It was another dreary evening on Baker Street in late 1898. I had not seen my good friend Basil for upwards of three days, though our mousekeeper Mrs. Judson said that he had been stopping by very late at night to exchange this map for that map, this disguise for another. She had taken to putting little packets of cheese crumpets in the pockets of his coats and the sleeves of his kimonos, in the hopes that he would at least take a little nourishment. I thanked her, and wondered what on earth he was up to. He occasionally disappeared like this, but not very often.

I was just nodding off over Medical Mouse Monthly when there was a faint but insistent knocking at the door. Mrs. Judson hurried by me to answer it, no doubt thinking the same as I: Basil, at last. I indulged in a moment of pleasure over the thought of settling in front of the fire with my old friend, taking tea and listening to him recount his recent adventures with--

Mrs. Judson's horrified screech interrupted my thoughts and propelled me out of my chair and toward the front door. When I saw who awaited me, and in what state, I felt like screeching myself.

For there was Basil. He leaned against the doorjamb, right hand limp at his side after knocking. The other clutched his right shoulder, and, in the faint light, I could make out a darker stain against the dark fabric of his workman's overcoat. Mrs. Judson and I both stood frozen at the pitiful sight of our friend. He looked up, eyes dull, and a tiny smile flickered across his haggard features. "Hello, Dawson."

With that, the stalemate was broken. All at the same time, it seemed, Basil stumbled forward, I stepped to brace him, and Mrs. Judson burst into loud tears. I found myself issuing orders in a tone of voice unused since my long-past military days, calling for my bag, for hot water, for Basil's bed to be turned down and the lamps lit. He protested without much force, and soon gave it up entirely in favor of clenching his teeth. Mrs. Judson, still almost hysterical, I sent off with his coat and jacket to be washed, hoping that the work would calm her. When she was gone, I turned to the prone figure of my friend, Basil of Baker Street.

"How is he?" Mrs. Judson asked before entering.

"Asleep."

Still she hung by the door. "Will he...?"

"Of course. He'll be back to his old self in a fortnight."

"Would you like me to bring in a chair for you, doctor?"

"I would, Mrs. Judson. Thank you." I sat all that night in Basil's bedroom, watching his chest rise and fall under the blankets and bandages. He would be fine - just blood loss. Fine in a fortnight. I turned the bullet over in my paws and examined it by the light of the gas lamps. It had been fired from .022 caliber pistol, probably short-barreled. American manufacture, then.

His pulse was only a touch slow. You knew it, Dawson. You said it yourself - he'll be fine.

I must have fallen asleep into the wee hours, for Basil's voice woke me the next morning.

"Dawson. Dawson, wake up."

"What--? Basil!" I rubbed my eyes and checked my pocketwatch. Ten of nine. "How do you feel?"

"Like an idiot for getting shot," he said tersely. "Dawson, I need you to send a telegram for me."

"Certainly. You shouldn't feel--"

"Take this down, then, and send it to the Yard as soon as possible."

He only nodded.

"Basil?"

"Please make haste, Dawson."

Mrs. Judson was making herself conspicuous in the sitting room when I passed through it. I pulled her out of hearing distance of Basil's room and said quietly, "Try to get him to take some breakfast, but don't insist. And...don't take it personally if he's short with you."

She sighed, and nodded, and headed back towards the kitchen while I fetched my coat and went out.

When I came back, it was to find Basil sitting halfway up, propped with pillow and staring at the wall opposite him. A lovely breakfast tray sat untouched.

"Basil?"

He looked at me.

"Inspector Vole wired back right away...he says, ' Will have made arrests by tea-time. Signed, Vole. ' "

Basil nodded.

I pulled my chair around from the foot of his bed to the side, and sat. "Listen, old friend. I don't know what's wrong, and I wish you would tell me." Silence. "You should, of course, if you're in pain." Silence. "Basil?" Nothing. "All right, then. I suggest you eat something, and I'll come back after lunch to change your dressings, since you clearly don't want to talk to me."

I felt miffed and guilty at the same time. I was certain that physical pain alone could not put Basil in such a black mood, but if he didn't want to talk, nothing could make him. All there was to do was wait, so wait Mrs. Judson and I did.

After a week, Basil was spending a few hours a day in the sitting room, and I had removed the chair from his chamber. He still did not speak more than absolutely necessary, though once or twice he looked as though he might. I wavered over showing him the bullet, but decided he might form an unhealthy fixation with the ballistics of the thing and insist on bending over a microscope. As it was, the only fixation he seemed to have was with the far wall of his bedroom and the fireplace flags, at which he stared depending on what room he occupied.

I was forced to send clients away, and Mrs. Judson forced to see her culinary efforts go to waste, for still he ate hardly anything.

One evening, after Basil had returned to bed, there came a knock of an entirely different sort. Mrs. Judson evidently recognized it, for she sailed to the door in a jollier mood than any that had been seen in Lower 221B for days.

"Lady Judson," said a melodious voice. "The sight of you lights up any evening, even one so gray as this."

The mousekeeper chuckled. "And a good evening to you, too. I'm afraid--" and here her voice dropped "--I'm afraid that Mr. Basil is not taking visitors."

"I am not a visitor! I am a visitation, descended from Mount Olympmouse for a short time only. In plainer words, dear lady, I had a lecture cancelled because the roof of the place caved in, and thought, as I was in this part of London, I would grace the sitting room of Lower 221B."

