Note: This is primarily set in book-verse over movie-verse, or an odd fusion of the two.
The life of a private detective wasn't as glamorous as some liked to believe.
It was also far more dangerous than most realized. Basil didn't let it show, both he and Dawson knowing how important it was that he project the image of the successful detective, the hero, the one who had everything under control.
It wasn't until they were back home, in Holmestead, safe behind the locked doors of their personal flat that Basil could drop the mask and let the damage, physical, mental, and emotional, show.
Which was why his flute sat abandoned for the moment, his chemistry set lay cold and silent, books and notebooks scattered across the workbench and left to wait.
Across the room, the Greatest Detective in All Mousedom was curled into the room's sole couch, long lanky body curled tight in the nearly too small space. He was also muffled in one of Mrs. Hudson's quilts, cocooned until only the tip of his nose peeked out one end to let the other inhabitants know he was in there, and with only the occasional whisker twitch to let them know he still lived.
Usually, he would be sitting in his chair near the fireplace, reading or writing or practicing his flute, while Dawson sat across from him with his own project in hand.
Tonight, one chair was missing from its spot in front of the fireplace. Dawson's own, old injuries wouldn't let him sit on the floor, so his chair angled itself towards the couch, the mouse himself ostensibly reading a book, though he hadn't turned a page for the last half hour.
As Basil's doctor and best friend, he knew exactly what kind of injuries the other mouse had, healed and not, mental and physical.
And from personal experience, he knew just how much it could hurt when the ones a person had thought had healed began to ache again.
And with the physical pain came the memories of those cases, the times when they failed, when they weren't fast enough to save someone else from pain...
Finally giving up on the pretense of reading (and Dawson knew that, even with Basil wrapped tightly in a blanket cocoon, he hadn't been fooling him), Dawson stood and headed for the kitchen.
It may have been Mrs. Hudson's domain, one only she was allowed in, but on days like this she made exceptions.
She'd been paying attention and, though the excellent mousekeeper herself was nowhere to be seen, a pot of tea and her excellent cheese crumpets were, kept hot near the back of the stove top.
Taking the tray back to the main room, Dawson paused, looking over his best and closest friend.
After a few seconds of debate, he finally screwed up his courage to stop ignoring things as he'd done since Basil started having these episodes.
An ear twitched free from inside the cocoon, following Dawson as he pulled a small table closer to the sofa, setting the tea things down on it.
Then, without ceremony, he grabbed Basil's shoulders under the blanket and half lifted him from the sofa, just long enough to sit back down and drop the stunned detective back into his lap.
One confused green eye blinked up at Dawson, who still didn't say a word, instead pouring a cup of tea and picking his book back up.
His free hand began rhythmically stroking Basil's side under the blankets, over a spot Dawson knew ached fiercely. Slowly Basil relaxed again, warmth and stroking easing the pain, easing him into sleep, mind finally quieted and allowing him the rest he'd been denied.
Eventually Dawson drifted off to sleep as well, and that was how Mrs. Hudson found them the next morning, curled protectively around each other even in sleep.