Altitude
By Jixie 12/2018
The Great Mouse Detective © Walt Disney Pictures
The real shame was that this was the closest Fidget would ever get to flying again.
It didn't matter how hard he pushed, though, he couldn't gain altitude. Over the years his bad wing had atrophied so much that he was completely off balance, and just trying sent him spiraling like a whirligig seed.
It was dizzying and terrifying and yet... The wind was racing across his wings and there was nothing but air above or below and it wasn't flying but it was so, so close.
The freefall ended as abruptly as it started. His desperate fluttering hadn't been in vain, slowing his descent just enough that he wasn't knocked senseless upon landing. Physics were on his side as well- the advantage of weighing mere grams- but that was something Basil understood, outside of Fidget's wheelhouse. He knew enough to right himself before hitting the water, entering 'feet first', diving into the cold deep.
Surviving the fall was one thing, but drowning and hypothermia were even greater risks. He swam to the surface, looking for- anything, really. The shore, boats, floating debris, anything. There was nothing in sight, and he was at least a hundred meters from land on either side... here size worked against him, he might as well have been in the middle of the ocean. But as far as Fidget was concerned, he'd gotten this far: there was nothing left but to keep going. So, he swam.
"Oh no, you don't."
Basil tried to look innocent, pulling his Iverness coat on, and wincing in spite of himself.
"I'm fine, Dawson. Besides, this is just a trifle, an errand really..."
But Dawson wasn't hearing it. "You didn't want a hospital, fine, suit yourself." He put on his best 'stern doctor' voice. Which... was not really that stern, truth be told. It came across more as 'concerned grandfather' than 'respectable authority'. "So I stitched you up and disinfected your wounds and that makes me your doctor. And I'm telling you. To. Get. Some. Rest." He shook his finger with each word and punctuated the last word by prodding Basil in the chest. "Those are doctors orders."
Ever so reluctantly, Basil let Dawson help him out of the coat, and shuffled over to his wing-back chair, huffing with indignation.
"Just what have you got up to, after all?"
Casually, the detective held out a piece of paper. There was a squiggle of complex calculations, a hastily drawn map, and some very specific geographic coordinates. "Considering the wind speed, direction, and strength, combined with tidal activities, estimated landing site-"
"Oh, Basil," Dawson sighed as he took the paper. "Still on about that bat, I see."
They'd gone back, steering the balloon over the Thames where Professor Ratigan had thrown his lackey overboard. Basil had insisted it was because he didn't want Fidget to evade the law- especially now that his long-time rival couldn't be brought to justice. But they'd all agreed, if the bat had survived, it would've been needlessly cruel to just let him drown.
In the end, the dark, choppy waters had revealed nothing.
"Surely you know he must be at the bottom of the river by now..."
"Oh, I have no doubt that he's drowned. But if I'm right, the body should have washed up at those coordinates."
"Lovely." Dawson pulled a face.
Basil could feel the other mouse judging him, and slouched in his chair. "I don't like loose ends, Dawson."
And of course, he didn't, but it was obvious enough that this wasn't really about Fidget, it was about Ratigan. The doctor placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'll... I'll follow up on this. In fact, I can bring an officer along," he playfully punched at Basil's shoulder, "just in case that blackguard somehow pulled through."
He found Mrs. Judson, instructed her to make sure Basil didn't leave the house, and made it as far as the front door... only to find Hiram and Olivia Flaversham right outside.
"Oh! I was just about to knock," Flaversham said, smiling.
Olivia squeaked with excitement and hugged Dawson, even as he reached out to shake her father's hand.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Flaversham. How are the two of you doing, today?"
"Better. Much better." He paused to adjust his glasses. "It's amazing what a good nights rest in your own bed can do."
"Is that young miss Flabberhadger I hear?"
"Basil!" She pushed past Dawson and ran into the study. "It's Flaversham!"
There was the telling groan of a sore and injured mouse, who'd just had a small child jump into his arms, but didn't want said child to know just how much discomfort she was causing him. "Whatever," Basil gasped.
