuing to maintain his pompous air.

"Well, of course, I was startled. But I managed to round up the courage to check his pulse. He was stone dead, and very quickly, at that. His body was already cold."

My friend's face twitched, showing interest, but he kept his eyes closed. However, suddenly we heard the door burst open and a short, wiry shrew with a well manicured mustaches strode into the sitting room. Mrs. Judson hurried up behind him with her busybody manor and objected, but the intruder's speed outdid hers. Before we really grasped the situation, Inspector L. Vole was standing in front of Ceasar's chair.

"Hullo, Mistur Basul," he greeted grimly, his eyes pasted to the client by the fire.

"Ah, Mr. Vole," responded Basil warmly. "What brings you to my humble flat?"

"Humble!?" cried Mrs. Judson. Basil shooed her away with a wave of his long hand.

"I'm here to apprehend a murderer, whom you have so graciously trapped for us," responded Vole, and a grin lit up his rat-like face. His favourite part of the job was arresting villians.

Ceasar gave a small cry. "I'm innocent!" he shrieked.

"I highly doubt that, sir," Vole retorted with his nasal voice. "The evidence has been mounting for years now. It's all quite obvious."

"What charge is being used against him?" questioned Basil sharply. I tried to stay calm, being very startled by the whole buisness.

The Scotland Yard detetctive spun sharply on the consulting detective. "I was under the impression you had retired, SIR. You've cut it startlingly short."

Both the detectives had could be very irritating at times. Basil was visibly frusterated.

"What charge do you intend to arrest Mr. Ceasar on?" he inquired, very sharply.

Vole gave a small snarl. "The murder of Mao Lin," he answered slowly.

Ceasar started again. "I am innocent!" he cried, weakly.

Vole threw a dark glance back over his shoulder.

"If we would be permited half an hour alone before his arrest, we would be much obliged," reasoned my friend, still intruiged by the case.

Vole shrugged. "Just waste y'r time, Mistur Basul, but go right ahead. I'll be in yer kitchen." And with that, he ambled out of the room.

Ceasar sighed and wiped his brow again. "Thank you. But you must get me out of here before he returns! I must get to Sussex."

"Please, tell me the rest of your case," retured Basil. "I presume Mao Lin was your employer?"

"Blast that Inspector, yes. I'll shorten this. The officials looked into the manner, I was highly suspected in the manner, and an Indian cigar was found in the wheelbarrow. I managed to flee and sail to Sussex, where I began a profession as a lawyer. Recently, however, as my buisness begins to rise from the ground, I found an Indian cigar on my desk when I came home from court with a note boasting the writer knows my true identidy and and that they are the murderer, but that they could provide false evidence that I had watched the work of the Japanese mob. It was signed Nagitar, but by chance I read it backwards."

Basil already knew what the result would be. "Ratigan."

Even now, after having already heard the name, and even having been the one to unveil it, our client gave a strong quake.

"Relax, good sir," eased Basil, but the look of the hunt was in his eyes. "This is not the first time Ratigan has used that misleading phrase to his real identidy."

"Now, see here, Basil," I protested. "We watched Ratigan die at Big Ben. You yourself had the closest viewing to his departure."

"You also," he replied, still with the hungry look, "thought he had died at Bachenreich Falls. And, on both occasions, it appeared I had died as well. On all counts, I believe, the simpler solution was incorrect."

I had to confess his logic surpassed mine. But before I could, he had dashed to his feet, thrown off his dressing gown, and donned his deerstalker and cloak.

"I will need the details from you in Sussex," he told Ceasar, "but first we must get there. Into your coats, lads."

"But what about Vole?" I asked. For, in fact, now we could hear him and Mrs. Judson arguing. However, Basil merely smiled and called for our landlady. She hurried into the sitting room with an irritated look on her face.

"Sorry, Mr. Basil, but that braggart is insisiting on sampling my cheese crumpets. He's probably sampling some as we speak."

"Then, Mrs. Judson," replied my friend with a smile, "could you kindly place our friend under lock and key? Into a spare room? Perhaps you could bait him into the net with some crumpets."

"An excellent idea," she agreed. Normally, she had a kind heart towards the rodent soul, but because of the recent events occuring, in addition to the details of the arrest of Moleverton Smythe, she was all too poised for such a deed. She scrambled out for the kitchen.

