For Anonymous

Dr. David Q. Dawson sighed (for what felt like the millionth time) as he glanced up from his morning cuppa to see Basil (still) sitting on the stoop before the "window" of their shared quarters. Dawson opened his mouth briefly, as though to say something to his flatmate, however, he merely ended up picking up the miniature tea cup, drinking the chilled tea without saying a word.

For a while, by that time, Dawson had lived with Basil, and as such, he had learned a great many things about him. Basil was a genius, possessing a photographic memory and the ability to assess different situations in ways Dawson would never have thought of. Basil loved adventures - in fact he lived for them. Basil played the violin (a small, their-size version of a violin of course). Basil loved to read. Basil smoked a pipe when he was "contemplating matters of the utmost importance, so don't speak a word against my methods, Dawson". And although Dawson's expertise when it came to mental conditions and the like was rather limited, he was able to determine that Basil was by definition, a "high functioning sociopath".

Add all of those oddities that made up "Basil", and you have earned yourself a very difficult version to live with.

When another half hour had passed, and Elizabeth made her lovely tinkling sound from her place within Big Ben, Dawson could take Basil's brooding no longer.

"You have been staring out that window since before I got up this morning, and it is past tea time," Dawson said in irritation. He was even fully dressed, completely ready for the day, and Basil was just...sitting there, in his dressing robe and slippers. Silently.

"Basil," Dawson sighed, deciding to go for a more patient tactic. Basil was like a child, after all. A very smart child that Dawson wouldn't hesitate to smack around the head a bit, that is. "A letter arrived for you this morning. I bet it's a mystery that needs solving-"

"Hardly," Basil snorted, saying his first words of that day. Without his eyes leaving the window, he said, "It was clearly the family butler that stole their fur coats."

Dawson blinked, standing from his place at the kitchen table to the letter. His eyes scanned over the letter. "How on earth were you able to determine that?"

"Oh Dawson," Basil sighed, seemingly in annoyance. "It is so obvious."

"Oh really?"

"The butler was trusted, close to the family, and though under normal circumstances, the butler would be the first person one would suspect, he was the last that particular family was. How?" Basil smirked. He loved this. "In the letter, they referred to their butler as "Jean" not by his last surname, which signifies a closeness. We can also assume the letter was penned by the butler, as the Pennyweights are the sort of family to not write their own letters. I know this, as there have been correspondences with them in the past, when their child went missing, but was later found having ran away to join the RAS." Basil shook his head at that. "Then, the letters were penned in the same way, allowing us to assume the butler Jean has been around for quite a while, considering that last correspondence happened when Annabelle was 8, and as this letter states she is heading to University, it can be assumed she is 18."

"Basil, teenagers go to university at 17," Dawson corrected, quite proud of himself.

"Which would be the case for a normal family, not a rich family that encourages at least one gap year, Dr. Dawson, so may I continue?" At Dawson's grudging nod, Basil continued. "Now furthermore, the butler's penmanship is not at all shaky, and it is actually rather forceful, as you can feel the pen marks through the parchment. He is not a very old mouse, most likely around the age of Miss Annabelle, meaning he has been working with the family from a very young age. Furthermore, he is clearly a French immigrant, otherwise he would have been called by John, and not Jean, unless his parents had immigrated. However, they would have had no reason to, not like young Mr. Jean."

"What reason would he have had?"

"About twenty-some years ago, the French economy took a dive, and was torn apart by war. As such, a young, presumably orphaned boy would have wanted to escape his homeland, and start anew where rich families were aplenty. The Moor, English Countryside to be precise.

"No one might wonder what would be the motivation for his stealing the fur coats - the closeness implies that he could have asked for a raise if the stealing was for financial reasons."

"What other reasons would there be for a butler to steal fur coats, but for money?" Dawson asked.

"There's isn't any. He obviously stole the coats to sell them for money. Why not ask for more money? Perhaps pride, though I doubt that, at least partially." He picked up the letter. "It says here that "Dear Annabelle will be unfortunately headed of to university soon," correct? Now, as I stated previously, the letter was most likely spoken aloud, with Butler Jean penning it. However, look at the word unfortunately. It's written a bit lighter, and slightly slanted, as though the writer was in a rush, implying that Butler Jean made that little addition on his very own.

"Now look at the word "Annabelle". It is written different as well, though not at all like "unfortunately". "Annabelle" was written very carefully, as the two "N"s don't blend together like they do on words earlier and later in the letter, like "annual" and "cannot"."

"He loved her?" Dawson questioned, as there would be no other reason for Basil to be making such a point about the writing.

"Indeed. Most likely, he wished to buy her something splendid to decorate her finger, which is why he stole the coats." Basil shrugged. "Add that to the fact he easily had access to the coats and could have easily stolen them without any one realizing, or having the sense to suspect him..." Basil trailed off, a frown dancing across his face, as he glared out the window once more. "Child's play."

Dawson gazed at him. "Even so by love, the young and tender wit is turn'd to folly."

Basil blinked, tilting his head. "Voltaire?"

Dawson groaned, as he went back into the kitchen to clean up his tea set. "Shakespeare, man, Shakespeare!"

"It's always bloody Shakespeare, isn't it?" Basil said, sounding more like a pouting child than anything.

Dawson rolled his eyes slightly, not deigning his question with an answer. "Did you send the Pennyweights your deduction?"

"Of course," Basil sounded offended. "As ridiculous as the whole situation is, it is still a crime."

Dawson peaked around the wall that separated the room Basil was lounging in from the kitchen. "I'm sure some "true crime" will rise up soon."

Basil snorted. "I tire of the petty thievery, of the robbers wearing the arabesque patterns and the face masks. I especially tire of everyone deigning the objects of said thievery attempts being of the caliber enough to require my assistance."

"Careful Basil," Dawson advised, "Your ego is showing."

Basil didn't reply for a long time. When he did, his words were measured, a certain level of dreaminess or desire coloring said words. "I want something...a crime that is interesting. Different. A challenge. I want to be puzzled, to drive myself completely and utterly mad in my vein attempts to solve the conundrum I oh-so unwittingly stumbled into...an absolute labyrinth of confusion, of unanswered questions, of my paranoia growing unhindered, exponentially-"

Dawson turned the water on in the sink, as he began to do the dishes. "You sound like a mad man."

"Perhaps, dear Dawson, perhaps. Or maybe, I am all too sane." There was some shifting in the other room, before Basil poked his head around the entryway. "I'm going for a walk."

Dawson turned around waggling a finger at him threateningly. "Wear a coat and hat. And also take an umbrella - it will most likely rain."

Basil sighed, put out. Dawson followed him to the entryway to make sure he followed his orders. However, right before he slipped out the "door", Basil picked up his pipe and smoking tobacco, giving Dawson a triumphant grin as he sped out.

Dawson jumped (rather ungracefully) out of their mouse hole, waving his arm. "And don't you go getting yourself into trouble!"

A/N Whoops. I disappeared off the face of the earth for a while. Whooops.

My Basil-Dawson dynamic is...clearly inspired by BBC's Sherlock, as well as the fact I just saw the play "The Hound and the Baskervilles" last week so...yeah.

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