"Olivia," Dawson called after her, "Basil needs plenty of rest. Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble while we're gone."
"Gone?" Flaversham asked.
"Ah yes, I was on my way out. Why don't you join me, let Olivia keep Basil company? You'll save me having to track down a bobby." He waved the paper, tapping it with his left hand, mock-Basil style. "It's just a trifle, an errand really..."
"Very funny, Dawson," Basil called after him, as he shut the door.
Naturally, Basil's calculations proved correct.
It took them a few minutes of searching, but sure enough, there was Fidget- remarkably still alive- at the bottom of the Speaker's Stairs leading down the side of the Thames embankment. He was the picture of misery, perched halfway on a rogue fishing buoy and halfway in the water, soaked to the bone and shivering so violently it nearly threw him off of the float. The embankment wall and the stairs themselves were a coarse stone, easy for any mouse to climb, and nothing to a bat. But Fidget was well past the point of exhaustion, he'd grab hold of the wall- or the stair- and attempt to pull himself up, only to collapse into the water. There he floundered, crawling back up onto the buoy, and lay senseless as the makeshift raft drifted away from the stairs. After a few minutes he'd recover enough to paddle the buoy back to the stairs, cling to the stone, and try again.
They watched him repeat this fruitless endeavor three times, and each time he took a little longer and struggled a little harder. God only knows how long he'd been at it before they arrived.
"I... I suppose we should..." Dawson started.
"Right," Flaversham agreed. "But how?"
They looked around, but there was no obvious solution for how they could rescue the bat from the river. 'Basil would come up with something.' Dawson thought, but then mentally scolded himself. After all, he was a well educated mouse, and Flaversham was endlessly clever, as his skills building the Queens life-like automaton had proved. They didn't need Basil, surely between the two of them-
There was a splash, the now unmistakable sound of the bat falling in yet again. Dawson hurried over to the edge of the embankment, and watched as Fidget treaded water, hauled himself onto the buoy... only to slide right off, this time sinking down into the deep. He popped up a few seconds later, gasping and panicked, scrambling but unable to get back onto the float.
"Blast it all."
Before he knew it, he was pulling off his coat and shirtsleeves, kicking off his shoes.
"What are you doing?"
"Don't worry," Dawson replied cheerfully, as he shimmied out of his trousers and undershirt. "It's been a while, but I was the champion swimmer in primary school. If you would please, bring my effects and meet me at the bottom of the stairs." With that, the doctor checked his clearance, took a few steps back, charged to the edge and dove.
Fidget actually fought when Dawson grabbed him, too disoriented to realize what was going on. He was easily overpowered, and Dawson quickly dragged him back to the stairs. The mouse was able to grab hold of the lip to the next step, and with Fidget tucked under his arm, haul them both up. Flaversham was ready, grabbing Dawson under his armpit and pulling with all his might. Once they were over the edge, Dawson crawled forward and dropped Fidget, who coughed up some water before crumpling onto the ground, completely spent.
Dawson shook himself off like a dog, and wringing the legs of his drawers, drying himself off the best he could before getting dressed. Flaversham stood by and inspected the unconscious bat. With wet fur plastered to his skin, one could make out fresh cat bite wounds- it didn't take a detective to figure those out- and a network of old scars on his bad wing that told a similar story. Adding insult to injury, the strap to his peg leg had broken loose, and the wooden prosthetic was gone.
"I don't think I can do this." Flaversham's voice was scarcely above a whisper.
"Well, I can't say that I blame you, but we've already fished the little scoundrel out. It'd hardly be sporting to throw him back in." Dawson approached as he shrugged his coat back over his shoulders.
Flaversham shook his head, a strange, distant look on his face. "No, it's not... I mean... I don't think I can turn him over to the authorities."
