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It was cold. So cold, in fact, that Basil could see his breath in front of him when he exhaled - which, by the way, was often. He was feeling verklempt, and when he felt such a way, it simply wouldn’t do to not overdramatically sigh every other minute to emphasize just how utterly plussed he was. Even if nobody else on the sidewalk was batting him an eye, that wasn't important. It was a matter of principle.
For exactly four more months, Basil would continue to live mostly alone in his flat with nothing ever changing from his day to day routine. Until the day that a particularly befuddled doctor came to his doorstep asking for help on behalf of a young girl he found in a shoe, well, he would simply have to keep his chin up. Not that he was at the moment, mind you. If anything, it was a bit downturned, and his shoulders, having since been shrugged downwards into what could politely be called less than desirable posture, only emphasized it.
He wasn’t having the best of days.
Mrs. Judson had urged him to go out and talk a walk to clear his mind, but such things never helped him - not that he had told her that, but he never had the opportunity to do so. Typically, he’d already been nudged out the door with it closed behind him. Basil oftentimes wondered if she simply wanted him out of the house. Whatever for, he couldn’t fathom - which frustrated him, because being able to conjure propositions to the unfathomable was, well, his job. Even so, that landlady of his was a mystery.
Head shaking at the thought, Basil, once again, exhaled loudly in the form of a sigh and trudged onward. Rodentfolk often had to stick to nighttime walks or dark, overcast days if they wanted to go out amongst the public. As many had found out, it was hard to have a society amongst humans when humans don’t react all that kindly to animals in little suits and dresses. Basil himself had learned as much when he watched one of the humans that lived above his flat pass out cold at the sight of Basil disembarking Toby approximately two weeks prior.
However, it was a quiet day. The cold kept humans off of the sidewalks for the most part, the overcast threatening to drop snow upon the streets at any given moment. Truth be told, he didn’t even have any idea of what time it was. He scarcely did anymore.
No, walks didn’t suit Basil. They left him alone with his thoughts, which was the exact opposite of what he wanted. He’d think himself into his own grave if left to his own devices, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was actively trying to focus on his surroundings, he likely would. Since the start of his walk, he had counted six cracks in the sidewalk, two butterflies upon outdoor houseplants, and one stray dog across the street. For the most part, he’d been successful with his makeshift game of I Spy to keep himself busy, but the more it went on, the more his eye twitched with underlying irritation. Even the hands in his pockets fidgeted against the fabric.
Abruptly, Basil stopped, right foot slapping down against the pavement. Simultaneously, his hands balled into fists and flew out of his coat, the man exclaiming a genuinely frustrated, “Con found it!”
A passing car drowned out his words, which he was grateful for, but it didn’t do much to quell his irritation. A hand raised upwards and tugged through the fluffed fur atop his head, desperate to get his nervous energy out somehow, and he kept walking. His steps were stiffer than before, opposite arm vertical at his side. This case was going to drive him absolutely mad.
There had been a series of heists all over the city, the culprits cleaning up any possibility of a breadcrumb trail. Twice he had been led to a dead end, and thrice had he been barked at by the chief of police. Not much phased Basil, but that in particular did tend to irritate him greatly. He had become quite used to small time jobs - grieving widows whose husbands had mysteriously disappeared, home invasions, even businesses asking for help with things here and there like minor burglary. The Yard only called on Basil when they had nowhere else to go and were truly at their wit's end.
He’d take pride in it if it wasn’t such a thankless job.
Several things had to be taken into account when it came to Basil’s current frustration, but the most prominent one was the thought of being bested. Now, of course he knew that eventually he would catch the crooks - he hadn’t lost a case since, and he certainly wouldn’t now. Yet the thought of a handful of heckling hoodlums basking in their riches and pride, knowing that they had once again evaded the great Basil of Baker street…
Well. It wouldn’t do at all, to put it simply.
Naturally, his mind had wandered to the obvious conclusion. The crimes were more or less public; at least one witness was always present. Small-town banks and homes weren’t robbed, but rather the ones further into the cities and the manors of rich something-or-others who likely wouldn’t miss it in the first place - even if they would certainly complain about it to everyone who’d listen. However, this did not make the heists any less criminal, and especially not noble. This was no Robin Hood they were dealing with.
Basil had taken to fidgeting with the top button of his coat, tugging it in and out of its designated hole. Mrs. Judson always scolded him when the thread snapped, or worse, when he lost the button. She was running out of replacements, she’d say. He was a grown man and could do this himself, she’d say.
He stalled as he felt the thread grow loose. Another flip, and the button was in his hand.
… Perhaps he could walk a bit longer. Yes, he was prolonging the inevitable, but he didn’t quite feel up to snaps, and the last thing he wanted to do was snap at the poor woman. He caused her enough stress as it was. Taking a mental note to pick up flowers or something of the sort on the way home to ease the blow, he continued onward.
Of course the man knew that he had to find some way to relax, but it was so much more easier said than done. He relaxed by working and solving cases; the satisfaction brought him more relief than something like a walk or flipping through a book ever could. Just about the only thing that helped was playing his violin, but even that was a distraction. Ironically, thinking about how to relax was making his migraine pound harder at his temples.
A hand had raised to rub at his head when he saw it; a stray hat laying upon the sidewalk. It was tucked away towards the bushes nestled against the buildings adjacent to the walkway, but even so, it still caught his eye. Truth be told, Basil didn’t particularly know why it did; stray articles of clothing and belongings, especially in this neighborhood, weren’t all that rare. The backalleys were nearby, and with them came a many less fortunate folk alongside crooks that had no business pestering them.
But that wasn’t the point. The point, in fact, was that something about it looked awfully, dreadfully familiar.
A breeze passed through, as it had been doing for a good fifteen minutes or so prior to his discovery, though the hat didn't do much more than nudge itself in the wind's direction. Basil was upon it then, crouching down and squinting at the article of clothing with analytical intent.
His hand reached out, and he picked it up. It was a newsboy cap, as black as the night's sky and… decorated with bits of short fur of the same shade. Truthfully, it was nothing too extraordinary, and the logical side of Basil told him that it was nothing special - that he should leave it alone before he got lice or something of the sort by touching it.
