Ngoc Chau does not own The Great Mouse Detective

I thought this would be a good idea to experiment in writing. I'm pretty good at sci-fi and romance of both the supernatural and strange, but now I want to try mystery. Besides after watching the Great Mouse Detective, the little girl in me who had watched this film over and over again fell in love with Basil and wanted to see him with someone.

Here is a possible Basil/OC fanfic

He rushes throughout the streets, carrying the bundle in his arms.

The night is full, the darkness envelops all around and the moon is almost absent. Through the fathomless of the town, little balls of lights float atop the skies, flickering and then dimming only to return to life once more with the strongest ire. The tall buildings of the town casts long unwavering shadows that haunt and stretch. They loom over this couple of mice, stowaways from what was once one of the cargo boats of the East India Company long ago but still carries imports to the British Mouse-dom. Rain has left and returned to punish upon the foggy isty London street.

He breathes hard as he runs through every crack in pavement and jumps over every yard-long cobblestone in his way. He looks back down to regard in the covered face of the woman in his hold. She is his secret shame, she is his greatest sin, and she is his greatest love.
He grasps her tighter as he runs through the streets, the oversized river like puddles. She does not stir in his arms, she shouldn't even -the drugs should not wear off for another few more hours or so.

The long billowy pants dance around his calves and dirty themselves all too quickly in the New England dirt. It starts to rain once more, the drop growing from a misty lightness to harder peltings. He does not dare to turn back, he does not dare to look back for they could already be tailing him from the docks and readying their guns and pistols and ropes. He has risked everything to stow her away to escape, but they will not let her go that easily; she is much too valuable already to them and to their business.
His arms start to ache; the soreness of his stomach tightening and his knees wobbling with each leaping step and his small brittle nails already crack from the pressure and tension. He would give his life for her; he would sacrifice his dignity for her, his fidelity.

He follows his heart -literally- of the sounds of wailing strings and silence.

He follows it and runs hoping that perhaps he could leave her in the care of someone until the sunrise tomorrow when all would be safe for but mere moments. The lights are on. Violin music plays like the yearnings of a soul and he thinks, 'Yes! Here is perfect. But.... let's hope this person is feeling compassionate tonight.'
He leaves her down gently and kisses her through the folding of scratchy carpet material and silk. He will come back for her tomorrow. He will explain for her to whoever is willing to help that he and his beloved lady are in trouble and must be protected, must be safe. He looks back and forth from where he is. He is not sure whether the hollow striking sound are their footprints across pavements or his own heartbeat, but he risks that moment of uncertainty to bang his fist softly against the green wooden door once and runs away.

As he runs through the dumpsters and the cracks in the concrete walls, he mentally hopes that someone opens the door and brings her in to be safe, treats her like a beloved daughter and treasure, just until tomorrow when he can come back for her. He isn't exactly certain, but it feels to him like he has been running around in circles.
His legs still ache and his nose begins to stuff up with snot and water. However he keeps his head down away from the fishy-smelling rain and stares at his running feet -it makes him dizzy.

A sudden gunshot rings out in the lone city and he feels something wet on his shoulder. He does not think of it as rain. No.... he can feel in within his thick itchy coat and its viscosity is thicker than mere water. 'I'm shot...' he thinks as he continues running and running; dodging through the holes and cracks.
He cannot hear anything behind him. Yet it doesn't make him feel safe,but all the more frightful because he knows for sure just who fired the gun at him. He doesn't hear anything, yet he can swear that he feels something. A second gunshot comes from the front, hitting him in the other shoulder. It knocks him back and he falls with a splash in the mud.

The water drowns him.
He opens his mouth to swallow and fill himself. But a sharp kick to the top of his head has him bite down on his tongue. He can taste the metallic bitter taste of blood, within the surprisingly dryness of his throat. Water enters his sleeves, his pants, down his trousers, up his back, into his ears and everything is muffled yet echoed.
Another sharp kick to the side of his face emits an eye-squinting squishy crack.
It's knocked him out of the water onto wet pavement that rises in grooves of perfectly aligned stones.

His voice is smooth and velvety that you can imagine just hearing it will leave you paralyzed and sleepy. His words run into each other, melting so fluidly with the great elegance of a butterfly in metamorphisis, but there is still a tinge of his native tongue running laced under his words.
"Fancy meeting you here, John." he accents upon the name, openly mocking it and knowing the inside joke of it.

He stays quiet, watching from the corner of his eye up at the raven haired mouse. The rain stings his vision and the dirt grinds against his face.

"Where is she?"

Silence is the only response he is willing to give in the name of love and fidelity.

"Tell us, where is she?"

Again, he doesn't answer.

The suave raven-haired being sighs as he runs his hands through his hair, the whites of his eyes shine accordingly with the moon. "If you hadn't had been with her, you could've gotten away alive with just a happy ending and no news of us. But.... the least now is that we cut out your tongue and sever your fingers -ought to make sure no one else will know."

He shudders in the dirt and twitches as the ragged holes around the little silver bullets burn and itch. Steps patter around like the coming of angel wings and his body feels lighter as hands, dozens of them, carry him and drag his feet along the pavement.
He knows he is awake, that he is not dreaming, but it becomes harder to believe that when all he sees next is the growing darkness and the shine of raven hair.

She's heard a light frapping and eagerly makes her way to the door, cautiously peeking through the peep hole to make sure that it is no enemy of Mr Basil who should mistake her for an accomplice of his when all she is, is a simple house-maid. She sees no one but opens the door to see a carpet rolled up tightly in front of the door just upon the steps.
Mrs Judson gasps and steps daintily over to it, her shrill motherly voice squeaking, "Good heavens! A package for Mr Basil?"
Her hands carefully touch the soiled wet expensive import.

This is the prologue

Please review and tell me if it intrigues you so far.