This earned him an incredulous look. "But... but after everything they'd done to you and your poor daughter-"
"I didn't say I forgive him," came the sharp reply. A few moments of silence followed, and he turned away, gazing impassive at the water lapping against the embankment. "I suppose I've been fortunate. Up until he invaded my home, I'd never witnessed real violence... much less experienced it." He made a sound that was nearly a laugh. "In fact, the worst I ever suffered was a good belting in school. These last few days, I've seen enough brutality and abuse and... and death to make up for a lifetime of peace. I've had my fill of it.
"And I can't help feel that this wretched creature has already paid enough for his crimes. It's one thing to leave him to his fate, but to knowingly send him to the gallows..."
"For high treason," Dawson replied, confounded. "In case you're unaware, aiding a traitor is also treason."
"I know, I know."
It was clear Flaversham regretted coming along, and seemed almost hopeful that Dawson would force the issue one way or another... or better yet, that they could simply walk away. Dawson himself was of two minds: on the one hand, he was a veteran and an Englishmouse, with a fierce love for Queen and Country. Ratigan's horrific plot offended him in a way few things could. But on the other hand: he was a doctor and a compassionate soul, who'd treated captive enemy soldiers with the same level of care he gave his own. It didn't help that Fidget was in such a pitiful state. He glanced back and forth from the toy-maker to the bat, before sagging in defeat.
"Alright."
He knelt down and started stripping Fidget out of the soaked clothes. "Give me your undershirt," he ordered Flaversham, who struggled to get out of his shirtsleeves first, and was appalled when Dawson used the shirt to briskly dry the bat's drenched fur. This jostled him awake just enough for him to brace up on his elbows and retch polluted river water.
"Ugh," Flaversham groaned in disgust. Fidget looked up at the sound, fixing him with a vacant stare, before dropping his head and vomiting again. The Scotsmouse scrambled backwards to avoid the back-splash, and Dawson- having long been desensitized to such things- stifled a laugh. After wringing out the undershirt, he tried handing it back to Flaversham, who frantically shook his head. "Toss it in the river."
This did earn a chuckle, and Dawson flung the shirt over his shoulder. "Give me a hand." He took his coat off again, and with Flaversham's help, bundled Fidget up in it. It was so large on him that it nearly wrapped around twice. The shivering quieted down considerably, and he slipped from stupor back into unconsciousness.
They began the tedious process of climbing back up the stairs of the embankment. Dawson would boost Flaversham up the step, then haul Fidget up to him, and then Flaversham would lean over the edge to give Dawson a hand.
All fourty-some steps.
"Well Dr. Dawson," panted Flaversham, "what do we do with him after we reach the top?"
The doctor frowned in concentration. "I'm afraid I don't rightly know. We should... we should find temporary shelter nearby. If he survives the night, we can move him to a safer location, once he's fit to travel."
"'Safer location'? I cannae put him up- I'd never allow him near Olivia. And you're still boarding with Basil..."
"Oh! No, somewhere else, of course..." he paused, and then laughed, imagining the conniption Basil would have if he showed up with the half-drowned bat in tow. "I was thinking, no doubt Ratigan has many hideouts throughout London. Surely Fidget must know their locations."
Flaversham nodded appreciatively.
They were two thirds of the way up when Fidget came to. He was still dazed, but alert enough to recognize the two mice. Dawson was just clearing the edge as Fidget kicked his way free of the coat. "Shoot!" He jumped up only to fall backwards, landing hard on his tail.
The bat's expression rapidly changed from confusion to panic to helpless rage as he realized his prosthesis was missing. Then to terror as he realized he was trapped on a stairway with Basil's associates. He quickly scooted backwards until he was pressed up against the next step.
"Shhhh," Dawson started, holding his hands out, "it's-"
Fidget bared his fangs, hackles up. "Stay away. I can still bite!"
"This is a fine 'Thank you' for saving your life," Flaversham scolded.
For a while he said nothing, staring them down. Then the words sunk in, and he came full circle back to confusion. "What?"
"Yes, it's okay." Dawson put on his best 'reassuring doctor' tone. That one he was much better at. "He's right, we rescued you from the Thames."