Yet his gut was urging him forward, still holding the hat as he rose to his feet. "Wool," be said to nobody, giving the hat a quick toss in his hand. "Heavier than most caps. Fur likely from someone amongst the population, but not a rodent themself. Perhaps an opossum, but none are native to London to my knowledge. Tourist, maybe. But were that the case…"
Why was it familiar ?
Basil's gaze flicked downward to the sidewalk, mentally trying to piece together the hat's trajectory. He had been out for a walk for at least half an hour if not more, and there hadn't been enough wind to do much more than rustle one's scarf.
An alleyway, dark and littered with graffiti (from both humans and non), was only a few dozen steps away from where he stood. Basil wasn't the kind of man to run off on a hunch, but something was telling him to move forward. And so he did.
He tried not to grimace as he stepped through a puddle of what he prayed was leftover rainwater from the night previous. The hat was tucked into his coat pocket for the time being, where his hands also rested in an attempt to battle the cold. While there was no breeze in the alleyway, which provided a bit of relief, the physical chill was replaced with a deeper, psychological one. Nobody felt safe in these damned alleyways. It made the fur on the back of any respectable mouse's neck stand straight up.
Raised voices briefly caught his attention, posture stiffening as his head turned upwards. Thankfully, all he found was a miniature, open window, wherein two individuals were arguing quite loudly inside. Basil tuned it out as best as he could, though he did pick up on something about moving, as well as something ceramic breaking rather viciously. Hopefully it was not the man of the house's fine china, though the horrified scream that followed him down the concrete walkway confirmed the detective's suspicions.
It wasn't as if the rest of the area was pleasant either, mind you. A handful of poor souls laid on spare clothes and scraps of fabric against the walls, desperately trying to get an early night's sleep. While it was not their fault, Basil found himself tugging the collar of his coat up a bit farther, almost defensively. As many scoundrels as good people lived in the area; he couldn't take any risks.
The longer Basil walked, footsteps making quiet little wet noises against the occasional rainwater puddles on the pavement, the more he came to realize that these alleyways were not entirely unfamiliar. Something tugged at the back of his memory that he couldn't place, though once he turned the next rightmost corner and the scent of salt water wafted through his nose, the familiarity hit him like a freight train.
He was close.
Humans complaining about something or other could be heard nearby as Basil stayed close to the wall. The alley gave way to an open area, the air smelling of salt and fish. Two human men, presumably sailors, were leisurely sitting on barrels upon one of the many docks nearby - the source of the irritated chitchat. Before he was spotted, Basil darted down the walkway and found his way to the nearest sewer grate.
Damn that bastard , he thought to himself. Of all places to hide, it had to be beneath the sewers. Despite loathing being called out for what he was, thought Basil as he slid through the iron bars, the old codger certainly stayed in ironically fitting spaces.
Basil's small hands hung onto the grate, feet fumbling for purchase before at last finding the nearby wall. The drop couldn't have been all too far, but considering that when he swung his feet down and they still didn't hit any solid ground, well, he had to prepare for the worst. Closing his eyes tightly, he sucked in a breath and released his hands from the moist grate, falling downward.
Thankfully, it wasn't too terribly long of a drop. Basil landed with a grunt on both legs, a dull, sudden pain shooting through his knees at the impact. Despite knowing this route nearly by heart and therefore knowing what did and didn't slip through, he found himself very grateful that no water had leaked onto the walkway.
After a brief adjustment of his hat and a smoothing down of his coat, he walked forward, keeping to the shadows of the dark, underground alley. If undesirables had been lurking about above the sewer grate, they were practically bursting at the seams below. This was the domain of London's most loathed criminals, ranging from petty pickpockets who are just intimidating enough to survive to criminal masterminds so vile that nobody would dare cross them. The only difference was that the latter tended to live a much more fanciful life than that of their underlings.
The thought made him sneer. No wonder the old bastard had so many cronies; they were desperate for that glance at glamour, for a dip onto the waters of wealth and riches beyond their wildest dreams. Their lives were dispensable, yet their urges to please someone higher than them in exchange for some pitiful version of mercy were too prominent for them to focus on much else.
Basil winced briefly as he stepped in a puddle and kept walking. When his archnemesis was behind bars, the goons would scatter. It was going to be absolute hell to clean up, but their puppetmaster rotting away in a jail cell would be worth the struggle. That's what he told himself, anyway; he knew the police would complain about it for weeks when it did happen. It wasn't his fault that the professor hired lowlifes so dimwitted that they likely didn't have two coherent brain cells to rub together.
The smell of alcohol indicated that he was close. Basil, instantly on edge, hung even closer to the shadows as he continued his journey forward. He had to not only be on guard for any ruffians, but also for his archnemesis' delightful pet cat roaming the grounds. If he was a lucky man, she would be napping somewhere away from the hideout. The thought of the feline finding him made a chill travel up his spine and out, the man having to physically stop for a few brief seconds to let it work itself out. Once it passed, he continued.
Basil's footsteps were light and quick as he made his way around. It wasn't quite night time yet, and the sun had not finished setting over the horizon. Bits of light shined in from grates above, casting down on what lay before him.
The hideout in question, bathed in colors of orange and yellow and tints of blue when the light dipped into shadow, was made out of an old wine barrel that had seen better days. Bits of trash, likely left by hoodlums, lay scattered about the cobblestone floor alongside human-sized trash that rodentfolk couldn't move, such as an old bottle or cardboard box. Basil briefly glanced at the latter to ensure that the aforementioned pet cat wasn't in it. Thankfully, it appeared empty.
Nobody was around, which meant one of two things. Either Basil was lucky and had arrived at a slow hour, or they were all inside yukking up with each other over some reason or another. It would explain the stench of alcohol, for certain, but the place always had that lingering smell - like cigarette smoke that refuses to wash out of your favorite button-down.