"Now," announced Basil proudly, "into your coats. We're bound for Sussex, and out to trap some formidable prey!"

Basil was outside long before I had begun buttoning my coat, hailing a cab as I reached for my Derby. Ceasar was clearly intriuged by my friend, as was outside before I was. I hurried out to find Basil leaning out of a hansom, illuminated by gaslight, with hishand cupped to the side of his mouth.

"Come, Dawson, it’s about to leave!" he was saying. He extended his hand for me to seize, and pulled me on. Ceasar was already seated when I was settled.

"Well, is it a train to Sussex, then?" he asked, raising one eyebrow curiously.

Basil, who had finished helping me up, turned around. "I will be stopping at the opium dens," he responded curtly. "You go on. I’ll catch up."

We were both startled at this remark. Extending my hands, I asked what the meaning of this was, but he waved it away as the cab took off. I sat, thinking, until I heard a high voice saying: "Dawson, what is your opinion on the matter?"

"Well," I began, "you yourself say it is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. And, in my opinion, we do not have all the data."

"Yes, yes," said Basil impatiently. "But I think it’s suspisious that Ratigan would be recycling his methods."

"What do you mean?" I pressed, and noticed I had caught Ceasar’s attention.

"Well, Nagitar is now unoriginal, and Ratigan’s methods are always original. Also, the empty house across the street. Not the first time Doran has used that in an attempt to cut my life short." He paused. "Nothing is as it seems, Dawson. Nothing."

Chapter 4 - A Pair of Suprises.

Basil had stepped off the cab long before me and Ceasar arrived at the train station. We had both settled uneasily in our compartment, our minds both nervously set on the arrival of my friend, when we heard a whistle and the cry of "All aboard!".

I could not stand it. Climbing up to the window, I leaned my head out slowly, looking for him. The chugging noise famous for accompanying trains filled my ears. And as I heard Ceasar begin to say something, the train began to move.

Still no Basil.

Often I thought I saw his gaunt figure hurrying toward the train. However, even if he was, the smoke was choking me and filling my eyes. It crossed my mind that he may have gotten on somehow, and was in disguise, but I quickly dismissed the idea. He simply could not have gotten past us.

Just as I was thinking of that, a long hand laid itself on my wrist. Startled, I shook my arm. When I suddenly realised that Basil himself was dangling outside of the train. I had been too immersed in my thoughts to notice anything.

Just as I began to grasp the situation, Basil cried, "What's wrong, mouse! Pull me up!"

Ceasar's attention had apparently been caught, and he stepped up, saying, "What is that, Dawson? Good land! Basil!"

"Help me, Ceasar!" I ejaculated. When we put our shoulders into it, we had my companion safetly inside, resting on the moving floor of the speeding train.

"I was attacked!" he gasped, at length. Both I and Basil were shocked.

"Again?" I managed.

Basil responded with a nod. "And by a man with the same height, same strength, and," he continued, lowing his voice to a shrill whisper, "same gloves!"

I stared. "Did you get to the opium dens?"

"No," and Basil shook his head gravely. "I spent that entire time wrestling with him." He looked up at me, revealing his entire bruised face. "I believe he may still be eyeing the train as we speak."

"My word!- there's no one there, Basil, so relax."

Basil leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over Ceasar. "Relax? Are you mad?! He could have jumped on the train without anyone seeing him. He could be stalking us as we speak!" He paused, breathing heavily. "I purposely packed no baggage. I will not be in Sussex long. I must find out the blackmailer- and assailant."

The trip continued grimly. I explored the vehicle as Basil smoked a cigarette in our compartment. Ceasar tagged along with me, his facial expression showing his dark feelings on the matter.

Eventually, we had seen our entire section of the train, and finally decided we would view the section before us. As I looked at the complex connection connecting us to the conductor's section, I noticed something which I pointed out to Ceasar. One of the screws was loosening. We decided to inform an attendant, but as I turned, Ceasar put a hand on my shoulder. I turned around, to see his frightened expression and pointed finger. The entire chain was dangling off the works, and releasing the rest of the systems. We could feel our section slowing down and loosing control. If the problem was not set right quickly, we would loose connection to the rest of the train and be left sitting on the track with all the sections connected behind us. We had no time to fetch an attendant, or even Basil.