I approached the door to see who had come, and was surprised to find a very red Mrs. Judson with one paw clasped between both of our guest's. And what a guest he was! He was much taller than I, and perhaps even taller than Basil, no mean feat. His brown hair brushed the velvet collar of his coat, and the wide-brimmed hat and ornate stick which dangled from Mrs. Judson's other paw must have been his. He kissed her paw and let it go before turning to me.

"You must be Dr. David Q. Dawson," he said with a smile.

"I am, indeed, but I'm afraid you have the advantage."

The guest inclined his head, accompanying the gesture with a flourish of the paw. "I am Oscar Milde, poet and aesthete-at-large."

I extended my paw, which he shook firmly. "Basil has mentioned you."

"Has he? Darling Sherri," murmured Milde, delicately removing his gloves.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Judson has spoken true, however," I continued. "Basil is hardly in a social state of mind, though I do thank you for thinking of him on your free evening."

But Milde didn't seem put off at all, and as I was wanting for good company, I invited him in and we talked. He was a most amusing fellow, full of witty axioms and wicked social commentary. Eventually, the conversation turned back to Basil.

"So," said Milde, drawing an ornate cigarette-case from his inner pocket, "why is Sherri in this mood? No cases? Too many of the wrong kind? A code or conundrum he's having difficulty with?" He clicked the case open. "Cigarette?"

"No, thank you. He--" My ears caught up with my brain. "What did you call him?"

Milde chuckled, a rich sound. "I don't imagine he's shared that with you, whatever else you may have heard about me. It's just a nickname, from Sherringford, you know. Remnant of our days at Oxford."

"Ah. I heard it before, but I thought you said chèrie."

"Something of a pun on my part. You could call them a guilty pleasure. You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"

"Oh, no. Not at all."

He lit a thin cigarette with a lighter that matched the case. "You were saying," he said, smoke curling around his hand and face, "about Sherri?" He waited.

"I don't know," I said finally. "He solved the case. I gather there were criminals hiding in a warehouse somewhere below Saxe-Coburg Square, and he had to go undercover to prove it. He came back one night, wounded, and he hasn't been the same since. He hardly speaks. I can't even tell if he's eating or not, except that he hasn't fainted yet. All in all, I am without a clue."

Milde leaned forward. "Wounded, you say?"

I nodded, my chin resting in the palm of one paw. "Shot in the right shoulder, about the level of the second thoracic vertebra. .022-caliber bullet. As these things go, it's not bad... Missed the right lung, clavicle, subclavian artery and vein, scapula, auxiliary artery..." I felt a kind hand on my arm.

"Doctor," said Milde, "you're not really making sense."

I looked up at the tall, elegant mouse.

He patted my arm and turned towards the stairs.

"Milde, wait!" I began. He turned back to look at me, one eyebrow raised. "Never mind. Just...put out your cigarette, please, before you talk to him."

He obliged, and continued up to Basil's room.

I waited for a few minutes, feeling generally wretched. There I was, Basil's best friend and physician, and all I could do - and all I had done, for the past week - was watch my friend's steady decline. By and by, I thought an apology to Basil was in order, so I found myself just outside Basil's door, listening and waiting for an opportunity to express my profound sorrow at having failed him.

So amiable was Milde's tone that it took me a minute to recognize a full-scale berating when I heard it.

"How low the mighty Sherringford Basil, the Sherlock Holmes of the mouse world, the most famous detective in all of mousedom, has fallen - not felled by a bullet, by any means, no."

For the first time in days, I heard my friend's voice. It was low, and hoarse. "Make sense, Oscar. Of course it was a bullet - has Dawson not shown you? It's in his left trouser-pocket."

I involuntarily put my hand to the bullet.

"No," continued Milde as if Basil had not spoken, "this genius of logic and detection has indulged himself in a seven-day pout after discovering that he is, in fact, only a mouse like the rest of us. Curious, isn't it? There is no sin except for stupidity. Note that mortality does not fall under that category, and note that indulging oneself in pointless funks does. Wake up, Sherri."

"You don't understand."

"Don't I? Please recall the day we met. I know it is unnerving to have one's body interrupted with violence, by a bullet no less than by the hands of one's fellow students. I also know that there's nothing to do about it but return to one's life." There was a long pause. "You're driving your friend Dawson to distraction, you know. Lady Judson, too. There are mice in this world who care about you, myself included, and if you can't see that, maybe you should stare at a wall for the rest of your life. Good evening, detective." Milde swept past me, coattails in a swirl.

I glanced into Basil's room, and followed Milde down the hall. When we reached the sitting room, I couldn't think of anything to say. Finally, I settled on, "It's a good thing you're not a doctor."

He turned to me with a wry grin. "I know. My bedside manner would have me ridden out of St. Bartholomouse's on a rail."

"It certainly would."

Milde took a chair and smoothed one of his dark tresses back into place. "I hope you realize that this will jolt Sherri back into himself," he said earnestly.

"I think it just may...and I couldn't have done it." Though I'd been shocked at first, I saw now the value of this dapper mouse's visit. "Thank you, Milde."

"My pleasure. Of course, you couldn't have done it," he added, "Sherri never would have let you in to change his bandages."

"He barely let me in anyway!"

Milde laughed. "I can believe it. As it is, he may be miffed with me as long as he likes, but I'll just keep coming back and being charming until he can't resist any longer."

"You are quite confidant," I observed.

"I am Oscar Milde," he explained.

"And I," said Basil from the top of the stairs, "am famished."