Just because Basil had not been there in quite some time did not mean that the man couldn't remember his way around. The lack of people outside made it all the more easy for him to slink around to the side of the barrel and peer up at its side with knit brows. There were no accessible windows, but there were definitely other ways to get in. It was just annoying that the single window that was there had since been haphazardly boarded up. He could only begin to theorize why that happened.
Thoughts of scrawny cronies being tossed out of the glass in a blind rage occupied Basil's mind as he continued to walk around. Upon placing a hand against the side of the structure, vibration (albeit subtle ones) were felt against the pads of his fingers. Yes, there was definitely a party afoot. This also meant that people were likely kept to one specific, congested area; if Basil had to guess, it was likely the foyer.
His face scrunched at the thought. A fountain full of champagne to appease the goons, the sound of jewelry far too big for even a sewer rat to wear jingling loudly amidst the cackles of a madman, proud of whatever scheme he was concocting...
Stuck up bastard.
The smallest of " aha’s ” escaped Basil when his hand, which had since been dragging soundlessly against the rough surface of the barrel, caught on something. No, it was not a splinter, but rather a separate piece of wood jutting out from the wall. A door; a backdoor, to be precise.
When the knob was tested, it didn't budge, but such things never stalled Basil before. With a huff under his breath, as if terribly inconvenienced, he reached into his coat and fumbled with the inside pockets. While he came across several unrelated things (including a peppermint candy from no less than two months ago), he eventually found what he was looking for: a bobby pin. After looking both ways once more to ensure that nobody was around, the man made quick work of the lock and promptly let himself inside.
For someone who had internally been boasting about how he knew the building like the back of his hand, his entrance still surprised him greatly. He'd found himself in a spacious kitchen, having been remodeled since to his last excursion to the place. A face of disapproval was made at the fine china plates resting in a nearby cupboard. Imported? Absolutely. Fake? Without a doubt.
Perhaps that would be how he bested the old rat, mused Basil as he walked further into the room. He would just explain how a major portion of his stolen goods were as counterfeit as the bills he paid his goons with and the man would get so angry that he’d keel over of a heart attack.
The chatter and music from further inside came from outside the nearest door. Deciding that that wasn't the best plan of escape, Basil kept looking about only to find a service elevator nestled away in the wall. Of course the old cad would have a service elevator; what well-respected rich man wouldn't, he thought to himself with a roll of his eyes?
Between the two options, the little elevator was deduced to be his best bet. With luck, it went to the man's quarters, and with a bit of extra luck, it would be abandoned. Already planning out the two possible outcomes (and an extra three to be absolutely covered), Basil moved to the depression in the wall and took a deep breath. Why he did, he wasn't sure, but it certainly helped him crawl into the confined space with a bit better focus than before.
Praying to whatever god or gods may exist that it would not fall and lead him to a very unfortunate and frankly disappointing demise, Basil took hold of the rope inside and pulled on one end. With two hefty pulls, the kitchen was henceforth out of sight and he had no way out. Small, dark, enclosed spaces were nothing new to him, but it didn't mean that he liked them. They always made a chill crawl down his back and caused his breaths to thicken, each inhale in the darkness of the elevator feeling dense and unpleasant. He felt as if he were trying to breathe in molasses.
Nonetheless, as he always did, the detective urged himself onward. The rope he held was rough against the palms of his small hands, ignoring the burning sensation when one slipped a bit and ground against the coarse material in the process. In all honesty, it was at least a distraction from the claustrophobia threatening to settle in. With a shake of his head, Basil took in another deep, heavy breath.
Truth be told, he hadn't thought very far ahead. As previously pondered, he was riding on the assumption that his target's room would be vacant. Then he would hide somewhere and do… something. Perhaps a sneak attack would be in order, even if it meant he had to wait for an hour or so. The police could come pester them later - after Basil had had his say and ground the rat's confidence into the dirt. Nobody was touching a dial to call the calvary until he had had his say.
Light began to peek through the thin gaps between the elevator and wall, eventually turning into a fully fledged exit. As soon as it was in sight, Basil ceased his pulling and held the rope in place, simply sitting there as he drew in a slightly lighter breath. His relief wouldn't last for too long, but only because it was replaced with brazen confidence.
The crime lord of London's chambers lay directly before him.
Empty.
Careful not to let go of the rope, he made his way out of the elevator and, once on two feet yet again, quietly lowered it back down. If he hadn't been alone, this would have been quite the challenge. Already Basil was formulating what to say in his head, cycling through the several options he had come up with on the way there. Who knew that a simply evening walk would lead to such a discovery? He would confront the fiend, wave the evidence in his face, and once he was bested after a battle of wits, the police would be hailed. How incredibly lucky to have the situation fall into his hands-
Something clamped over Basil's mouth, startling him so suddenly that the rope was released. As the elevator careened downwards, he instinctively gasped with surprise, which was the exact opposite of what one should do when a mysteriously damp cloth is placed over one's nose.
One by one, he felt his limbs lose their weight. His vision blurred just as his eyes involuntarily closed. Something grabbed him around the waist: an arm, broad and firm and careful to keep him from crashing to the ground. The last thing Basil could sense before the darkness consumed him was a low, smug chuckle.
Basil awoke in a chair.
Not quickly, of course. Typically he would have jolted awake, demanding answers from his captor and putting on an aura of confidence and pride, as if he himself had somehow planned to fall unconscious. Whatever had been done to him, however, prohibited that. The mere thought of opening his eyes was tiring, and while he tried to slur a question in regards to where he was, all that came out was a very tired "Wroomf."
He felt nauseous, for one thing. In the back of his mind, he wondered if his captor had been reading too many novels in order to cloud his judgement. Basil, of course, had just inhaled highly concentrated chloroform in an effort to knock him out cold. At another turn of his stomach, he groaned and felt himself lean forward. Perhaps smacking him on the head with something hard would have been better than this.
Very quickly (as quickly as he could in his current state, anyway), Basil realized that he was restrained. With what type of rope and what knots, he wasn't quite sure just yet. At the moment, all he could really focus on was that he wanted to sleep for a bit.