"I- I woulda got out myself," Fidget protested.
Flaversham was ready to argue the point, but Dawson held up his hands. "We're not going to hurt you."
Too exhausted to keep up the defense, the bat looked over at the river and slumped. A few moments later and he was out again. Dawson grabbed his coat and headed over, but as he reached down, Fidget startled and snapped at him. The mouse jerked his hand away, barely avoiding the bite; the bat flinched, shielding himself with a wing.
"Listen here, I'm not going to strike you. You've very nearly drowned, and may yet freeze to death." He held out the coat, jiggling it slightly, and Fidget sheepishly sat up and slid forward so Dawson could set it over his shoulders.
He folded his wings and started working them into the comically oversized sleeves. "You got him, then?"
"Beg your pardon?"
"Ratigan. You got him."
"In a sense," Flaversham replied. "He fell off of Big Ben."
Fidget was stunned. "He's dead?"
"As dead as they come." Dawson said. Then he caught Fidget's look of distress. "I know it's a bit of a shock, but you should be relieved."
"He tossed you out an aircraft, for Heaven's sake."
This earned a dismissive hand wave. "Aw, it's hardly the first time he tried to do me in."
"Goodness." Dawson was equally appalled by this fact, and the bat's casual attitude about it.
"I can't believe he's gone..."
Flaversham gently changed the subject. "We really should keep moving."
And so resumed the ascent, only marginally easier with Fidget awake: he was cooperative enough, but still far too weak to climb.
They were close to the top when Flaversham suggested one of them scout ahead for a hiding place, he and Dawson agreed that he'd be able to do it quicker. Working alone, the toy-maker was able to scale straight up the wall of the embankment.
Fidget watched him climb, then looked back down at the flight of stairs behind them, and felt a pang of conscience. Even if it was just to see him brought to justice, these two mice had gone to an extraordinary effort to help him, after he'd done nothing but terrorize them. He'd been wondering how to escape without his peg leg or even a crutch, and carefully waiting for an opportunity to present itself. But an ugly feeling of guilt was starting to grow in the pit of his stomach.
He hoped the feeling was just all the filthy Thames water he'd swallowed. Then reality set in, and he grudgingly decided that he wouldn't escape: that he'd allow Basil's associates to hand him over to the police, and face whatever he had coming. Probably not with dignity- if he was being honest- because he knew what he had coming... but he'd face it nevertheless.
It was even slower going with just Dawson and Fidget, but they finally reached the top, hiding behind the railing while they waited for Flaversham. It wasn't long before he appeared across the street, pausing to scan the area for any humans, cats, and- most of all- other mice.
Dawson helped Fidget to his feet, pulling the bat's right arm over his shoulder.
"Don't worry, I'll go along peacefully," he announced as Flaversham approached, earning questioning looks from both mice. "Y'know. I won't try to run away or anything."
"Ah, well," Dawson replied awkwardly. "That's... that's good to know."
"I've found an alley that suits our needs. Looks as though it's rat territory, which, given the circumstances..." Flaversham said.
"Brilliant. Is it far?"
"Unfortunately yes, and there's not much cover. We'll have to be careful."
"A good mouse is always careful." He gestured to Fidget that they were going to start walking.
The bat was still puzzling over Flaversham's words. "W-wait. What're we doing now?"
"We're going," came the non-answer. They got a few clumsy steps, Dawson moving forward and Fidget trying to keep pace as he hopped along. "Oh dear, this is just not going to work at all. Terribly sorry about this."
"Woah!" Fidget yelped as Dawson changed tactics, bodily throwing him over his shoulder. "Hey!" Despite the verbal protest, he didn't put up any fight- embarrassing as it was, he was too exhausted to go along on foot, and a small part of him was relieved.
Dawson and Flaversham darted across the street, keeping close to the base of the human buildings as they made their way down the block. They ducked behind railings and rainspouts, scurried under stairways, and zig-zagged from one side of the street to the next.