I decided I would have to go down and put it all together. Stepping slowly outside, I proceeded the same way towards the dangling chain. As I reached slowly for it, I felt myself leaning forward and nearly lost my balance. I chanced to look at Ceasar, who had a horrified look. Finding no encouragement there, I turned and, crouching, snatched the chain from the track. My eyes were clenched with fear the entire time, and as I slowly opened them I found myself dumbfounded that I was holding it.

I stood for some time catching my breath, swaying somewhat to the movement of the train, before I hastily tied the chain within all the others works crudely, like a rope. Apparently, it worked, because I felt the compartment area gain control. Ceasar also heaved a sigh of relief, and extended his hand to help me back onto solid ground, as it were.

After a moment of realising what had just happened, we understood this was the work of the blackmailer, and that we needed to report to Basil.

We found him gone.

He had vanished, right from his compartment. Even his cigarette was gone. The floor itself had been clean, the entire area combed, as if no one had been using it- or had collapsed on it.

Except for a used Indian cigar.

Chapter 5 - Basil's Fate.

It was like a supernatural, horrific work of fiction.

Ceasar collapsed upon my shoulder, and I shook him madly, trying to revive him. But I was too distracted on Basil's disapearance to be careful, and I had begun choking him before he could ejaculate a complaint.

Finally, I managed to sit down. "It's Ratigan!" whispered Ceasar. "He tried getting us off by sabotaging the chain, then stole Basil!"

After years of studying the criminal mind with my friend, I disagreed with Ceasar's theory and suggested:

"Perhaps the sabotage was just a lure to keep us busy while they took Basil."

After a fixed staring spell at me, Ceasar nodded slowly. "Perhaps you are correct. Could you capture Ratigan by yourself?"

I shook my head. "Proceeding is pointless. I have no recomendations for the situation, and I am lost without my master. I was his Boswell, and without him I am worthless. Like he was when Holmes retired. All I can do is turn around and return to London. What you do is your choice."

Ceasar shivered, and I used what little medical skill I could on him until we got to the Sussex station. Then, sadly, I took the next train for London, and stared back at Ceasar for the rest of the trip. My life would never remain the same again. So was my belief.

I decided to inform Mrs. Judson of the news. So, I trudged towards Baker Street and knocked upon that door, which I had first knocked upon so long ago, a kind-hearted Scottish girl beside me. The door from which I was constantly knocking to see my old friend. To embark on yet another adventure. I wondered if I would ever see him again.

So immersed in my memories, I was. In fact, I was aroused from the spell by Mrs. Judson, shaking me at the door.

"Dr. Dawson! Mr. Basil just stepped in," she was saying, the ring of her accent making the statement sound more beautiful.

"What!" I cried, and, without thinking, rushed up the stairs to our sitting room. I heard Mrs. Judson waddling up behind me. When I managed to stick my head in the room excitedly, I was suddenly disapointed- and outraged- that he wasn't there. I spun around on our mousekeeper.

"Mrs. Judson, I don't know how anyone could find that amusing," I snarled. She looked confused.

"But, Dr. Dawson, he is here!" she insisted.

"Well, where?" I demanded.

"Right here," she replied in a protesting manner.

I was in a frenzy of anger with her. "Mrs. Judson," I began loudly, and now I could hear other lodgers complaining, but Mrs. Judson interupted me by saying, "'Es right in front of you, Doctor." Then she smiled.

I suddenly realised what was going on. "Basil, is that...you?"

She began to laugh, and the laugh merged into the voice of my friend. He tore off his dress, cap, stuffing and spectactles.

"My dear Dawson, how good to see you!" he burst, between laughter. I was too shocked to laugh.

"Basil, what...where were you? And," I added, suddenly remembering something, "where is Vole?"

"Mrs. Judson is on an errand from one of our fellow lodgers, and Vole is on a false scent of revenge," chuckled Basil, now in his Inverness. "But as for everything else, well, it will be explained."

"But Basil," I complained, but he waved his hand. "Now, where is Ceasar?"

"I don't see how..."

"Dawson! Where is Ceasar?"

"Well, back in Sussex, if it matters."

"Sussex?!" he cried. "His life is in danger, Dawson! Quickly! We haven't much time to save his life!"

CONTINUE ON TO PART TWO