A foul stench in the air made his nose twitch and a slow, tired grimace grow on his face, mouth tugging downwards. With all of the energy he could muster up, the mouse forced his eyes to open and his vision to focus as best it could.
There he was. None other than Basil's archnemesis, the self proclaimed god of crime, and someone he strained to call an old friend, stood before him. Well, more or less. He was currently sitting in an armchair across from him, a cigarette holder in one hand with smoke wafting off of the tip.
And he looked incredibly smug.
It took a moment for Basil to realize what he was saying, for he had been talking despite likely knowing that Basil could not understand a word. Though, perhaps he was being given too much credit. Obviously he didn't know enough about anesthetics to properly administer it without lingering injury. The mouse shuddered at the thought, suddenly grateful that his nausea was the least of his worries.
"What a sight for sore eyes you are, old friend," were the first words that rang clearly in Basil's ears. "Whatever is the matter, hm? Cat got your tongue?"
Basil's tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, trying desperately to remember how to speak. Coherence was coming, but it was a dreadfully slow process. He gave a short, but heavy huff through his nose in an attempt to expel the stench of secondhand smoke and managed to reply flatly, "No, but I'm led to believe that a rat does."
The frustration upon his rival's face amused him just enough to wake up a touch faster. Quietly, Basil observed the man before him in the light of the fire.
Professor Padraic Ratigan was a man of fine tastes to an eccentric degree. Always wearing the finest of suits, the softest of silken capes, and the cleanest of gloves, he looked like an aristocrat desperately trying to play it cool. It seemed he always had a glass of wine or cigarette holder in his hand, and the half-lidded look to his eyes always added an air of mystery and confidence that completed the look.
It made Basil want to vomit.
"You woke up much more quickly than I anticipated," Ratigan commented, electing to not acknowledge his captive's little quip. "Not that I mind, but I at the very least expected to finish my cigarette."
"You're lucky I woke up at all with how much of that vile liquid you used," Basil replied, happy that his words only somewhat slurred. " That wouldn't have made for a very satisfying capture, now would it?"
"I don't know," the rodent replied with a casual hum, still lazily looking at the fire. "Delivering your body to the police would be quite entertaining."
Basil scoffed, leaning back in his chair and attempting to roll his neck. After a quiet set of little pops, he released a sigh and blinked hard to will away any lingering blurriness to his vision. "Which is going under the assumption that you would ever let that happen. Well, you did almost kill me with that nasty old rag. I do hope it wasn't your good handkerchief."
"As if it ever could be," Ratigan replied with a huff. He brought the cigarette holder to his lips and took a deep breath, expelling a foul, odorous smoke. It was a painfully slow ordeal, and absolutely intentional. Keeping Basil waiting was one thing the detective in question absolutely despised. His captor continued, "So then, whatever reason could you have to be snooping around my abode, hmm?"
With a bit of effort, Basil managed to sit up a little straighter and swallow down any lingering nausea that threatened to crawl up his throat. After taking in a long breath, he exhaled rather shortly and made eye contact with his unfortunate companion. "As if your little party isn't alerting half the mice in the city with how raucous they're being down here."
"You were always such a piss-poor liar, my boy," was Ratigan's cool reply. Smoke trailed out of his nostrils, disappearing into the air above his head. "With how deep we are in the sewers? You would have to go far too out of your way before you heard the first hoorah. I'll ask once more."
Ratigan was already making a show of repeating himself. His index finger tapped against the holder balanced in his palm, he leaned forward a bit in his chair, and at last took in a deep breath. Basil waited it out until the first word was about to traverse across Ratigan's tongue before he promptly cut him off. "I found that assistant of yours' hat on my evening walk and found it suspicious. That enough for you?"
To see Ratigan visibly stumble was a treat sweeter than candy. Despite his best efforts to regain his cool and collected presentation, he was still taken aback by the very idea of being interrupted. With a huff under his breath, he tapped a bit of ash into a tray next to the armchair. The fire before them gave a quiet crackle.
"I doubt that something so trivial would be enough to garner suspicion," the rodent finally replied. "So no, that's not enough. I don't particularly feel like playing a game of twenty questions with you, Basil."
Basil gave a scoff at that, which at the very least made Ratigan's gaze shift over to him alongside a raised brow. "And whatever makes you think I'll comply, hm? You have absolutely nothing to hold over my head. This situation isn't even dire, Padraic; you're just paranoid. Well, all I'll say is that your anxieties have at least some bearing in reality."
"You're bluffing," replied Ratigan, fingers absentmindedly curling around the cigarette holder. In a similar fashion, the corners of his lips curled upwards into a sinister smile, his borderline monstrous sharp teeth glistening in the light of the fire. "And even if you weren't, it isn't as if it would matter. I have plenty of things to hold over your head, as you put it. Your livelihood. Your material possessions. That precious little landlady of yours that you surely care oh so much about."
"Wow," Basil replied, visibly and audibly nonplussed. "I haven't even confirmed or denied your accusations, and you're already acting incredibly defensive - you always try so hard to build yourself up as this impregnable wall when in reality you're easier to read than a children's book. For shame. I dare ask if you're the one whose tongue has been taken hold of by a cat."
"God, I should have put a gag on you," Ratigan muttered under his breath, sneering as he looked back over at the fireplace. At normal volume, he said as level as he could muster, "Answer the question."
"Which one? I've lost track at this point."
His head turned to meet Basil's eye. The detective looked bored.
"Why are you sneaking around my house?" Ratigan reiterated. "And no more beating around the bush. Something must have possessed you to follow the trail Fidget clumsily left behind." At his own words, he soundlessly snarled, seeming to already be making a mental note to toss the bat to Felicia later. "You suspect me for some crime or another."
"Stating the obvious will never get us anywhere in this conversation," Basil replied, restraining every muscle in his face in order to not smile in amusement at Ratigan's expression. How satisfying it was to frustrate his rival instead of the other way around. "Of course I do; it isn't as if I just traipse down here for a friendly chat. I wouldn't be tied to a chair if that were the case."
