"Watson, come in here at once!" Sherlock Holmes shouted from the sitting room. Sighing, I closed the book I was reading and obeyed his request.
"What is it now, Holmes?" I asked as I entered the sitting room of our flat on Baker Street, a bit annoyed; I had just been getting to the climax.
"Watson, look. I think I am going mad."
"You, mad? Are you jesting? You're the most logical man I know!" I replied, incredulous.
"Then explain this!" He said, gesturing to a mouse, of all things. Yes, a mouse.
I looked at the creature. It was normal enough, except for the fact it was clothed. It was actually dressed quite similar to my friend, and… was that a pipe it was holding? No way. I shook my head. Get a grip on yourself, John Watson. Mice do not wear clothes. Mice do not wear clothes uncannily similar to that of your friend. And. Mice. Do. Not. SMOKE!
But it was still standing there, and it had what could only be described as a smirk on its face. Could mice smirk? Yes, apparently they could.
Then it spoke, and my jaw dropped.
"What are you staring at!? You two act as if you've never seen a mouse with clothes before! Oh, yes, by the way, my name's Basil."