A/N: It goes without saying that none of these characters are mine except Margaret. Thanks to everyone who reviewed "A Drowned Rat." I really appreciate it! This will be a fair bit longer, and I hope you enjoy it just as much. Thanks for the help, Megana! I think I have this fixed now.
Pray, is there a compassionate soul alive? There must be one who wonders this: How would things be now should we have done but one thing differently? Perhaps by the mercy of only one choice differently made my life should not have come to this. Surely, you as well have asked this question of yourself more times than it is possible to remember. Even so, no one knows better than I do that when a decision is made there is no taking it back. Remedying what was done is unreliable, as some actions cannot be erased. All that remains is the ability to dust oneself off and go on.
My name is Margaret, but anyone who is well acquainted with me calls me Maudlin Mag. I'm already ahead of myself; there is plenty of time for that to be explained. More notable at the moment is where I have come from and where I am going. I won't bore you with my troubles, but I will tell you where I am going. Certainly, it is one of the last places I would ever expect to seek out. Of course, I have run out of other mistakes to make, so this cannot dig me any deeper.
Finding me in disarray as I am would justify my desperation. To make matters worse, I am ashamed to be seen with my face filthy from the dirty underground, my dress in want of mending, my fur nearly unrecognizable from its usual soft grey. And too my eyes, bothered by the all the tears I have shed on my way; with each I learn a lesson, but it is a lesson learned too late to prove useful. All I have that does justice to the jovial years in the early 1890's is this locket I never remove from my neck. It glitters still with all the brightness of the day it was first fastened. Again, I get ahead of myself. I am on my way to 221 Baker Street, in search of Detective Basil and his partner Doctor Dawson.
Why, you wonder, was I so reluctant to seek their service if I have a mystery to be solved? There is a mystery to be solved, do not misunderstand, but I fear that I am only aggravating it further by employing our Basil. Here is Baker Street now, and I do wish I could stay with you, and sponge away what is past. Sadly, I cannot. For my sake and that of my family, I go to the great mouse detective. Good day to you.
Gracious, at least, is the hour. The sky begins to lighten. Too early still for the bustle that overtakes the streets midmorning, from the men towering above, and mice here at my level. Meandering amidst crowds would do me only disservice, particularly if I am recognized. Unlikely that any would bear the bother of following the steps I took to get where I am now. This leaves me with the hope that I will be received with understanding.
Scurrying along the edge of the cobblestones, I see what I have been looking for. The address — 221 Baker Street! So early is it that I doubt whether anyone is yet awake. Closer, I crawl beneath the branches of a bush. The windows are dark, and peering inside tells me nothing, save that everyone inside is asleep. Deep as I am in need of help, I seriously rethink what I am doing. Innately, I know there is no solution that can make everything come out neatly as I would like. Coming here promises me that. I stand before the door, staring at the grain in the wood. I pace back and forth before the door some dozen times before I can encourage myself to go up and knock, but with one swift motion, I do so before my conscience can stop me.
After rapping four times, I pause. No response came from inside. My first thought is that perhaps there is a reason for this; am I not destined to be heard? I should turn around and return home. No. That is no way to think. I cannot solve my problems by going back. Nor can I put an end to the crime. I knock again, louder this time, then dart back to the window to watch. Pressing my nose up against the glass, it leaves a misty circle, which I wipe away to see better. All in vain, as there is still nothing to see.
Frustrated, I march back to the door, my paws balled into tight fists. Meeting with a response from inside now has less to do with the response itself, and more to do with the ability to get one. Too many times, I have been brushed aside and ignored. This will not be another. Shamelessly, I rear back with both fists and inhale deeply. I pound. I pound, and I air out my lungs with shouts, peppered with words I should have left out, but fit my mood better than cleaner ones.
When I run out of breath, energy, and motivation, I stare. "Mr. Basil must be a bloody brilliant detective. He can't even find himself!" With what I believe to be proof of what I hear all the time in my circle, I turn and drag my feet glumly in the direction from which I came. "Sod it," I sigh, creeping back into the bush. Suddenly, a sound gives me pause. It almost sounded like the creaking of a door
I pay no mind to the scratches my poor ears were taking from the low hanging branches. Muffled speaking is all I can hear, and I can pick out two voices, "Who is it, Basil?" yawns a voice drunk with sleep. That must be Dawson.
"Likely some child. I could live without ridiculous games at this hour." Basil is not pleased, and I do not want to make my appearance as some thick brat. Already I had made a poor first impression, and he does not even know my name yet!