"You wouldn't be sneaking around at all if it were," Ratigan agreed with a huff under his breath. "Pray tell, whatever have I done this time? What incredible evidence have you found to frame me for some heinous crime you've discovered? Apparently I'm the only criminal in London worth going after at this rate."
"So high and mighty," scoffed Basil, turning his head to look to the side opposite of the mantle. The fire within it was the only light in the room, leaving Ratigan's bed, dresser, wardrobe, and so on bathed in shadow. If he wasn't certain that they were the only two men in the room, he'd be paranoid. He continued, "My work has been plenty busy without you getting in my way; the quiet has just left me all the more alert, ensuring that nothing slips past me. I work much better under pressure, as you know."
"No," was Ratigan's flat, unamused reply. "If you worked better under pressure, I wouldn't keep having to ask you the same questions over and over while you're incapacitated."
Basil turned his head back around to face him and smiled, though the expression was anything but genuine. "Oh, Padraic. It's not your fault that you're about as intimidating as a prepubescent child. I can't be frightened of someone who pouts like how you're doing right now."
Ratigan made quick work of subtly biting down on his lip to stifle any movement. Another scoff escaped him, almost defensive. "I'm a gentleman first and foremost, Basil. But if you want to do things the hard way, I'm happy to oblige. I only hope that you understand you'll be paying for any damage done to my suit."
He visibly started when Basil barked a laugh - a loud, short, and almost mocking sound that caused the rodent's lips to curl upward in an instinctive snarl. The cigarette he held was extinguished rather forcefully beside him the ashtray wobbling upon the little table it sat upon. "What? What the devil is so funny?"
"You couldn't lay a hand on me if you tried!" the mouse guffawed, leaning back against his restraints and taking in a breath. "It's simply impossible for you to even consider the notion; you of all people should know that your textbook threats don't work on me."
As much as he hated doing so, Basil started when Ratigan abruptly rose to his feet. Somehow, he always forgot just how tall the bastard was. Far too tall, in his opinion. What was previously a charming feature now just made for annoyance. Very frustrating to have to lift his head every time he wanted to make eye contact.
Ratigan's thick, hairless tail briskly slid around to rest at his feet, gloved hands clasping in front of him as he took in a deep, slow breath. It was exhaled rather shortly, the snarl on his lips being replaced with a grin. "Now, Basil. You know that tempting fate doesn't end well for any of us, let alone anyone who tries to do so with me." He clicked his tongue as his posture straightened, Basil taking a mental note of how his ascot wasn't tied properly. "Don't make me ask you again."
"Or what, then?" was the mouse's indignant, almost amused reply. It had been expected, and yet Ratigan's hands clenched a bit tighter against each other regardless in response. "You'll ring your little bell, hm? Felicia will come take care of me and there'll be no more Basil of Baker Street to darken your doorstep? Please. All she would do is roll over to let me climb up and scratch her chin."
"I don't need her to do my dirty work when it comes to you ," replied Ratigan with what could politely be called a glower. "I know how to get you to talk."
"You don't, though; not really," was Basil's response, staying still when Ratigan took one, then two steps towards him. "Or at least you never bothered to try back then. Change of heart?"
Basil was procrastinating and he knew it. He didn't have any clear evidence that the heists were because of Ratigan and his countless cronies; he'd just traveled there on a whim based on a hat that held absolutely no bearing. He hadn't even gone to his lab to test the article of clothing for any hint of a clue or connection. While the great detective was smart, even he loathed to admit that he could be a bit stupid. The best he could do at the moment was keep bluffing. "You've never really changed, after all. As if you could ever-"
The noise that escaped Basil when his collar was abruptly and roughly grabbed resembled what a frog being run over would sound like. His eyes followed Ratigan's hand all the way up to his face, yellowed eyes narrowed and the rodent's grin curling downward into a scowl with bared teeth. When he talked, his tone was low and deathly serious. "I've heard enough ."
Basil absolutely hated that he was reacting. In a way, he hoped that Ratigan could see how much he'd startled him. Maybe he would feel bad and let him go so he could melodramatically mope over his piano like he always did in the early days. But the man's gaze was unwavering, even as Basil's brows upturned and his eyes widened with fear - even hurt.
But Ratigan wouldn’t hurt him. He knew that. The rat could act as high and mighty as he wanted, pick him up, shake him around a bit, whatever suited his fancy - but he wouldn’t ever harm him. Basil just had to keep that in mind.
The detective tried his best to regain his nonchalant expression. “Can’t do much when I’m tied to a chair. What are you even so worked up about, Padraic? You know you could go confiscate any evidence I may or may not be hiding from you, and you choose to take it out on little old me.” He huffed under his breath, forcing a smirk despite his heart pounding in his chest. “You must be frustrated about something else. I’d offer to help, but I’m no therapist.”
It became evident quite quickly that Ratigan had not thought this far ahead. As usual, he’d acted on impulse, and now he was left with nowhere to go. Both knew, however, that he couldn’t back off, lest he suffer more teasing from the mouse sitting before him. Inevitably, he decided to hiss under his breath. “I said that I’ve heard enough, Basil. You’re far too confident for your own good; a quick tongue will get you nowhere unless you just want to frustrate me.”
As if the man wasn’t angry enough, Basil found himself replying before he could stop and think about it. “Really? I found that it was quite productive in the past. Certainly didn’t frustrate you then.”
The grip on his collar instantly grew tighter, pulling him forward and causing Basil to jerk against his restraints. For a few tense seconds, they simply stared at one another. Suddenly, however, Ratigan’s expression grew smug, promptly releasing Basil with a laugh and making him fall backwards in the chair. A yelp escaped him as it rocked, threatening to tip over.
“Oh, Basil. I know you must be bluffing now,” said the rodent, pretending to wipe an amused tear from his eye. “I’m not quite certain what it is that you would hope to accomplish by frustrating me, but flirting? You of all people would know that it would tip me over the edge.”
Basil tried his best to regain his composure once he was certain that he would not, in fact, fall over. “As you nearly just did to me, just in a more literal sense. I’m not certain how you’re taking that as proof, either way - and I’d hardly call it flirting. Simply stating the facts is all.”