"Ohh, I think I'm gonna be sick again," Fidget complained, all the bouncing around aggravating the nausea he still felt from the river water.
"If you are, would you kindly aim away from me?"
Flaversham groaned and covered his ears, looking slightly green around the gills himself. "Please, please could we stop talking about this."
The rest of journey was uneventful, and they miraculously made it to the alley Flaversham had scouted. Here, Dawson finally started to feel nervous. Each species had its own unique scent, and Ratigan had done an exemplary job of disguising his. It was alarming to now walk into an area that was so thick with the scent of rat. 'Looks as if it's rat territory' had been an understatement.
He'd been running scenarios in his mind: what to say if they ran into another mouse, what to say if they ran into a bobby, what they'd do if a cat showed up... Now he started to wonder how to handle a rat. The truth was, the rats wouldn't care one whit about a bat in their turf. Especially one in such a vulnerable state- heck, they might even offer him help. But two upper-middle-class mice? That was quite another story.
Flaversham navigated the abundance of human rubbish, and he couldn't help but beam as he gestured to an empty soup tin. Dawson had to admit it was a perfect makeshift hide-out. The tin can was slightly crumpled, which prevented it from rolling, and the lid hung by a sliver of metal, making it a conveniently mouse-sized door.
In a way, it made him even more anxious. They'd had nothing but good luck so far, surely things were bound to go south any moment. Once inside he set Fidget down, who looked around with increasing bewilderment.
"Where the hell are we?" Then he cringed and clasped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry." For all his devious criminal ways, Ratigan had always 'encouraged' his thugs to be eloquent and not vulgar. Fidget was a lost cause- hopelessly inarticulate, but he'd been cuffed plenty of times for swearing.
Dawson sat down across from him, grumbling about the effect of age on ones knees. "We decided- we're not going to- what we'll do is- er..."
"We're going to help you escape," Flaversham said plainly.
Fidget burst into laughter. "Hwheh heh heh! You can't pull my leg, heh heh, it washed away in the Thames!"
Gradually he fell silent and realized they were serious.
"But..." Fidget's mind raced as he tried to process this. "But I clobbered him and- and grabbed him- the girl was scared somethin' awful- and I shover in the bottle- then the Queen. There was stupid Felicia cat and the Queen, I was tryin'a-"
Dawson leaned forward and gently slapped him. "Pull yourself together, child."
Rubbing his cheek in stunned silence, Fidget drew his knees up against his chest. "Thanks." Then he frowned in concentration. "I just... I don't unnerstand."
"To be quite honest, I'm not sure I understand it myself," Dawson joked. "I suppose we-" he glanced back at Flaversham, "-thought you've suffered enough as it is."
"Is there somewhere you can go to hide? One of Ratigan's safehouses?"
Fidget rested his forehead against his knees, curling himself up tighter. "No. They're all compromised now." The fact that Basil- and by extension, the law- knew where Ratigan's sanctum was, meant he'd have a lead to all the other hideouts. And there was little doubt in Fidget's mind that the rest of the crew would be eagerly giving up whatever they could: their fellow mice, locations, treasure caches, details of their previous heists... anything that might gain them some leniency.
"Well, alright." Dawson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "We'll... we'll think of something. The good news is that no one's looking for you, what with four witnesses to your death."
"But I'm not dead?"
"Of course, but we didn't know that when we filled the report, hmmm?" He offered a conspiratorial wink. "As far as the police are concerned, you drowned in the Thames."
"Ohhhh. Right." Fidget returned an overly exaggerated wink, tilting his head and hiking up a shoulder. It was silly enough that Flaversham snorted, choking back a laugh, earning a surprised look from both Fidget and Dawson.
The toy-maker flustered. "Ah, you know, I was thinking we should..." he gestured towards the outdoors. "There's some newspaper out there and... ah..."
"Right you are." Dawson held out a hand, silently requesting Flaversham to give him a lift. "Stay put," he ordered Fidget, who shrugged, wondering where exactly Dawson thought he'd go.