"Wait!" I squeak, leaping from the bushes, my sides heaving. Met with their stares of understandable confusion, I suddenly feel incredibly out of place and exposed. I don't feel a whit ladylike standing here with my fur tangled and branches caught in my dress. Basil and Dawson, still in their nightclothes, are clearly ill at ease as well, seeing me and wondering how this curious lady mouse (If I can possibly be seen as such, now or ever!) happened to fall onto his doorstep. Dawson tries to relax me with a welcoming smile, and I have to return it because he reminds me of a blueberry in his navy nightshirt. Basil is more intimidating, and the severity of his expression is not abated by soft lavender tone of his robe. The pipe in his hand spouts a continuous trail of smoke in a wavy upward course. Its wafting ascent meshes with his impatience. I want to excuse myself, but I have been pleading for forgiveness, but the situation has always been quite different from this. "I do apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but"
My voice fades away. He is waiting for something more that I have not prepared. For the first time in ages, I come across a stroke of fortune; I am interrupted by the chattering of a blustering older mouse woman, who comes rushing out from the back of the flat, her arms flailing. She shoves past Basil and Dawson, each of them falling into the doorframe as she passes by. "Oh deary! Blow me down, you are a sight!" If I was nervous before, now I am frightened! My custom is a more detached atmosphere, but she warmly embraces me, making me splutter. "Well? Aren't you going to let the poor girl in?"
Although I don't feel much like a poor girl, I say nothing. Neither do Basil and Dawson, who are not yet sufficiently awake to stand up to their landlady. Basil resents taking her orders, but obeys, and shuts the door behind us. "I'm Mrs. Judson," she offers eagerly. "If you need anything at all, tell me." Pulling my ear close to her mouth, she adds at a whisper, "They mean well, but I wouldn't trust these two with me life!" We share a grin, and I feel momentarily at home. That is, until I turn around to make eye contact with Basil.
"I trust," he says evenly, "that you have good reason for disrupting an otherwise tranquil morning." Taking a few puffs from his pipe, he crosses the room and seats himself in a wine red armchair.
Scampering to his side, I wait for him to grin, to tell me he is kidding. Then I imagine he would eye me from head to toe and be able to analyze to the finest details why I am here before him. Next he would formulate a plan that would solve every problem I have, from the magnitude of my current plight down to the simple fact that I cannot swim, as if by magic. Soon am I to discover that he is no magician, as none of these things take place. All I see are the smoke rings rising from his pipe and Dawson behind me, patiently gathering up the few leaves I shed as I ran after Basil.
He seems to be thinking, but no epiphany comes to him. Now my turn has come to be impatient. If Basil is unable to read me to determine what brings me as he is reputed to do, he should certainly show an interest in how he can be of assistance! Instead, he does nothing of the kind, and continues smoking his pipe. I look to Dawson for an explanation, and he is immensely more sympathetic than is Basil. Indicating Basil, who I assume is ignoring me completely, I ask honestly, "Is he always so genteel when introduced?"
Dawson shrugs and takes over, "Come now; don't mind him. Basil has been a bit stroppy recently, just hasn't been quite himself. Now, what seems to be the trouble?"
Prepared now to answer the question (likely because it was asked in a more amiable manner) the difficulty I find this time is to pin down exactly where it started. The problem itself is the product of events that unfolded before, and those from ones previous. It all congeals, creating a sticky web of what now appear to be wrong turns. "Doctor, the whole story carries across the years, and it would take some thought on my part to find its beginning. The immediate situation is one anyone can understand." I tear up again at the thought, and feel the stinging ache in my throat again; these are the ails I have fought to suppress so I could appear strong here. Still, I fail myself, letting my emotions have their release as any woman would.
"I had to escape my own husband. H-he held me captive and would not even release me to see daylight. All I knew was darkness. So I fled." He nods, understanding, and puts an arm around me so I can weep into his shoulder.
"That is no way for a woman to live," Dawson says, consoling me. What I had so sparsely described to him had been my life for so long that I had come close to forgetting what life should have been. His voice makes me want to believe him. "Once Basil is in a more charitable mood, he will be able to set things straight."
Warmly, I smile at him through the tears in my eyes, which blur Dawson further into a brilliant blueberry. I hate to continue. "But there is something more," I say softly. "I had to leave my four children with him." This was too much for me, and I sob copiously into his sleeve. It makes no difference what they think; I have already made a poor first impression. At least this is something they can make sense of. Why should I try to hide feelings that are so important? Any mother who wholeheartedly loved her children would do the same.
"Have a seat," Dawson says, but I barely hear him. He gestures to a chair opposite Basil and I sit, pulling a handkerchief from my bodice to dry my eyes. I gradually catch my breath and relax again. Suddenly, Dawson seems to be struck with something he has forgotten. Sure enough, it was the question that I knew was coming sooner or later, but which I still dreaded to have to answer, "How rude of me! I meant to ask you, what is your name Madam?"
Guiltily, I look at him, trying to detach myself from the moment and make the room around me disappear. My eyes sting again, and I feel atrocious for seeking the help of someone who may now not want to give it to me. "My n-name is Margaret," I choke out. "Mrs. Margaret Ratigan."