“Yes, well,” he huffed, raising a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair back and smoothing it down, “I’m convinced now that you’ve just been talking yourself up the entire time to play me for a fool. Now I have to decide what to do with you. Of course I could let you go, but then you'd just keep causing me trouble, and that just won't do."
"I must say," said Basil, which Ratigan frowned at, "You reacted quite excessively to supposedly nonexistent evidence. I haven't seen you that angry in ages. So what is it that you've done? What are you so worried about?"
"I'm worried about a second rate detective meddling in my life for the umpteenth time," he replied, promptly turning around and stepping over to the fire with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. "Very annoying to keep running into you while I'm simply living my life. Did it ever occur to you that it's possible I haven't done anything as of late?"
"Then what are your goons celebrating down there?" asked Basil with a jut of his chin towards the door. "I doubt it's a birthday party."
"I had the fortune of coming across an abandoned human-sized bottle of champagne," Ratigan replied. "You know how raucous they can get. They're happy to be getting as drunk as possible is all."
"And you would let them?" Basil shot back, a skeptic brow quirking upwards. "Your lies are getting more transparent as you age, old boy. What did you do? Simply telling me will get this conversation over with much more quickly, which is quite obviously what you want."
"I am begging you," said Ratigan, followed by a long and arduous inhale. He held it for a good few seconds before finally releasing it, turning his head to Basil with narrowed eyes and an almost tired expression. "To shut up."
To the man's surprise, Basil complied, if only because he was running out of ways to keep chattering on in order to drive their conversation off course. Ratigan was pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, looking as if he was in desperate need of an aspirin. The detective finally spoke up then, "Headache?"
"Yes, you are," was Ratigan's irritated response, nearly hissing the words between his teeth. His frustration was even more evident than before, and in any other situation, Basil would have been smirking with pride. Even if he had no evidence and no idea how to get out of his binds (though he was trying his best at a knot he managed to get a couple of fingers on), he'd stumped the bastard. That was a victory in and of itself.
But instead, Basil was cursing himself for nearly worrying about the man standing before him. It wasn't his fault that he was observant, nor that he had studied Ratigan plenty and knew that several of his tells never changed.
He looked tired.
Irritated, yes, but tired all the same. It reminded Basil of earlier times, long before the back and forth of their rivalry and their names being displayed in newspapers for townspeople to gossip about. Ratigan only made the expression he currently held when he was thinking intently about things he didn't want to talk about. He used to always tell them to Basil, but something had sealed that openness away long ago.
Basil shook it off. He didn't have any business caring about the son of a bitch's emotions . He'd used them as fuel for a fire before; he never would again if Basil had anything to say about it.
Ratigan was talking again, almost to himself. "You think you can just waltz in here, sneak into my home and room, act so high and mighty; god I loathe you…"
"If it helps any, the feeling's mutual," Basil quipped. "Now if you don't mind, could you hurry it up with the decision making of what you're going to do to me? I only have so long to try and work out of these restraints. Good to have an estimate at the very least."
"There are so very, very many things I'd like to do," replied Ratigan under his breath, almost a growl. "Could throw you out that window right there, or into the fireplace, or tell the boys downstairs to beat you into a bloody and unrecognizable pulp…"
Basil leaned forward a bit in his seat. Tempting fate seemed to be a newfound hobby of his based on how bold he was being that evening. "Then why won't you?"
The question was genuine, Basil's tone only the very slightest bit teasing. In truth, he wanted to know as well. Of course he'd had his suspicions, but to hear it from the horse's mouth, per se, would be all the more satisfying.
Ratigan dragged his hand down his face with a groan of frustration. Basil, again, started against his will when the rodent before him abruptly turned to face him. "You really want to know why, hm? Fine, then." He stalled. For a split second that Basil picked up on, he saw Ratigan's brows twitch to turn upwards, his lips jut downwards into a frown more genuine than any sneer or growl.
Then his face became a blank canvas once again in no time at all. At last, the professor continued, "Because I want to see your face myself when I finally decide what's in store for you."
"So you'll be the one to kill me after all? Those examples you already mentioned don't fit your personal tastes?" asked Basil. "You so seldom get your hands dirty nowadays; you have people for that."
"You think I can't?" the man scoffed. "Honestly, Basil. Times have changed, yet you haven't in the slightest. I'd almost say you're too predictable at this point; always rushing into things and making it up as you go. Really, it's my fault for falling for it so easily."
It was Basil's turn to huff with indignance. "I'm terribly sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about."
"It's one of your biggest flaws, Basil." Ratigan's tail slipped over to the other side of his feet, the movement sharp. "Always had to pick up behind you back then; feels like I still am now, if I'm being honest. No evidence, no grounds for accusation, and now you just sit there talking my ear off. And what am I supposed to do?"
"That's what I've been asking for several minutes now," was Basil's flat reply. "You're talking in circles, Padraic; whatever is your point ?"
The hypocrisy of the question was either lost on Basil, or he simply brushed it aside. His curiosity, as much as he hated to admit it, was piqued. Something was on Ratigan's mind, and for whatever reason it was all he wanted to pry out at that moment. So seldom did the man before him let his confident façade crack. It had been that way for many years, but the metaphorical shell had steadily been thickening as of late.
"My point, to put it lightly ," Ratigan replied flatly, "is that I am tired." His hands raised to gesture as he talked, continuing, "Tired of you getting in my way, of you blabbering my ears off, of you finding out my schemes and rubbing the evidence in my face like a schoolboy."
"All of which could be solved if you just turned yourself in," Basil replied. His posture instinctively stiffened when his captor turned his head to glare at him.
"How can you be so very smart and yet so very stupid?" Ratigan muttered, his words laced with a venom Basil only seldom heard. "That wouldn't solve a godforsaken thing. There will always be crime, Basil; my being put away wouldn't change that."
"But it would certainly help the regular influx of them," the mouse shot back. "I know men like you, Ratigan; you'll get bored of your heists, of your expensive wine. You'll get the itch for something new, and sooner or later a body will be found in the street."
