Disclaimer: I do not own Basil of Baker Street, or Dr. Dawson. They are all properties of Disney. Nor do I own "Basil of Baker Street", which is a creation of Eve Titus. The name "Sherringford Basil" I am borrowing after I stumbled upon Diane N. Tran's website. I do own the few original characters I have added to this little story of mine.

For someone who placed as much distrust in women as did Sherringford Basil, it is perhaps an ironic coincidence that in the sixty odd cases in which I have observed my friend's methods over the last ten years, that nearly half of them were brought to his attention by women. Some were dark. Some were fantastic. Many presented elements of danger. Yet none were commonplace, as my friend, who worked for the love of the art rather than out of desire to accumulate wealth and recognition, refused to accept any case that did not have a singular point of interest.

I suppose it is safe to say that women were common harbingers of grief and gloom to our residence at Baker Street, although I would be lying if I said that my friend did not take pleasure in their presence as well as, in many cases, their attractiveness. Despite his voluntary aversion to and general distrust of womenfolk, my friend does enjoy their company, even if it was only for the sake of solving the problems they brought to him. Yet out of all the cases, none were as unusual as the one associated with one Adelaide Harper. The events occurred during the fifth year of my association with Basil, although an oath of secrecy was made at the time, from which the lady has reluctantly freed me only in the past month. I understand Miss Harper's hesitance in the matter, for through the years in which Basil and I have known her, I find her to be a most reserved individual. Yet it is perhaps for the best that the true facts be finally put to light, for I have reason to know that there are rumours surrounding the events which may serve to tarnish the lady's reputation.

It was in late September of '02 that I found my friend by the window of the parlour in the early morning hours, a sombre expression on his face as he played his precious violin, which he had painstakingly repaired since its unfortunate accident from five years before. As he was a late riser by nature, I made to question him about his reason for being up at such an early hour. In the end, however, I refrained from doing so and kept my curiosity to myself. It had been uneventful at Baker Street for the last two weeks. Basil had been silent through it all, restlessly scouring the papers for potential cases, until finally, apparently having given up on his search, succumbed to the present dismal mood I found him in. I glanced over at the table. It was still too early for Mrs. Judson to bring breakfast, although there was one crumpled note, its shadow dancing on the white cloth as the cheery fire blazed warmly from the hearth. The concise note was written with a lead pencil with a clear, cursive hand, and was dated from London on the preceding evening. The note ran thus: --

"Dear Mr. Basil, -- I am a professor of forensic pathology and am in dire need of your insight. I would be very much obliged if you could come to the University. My class ends at half-past one to-morrow, if I do not inconvenience you. -- Yours faithfully,

Professor Harper."

"What do you make of it, Dawson?" The violin music had stopped, and I found my friend now looking at me curiously.

"Really, Basil. There are times when I am certain you have eyes in the back of your head."

"I do have the benefit of a well-washed window, and it is still dim enough outside to provide me with an ample reflection. I ask again, what do you make of it?"

I picked the note back up again and examined it using my friend's methods to the best of my extent. "Obviously the writer is an academic," I began. "The long strokes indicate that the note was written in haste, and his choice of using a pencil indicates an individual with a laid-back and casual approach to his life as well as his profession. The paper is light-weight and absent of the university seal, which suggests an old, established scholar who no longer feels the need to impress others."

"Bravo, my good fellow! Bravo!" cried Basil with an enthusiastic clap of his paws. "I have to say that you have never failed to impress me with the extent of your knowledge and your eagerness to learn. And untruthful would I be if I did not say that I am very much in your debt for all of the assistance your remarkable abilities have provided me over the years."

It was not often that my friend should supply me with such praise. "Thank you, Basil," I answered, feeling the surge of pride slowly building within me.

"...yet I fear that most of your conclusions were erroneous," added Basil in a quiet voice.

Bewildered, I blinked at him.

"The young woman is indeed an academic," my friend continued, his dark mood temporarily lifted as he assumed the part of a lecturer and I the pupil. "Well-versed and extremely private in character."

"The young woman?" I asked in surprise.

Basil nodded, and in his green eyes, there was a glimmer of amusement as he observed my surprised reaction to his deduction. "Under other circumstances, I have no doubt that she would have come to see us in-person, which leads me to assume that she is one with an extremely occupied schedule to keep. Furthermore, who else but a woman would take such care in selecting her words, if even for a note as brief as this? Even then, to err on the side of caution, she still chose pencil over pen as her writing instrument. Note the faint traces of previous phrases she has erased with a rubber, Dawson. She is careful and considerate, and most likely wants to take every measure possible to make certain that her request is accepted."

"But how did you ascertain her private nature?"

"You might remember my paper on graphology, Dawson. I do consider myself something of an expert on the subject. Notice the even distribution of weight throughout her writing, the clean breakage between her words. Had one been writing with haste, it is commonplace to see faint lines stringing the words together, for the hurried writer would not take neatness into consideration. The writing would often slant more to the right as well...moreso than the norm. Such signs are absent here, which indicates that she took her time in writing out her little note. The long strokes of her penmanship suggest to me an individual of dependable character, and the closed o's and a's tell of one with a need for privacy. She also writes with a heavy hand, which, in the mind of an experienced graphologist, indicates a very hard-working individual."

"And what about her age? How did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"The fact that she has used such a light-weight grade of paper is suggestive of one who still retains the impulsive nature of youth, who have the tendency to act upon a whimsy with very little thought to the consequences that could take place further down the road. It is possible that she chose the paper out of haste, although her penmanship speaks otherwise. No, it is more probable that her selection was made out of habit, and such a cheap grade of paper is commonly used by University students. Dawson, I would not be surprised if she has only found herself within the academic circle for no more than a handful of years."

"Will you be going to see this young lady, then?"

At the question, Basil's face darkened again, and seemingly overtaken by an unexpected wave of weariness, he left his place by the window and went over to sit in his favourite chair by the fire. "Should I?" he asked with a resigned sigh. "Yes, I suppose I should. But is this what it all amounts to? A decade of guarding the secrets of kings and queens, of solving puzzles and mysteries with logic and reasoning for a public that is seemingly lacking in both...all reduced to providing advice for most likely the curricula of fledgling academic professionals? Dawson, my dear friend, I believe that it's finally happened! This note marks the day when my illustrious little consulting practise has crumbled and veered toward the trivial and mundane!"

"Oh no, no, no, Basil," I protested as I went over to take a seat in the chair opposite of his, taken aback by his dismal approach to the whole situation. "Surely it cannot be as bad as all that--"

"Then again, I suppose this development was inevitable," he continued, although he seemed completely lost in his melancholy musings now. "After all, you do have the tendency to focus on the fantastic in your writings rather than the actual facts and logic that are the driving force behind the cases."

"I would think that I have done the cases justice in my records," I replied curtly, mildly annoyed and wounded by his criticism.

"You do have a good eye for selecting cases that are most singular in their features, but I fear now that the public believes they are merely reading a typical detective narrative, a short crime story to indulge their imaginations. And what is the outcome of that?" He waved his paw at the crumpled bit of note on the table, indicating and dismissing its presence in his one movement. "Triviality begets triviality, Dawson."

"Really now, Basil. You've gone too far. This note might be of more importance than you think. Remember how the problem connected with Olivia Flaversham, which seemed to be a simple missing persons case, developed into one of your greatest cases? It might be the same for this case."

"You might be right, Dawson," answered Basil half-heartedly. "I suppose we both will find out before dinner this evening."