"How sweet a fantasy it is to imagine yours in its place," Ratigan drolled. "You don't know me in the slightest, so stop the psychobabble and just let me think."
"No," replied Basil rather matter of factly. "I daresay I know you more than you know yourself, and that's what gives me an edge in this game of cat-and-mouse we've found ourselves in for so many years. To insist that I don’t know you at all is an insult, quite frankly.”
“Knowing my favorite food and spots in London isn’t knowing me,” Ratigan drolled. “Stop pretending that it is.”
“I know that you draw up and try to dodge the subject when something’s on your mind,” Basil shot back. “I know that your tail flicks about like a flame in the wind when you’re upset. And as I’ve learned lately, you hide your emotions with that flamboyant persona that wasn’t a persona entirely not too long ago. Well, either that, or you get incredibly angry-”
“Bite your tongue before I cut it off!” Ratigan barked, though the threat held no weight and Basil knew it. His brows only raised in mild acknowledgement.
“You’re getting awfully worked up,” he remarked.
“Your voice,” replied Ratigan, pressing his fingers to his temples and pinching them once more, “is giving me a migraine like nothing I’ve ever had before.”
Basil hummed. “No, I think you’re giving that to yourself.”
“Will you shut up for all of five minutes so I can gather my thoughts?!”
“I don’t think it’s going to get me out of this chair any faster, so no,” he replied. “Perhaps if you did something about it, we could move this whole experience along faster.”
Ratigan glanced at the detective from behind his fingers. He was scowling, yes, but the tiredness was prominent on his expression - along with something else. If Basil didn't know any better, he'd say he almost looked sad. Almost.
His posture straightened in his chair as Ratigan slowly approached him. He'd just managed to get his hands free, and the timing was, frankly, horrendous. Ratigan had to turn around so that Basil could best him and make a daring escape, not come closer .
The taller man stopped before him, arms at his sides. For a few seconds that felt like several painstaking minutes, they simply resided there, staring at each other with no readable expression upon either face. Then Ratigan spoke up. "You want to know what's bothering me, then? You. You are. You're my every waking moment, my immediate worry every time I think of something new to concoct, the subject of my dreams taunting me and traipsing off."
Basil hesitated before replying, "This would almost be romantic if you weren't a captor, possibly with murderous intent."
"That's my point , Basil!" the rodent exclaimed, brows upturning only briefly before they knit yet again. "I should have just tossed you downstairs, but no, I had to tie you up and then you had to jibber-jabber on about everything that comes to mind, knowing it drives me up the wall." He paused. "Do you remember the last time you were here?"
Basil paused. "Last month? Saved that old musician you kidnapped."
"Water under the bridge," Ratigan replied curtly. "I mean this room. When was that?"
"God, Ratigan, I don't know," the man groaned. "You hadn't had the place for all that long last I saw you. That was a few years ago. But why-"
Basil's collar was grabbed again, but the expression he formed in response resembled confusion more than fear. Ratigan was scowling still, but there was that hint of uncertainty in his gaze. Surprisingly enough, it didn't confuse Basil. If anything, it made a heaviness pound in his chest and his brows upturn.
The change in the air was instant. Annoyance was replaced with hesitance. Tension took anger's place. Basil's grip on the ropes he'd freed himself from grew tighter, as if having something to physically hold on to would help to clear his mind. Ratigan was as still as a statue, breaths so measured and subdued that one would have to check to ensure that he was even still breathing.
Basil was the first to speak. His voice was a bit quieter than it had been before as he asked, "Padraic, what on earth are you doing?"
"I don't know," was Ratigan's reply, visibly looking irritated at his own answer. "I don't know. There are so many things I should do and should have done by this point-"
Something rekindled the fire inside of Basil, his brows knitting a bit as he somewhat coldly asked, "Like not run off to become a full time criminal?"
"I meant over the span of our 'visit,' not that !" Ratigan barked in response, though Basil barely flinched at the sudden outburst.
The detective wasted no time in continuing his verbal assault. One of Ratigan's many walls had visibly crumbled, and Basil was worming his way past his defenses. His breaths shook against his ribs as butterflies of anxiety fluttered in his stomach. Not even he had realized how much he needed to say something. The moment had finally presented itself. "I haven't seen you this worked up since the night I walked away."
"Did you ever stop to consider why I was?" his captor shortly replied. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps, just perhaps, you were being more than a little selfish?!"
Basil released another loud, short laugh, almost a snort. " Me ? With how self absorbed you are, it truly surprises me that you haven't looked into a mirror lately. Or do those giant gemstones you steal warp your reflection enough to avoid that harsh reality?"
"I saw an opportunity and seized it!" Ratigan declared, his free hand raising upwards and gripping at the air for added emphasis. "We were vermin , for god's sake! Living in ramshackle houses and stealing just to survive! And you still turned your back on the possibility of becoming something more?"
"One can find purpose and meaning in life without resorting to things like robberies, illegal deals, and manslaughter !" Basil shot back, louder than intended. "It absolutely baffles me that you see nothing wrong with it!"
The rodent's nostrils flared with anger. "The deaths of those orphans was an accident and you know it!"
"Ohh, yes," Basil drolled. "I'm certain they had no hard feelings as their lungs filled up with water whilst drifting downstream."
"How I would love nothing more than to silence you for good," growled Ratigan, teeth bared. Basil wasn't finished, however.
"You can't blame me for being a rationally thinking mouse, Padraic," he continued on. "Obviously the route you chose has taken you downhill. I certainly hope it was worth leaving me in the dust."
Basil had expected his rival to snap something back, to release him and let his chair tip over for certain that time - anything. But no, Ratigan was quiet. After a few tense seconds, a quiet scoff came from under his breath. "I loathe that sometimes I can't help but wonder."
There was that feeling in Basil's chest again. He himself frowned, studying Ratigan's face with mild confusion. "And what is that supposed to mean-"
It happened quickly and before Basil could register it. Ratigan's free hand had moved to grip at Basil's chin and pull him forward as best as he could. Just as the mouse was beginning to stammer, the distance between them quickly closed, and lips that had not touched one another in so many years made contact.
Now, there were many ways Basil could have reacted. He could have pushed away, for one thing. Perhaps even bitten the bastard's tongue and kicked him in the unmentionables. But something was welling in Basil's chest that, while aware of in the back of his mind, he found that he couldn't fight. Long story short, he certainly didn't push away by any means.
It was not a passionate kiss shared by desperate lovers, but more so a peck that lingered for a few long seconds, as if testing the waters. It was as if Ratigan was hesitant to pull away. However, it made the whole ordeal a touch awkward, leaving the two men in terribly unorthodox posture. Basil could have sworn he felt the hand gripping the collar of his shirt tremble.
All caution to the wind was thrown when Basil was the one to move his lips first. The man holding him started as if surprised, though his shock was replaced with relief as the kiss was deepened. Why they were doing it, exactly, neither man could put into words. But both of them knew - they had for longer than they realized.
Basil's nose twitched at the enhanced smell of Ratigan's cologne, the detective taking note that it was the exact same he'd used all those years ago. At the top of the metaphorical food chain, and yet he still bought the cheap stuff. Old habits died hard, he supposed, the statement being proven further by how Ratigan's head subtly tilted in that specific way of his in order to lean further into their kiss.
The hand that had taken hold of Basil's chin had slid up to his cheek, a gloved thumb brushing against the short fur there. That movement, that subtle gesture, was enough to make Basil feel as if he were on the verge of tears, unable to stop himself as his hands moved up and around from behind the chair to wrap around his arms around Ratigan's shoulders as best he could.
The kiss stalled, and Ratigan broke it just enough to mutter, "How did-"
Basil's hands grabbed the back of his captor's head and pull it back down to kiss him again, and no other objections were made. Ratigan released the man's shirt and slid his arm and round his thin waist, pulling him in close and lifting him slightly off of the chair. The feeling alone nearly made tears prick in Basil's eyes.
Air had to be taken in at some point or another, and Ratigan was the one to break off yet again. He took in a quiet, but deep breath, eyes meeting Basil's own. For a few seconds, they hesitated, neither moving save for their surprisingly heavy breathing.
As had become common throughout the course of the evening, Basil was the first to speak. He had since fought back the urge to tear up, though the tone of his voice was the most vulnerable that he'd ever heard himself. "Padraic," he whispered against his previous lover's lips, "what on earth are we doing?"
A beat of silence fell between them, as heavy as lead in the thick air around them. Ratigan wetted his lips, tongue briefly sliding over a particularly sharp incisor. How bizarre, Basil thought to hinself, that a mouth so lethal could give the softest kisses and sing the sweetest melodies in one's ear first thing in the morning. Basil was suddenly very aware of the fact that he missed Ratigan's genuine laugh. When was the last time he'd even uttered such a thing?
Another beat. "I don't know."
Basil's right hand had taken to gently fidgeting with the man's ear, gently scratching behind it with his fingers. Ratigan used to like when he did that, late at night in each other's arms, exhausted from the activities that they'd engaged in. It was the little touches, the soft kisses, the way their tails intertwined in a special, intimate embrace.
The memories were blinked away. "You know that this is foolish. This… that is to say, we-"
"You could have escaped at any time with your hands free," Ratigan interrupted. When Basil glanced upwards to look at the man's face, he found his brows creased in confusion. "Why…"
"You kissing me played a large part in it, to be fair," Basil casually replied. "Neither of us are exactly thinking very clearly."
The arm around Basil's waist briefly tensed. Ratigan replied, "I don't particularly want to let you go now. You'll just run off while I'm disoriented."
"I can't stay," came Basil's reply, voice soft and earnest and hoping that it conveyed the fogged, desperate cry in his chest that struggled to crawl out. "We both know that." After a few seconds, he sighed shortly and gave a lopsided smile. "Would you let me go if I admitted that I don't have any present evidence against you, and that you did indeed call my bluff?"
"No." Basil waited. "I just don't want to in general."
"I know." The hand at his ear moved to the rodent's cheek. Ratigan found himself leaning his head into the touch. A kiss was gently pressed to the tip of his nose. "I know."
Another few seconds passed before they moved to separate. The arm slid back around Basil's waist, the hand retracting from his cheek. Immediately, he felt cold, even more so when he had to remove his hands from Ratigan's head. The taller man stood, and Basil followed suit.
Head craning upwards to make eye contact, Basil wanted absolutely nothing more than for Ratigan to scoop him up in his arms, toss him onto the bed cloaked im shadow at the other side of the room, and lay with him, simply holding him and burying his face into his chest until they fell asleep. Reality could be ignored for a single night, he thought to himself.
Lying, however, was never his strong suit. It didn't go well with being a detective.
Any words would have been meaningless. What was there to say beyond helpless questions that neither had the answers to? Ratigan's fingers were subtly fidgeting at his sides, eventually curling inwards into loose fists. Following it, his head turned and faced the fireplace.
The partying downstairs was still going in relatively full swing, but all sounds save for the weak crackle of the fireplace had been tuned out into white noise. Basil stared at the man before him for a good long while, pondering what he could say - if anything.
Ultimately, he decided on nothing. Ratigan gave no resistance as Basil walked away from him, away from the chair and fireplace and the warm embrace of his arms. There were so many things he wanted to say, to do. But all attempts would fall if he so much as tried.
Basil moved to the service elevator he had arrived in and brushed a hand over the painted wall above it, fingers bumping against the texture and using it as a distraction from the inevitable.
Crawling into the small compartment wasn't any harder than it had been before. Once he'd turned himself around and situated properly, Basil looked back over to where Ratigan stood across the room. He had not moved from his spot, but a fist was to his mouth, biting down onto his covered knuckles.
Hands slid over the ropes used to operate the elevator. In a voice so very quiet and so very bittersweet, the detective murmured, "Goodbye, Padraic."
The elevator was lowered and Basil was out of sight, though Ratigan was more focused on the fire and how his vision had since blurred it. His eyes closed tightly as something wet fell down his left cheek, speaking in a mutter under his breath with a shake of his head.
"Goodbye, my love."