Left to his own devices, he started scraping at the film of dried kidney soup from the grooves in the tin. Dawson was right about the risk of freezing, but Fidget was just as concerned about starving- or rather, low blood sugar, as Dawson would've put it. The bat didn't understand how any of that worked, but he was keenly aware that the combination of overexertion, cold, hunger, and stress, had him at the brink.
He was licking the soup flakes off his fingers when Flaversham returned, carrying a bundle of torn paper. The mouse started shredding it, and Fidget reached out, gesturing for Flaversham to hand him a sheet. "I can help with that."
They sat in silence, tearing up the paper into bedding, until Dawson appeared. Apparently the doctor had the same train of thought as his patient, because he carried with him two pillbugs and the fragment of a hard candy drop.
"This was all I could find in the alley. I realize it's rather barbaric to eat these raw, but I'm afraid we aren't in the position to..." Dawson drifted off when he saw the look on Fidget's face, and wordlessly handed him the first isopod. Without hesitation the bat cracked it open with his fangs and voraciously tucked in. "Slow down," but the order went in one ear and out the other.
He joined Flaversham with the papers, and started planning out the next steps.
"We'll go back to Basil's," Dawson mused. "I'd like to grab my kit, and then I can return with some provisions. You'll want to take Olivia home, I'm sure. No point in getting both of us in any deeper than we already are."
"In for a penny, in for a pound," Flaversham replied with a shrug. "Besides, this was my terrible idea."
To that, Fidget stiffened and froze. "But you-" he started, then swallowed and brought his arm up to wipe his face on the coat sleeve.
"Ah! Ah! Not with my coat you don't!"
Flustered, he used a scrap of the paper instead. "Why'd you want to... After what I...?" He stumbled over the words, and then fell silent, too frustrated by the inability to express himself.
"Is there something that you'd like to say to me?" Flaversham asked.
"Uhhhhmmmm... ummm... th-thank you?" Fidget squeaked.
"Yes, aside from that."
For few seconds you could practically see the gears turning, and it finally clicked together. "Oh! I'm sorry- I'm real sorry."
Flaversham looked him over critically, struck by the distinct impression that Fidget was only saying what he thought the Scotsmouse wanted to hear. "Somehow I doubt that."
Fidget sullenly went back to eating, and had finished the second pillbug by the time Dawson and Flaversham shoved the shredded paper into a pile at the back of the tin. They were clearly preparing to leave when he clumsily stood, half crouched and balancing against the side of the tin.
"Hold on. Mr. Flaversham. Ummm... Ratigan's plan... he needed, uh, your skills. Not you. Not personally. It... it could've been anyone." He hesitated, clearly wanting to pace or gesture, and unable to do either. "Me and Ratigan and the guys, we're not, uh, we're not... good. But you are. And the girl too, yeah, she's a real pip. You didn't deserve... you didn't deserve what all we did. And, and, I don't deserve this, um, kindness, from you." There was another uneasy pause. "So, yeah. I'm sorry. Tr-truly."
There was an odd, strained tension in the air, and Flaversham stiffened, setting his jaw. He'd probed for the apology, only to find that he wasn't actually ready for a sincere one. Upbringing had taught him to be forgiving others... but the wounds were just too fresh.
He felt a swell of anger for the first time since he'd been freed from Ratigan's claws. Partially at Fidget- for the suffering he'd caused, for making Hiram feel sorry for him, for not having the good sense to die when he should've, for putting all of them in this terrible position. But also towards himself- for feeling such hatred in the first place, for being unable to forgive, for being too soft to see justice carried out.
For not having the strength to stop Ratigan.
For not saving Olivia.
"Goddamn it," he swore, and hurried from the tin.
The reaction left Fidget too surprised and confused to be offended. Dawson stepped over and gave him an quick pat on the shoulder. "No doubt he simply needs some time to blow off steam," the doctor explained, and guided him to the improvised bedding. "Finish this," he shoved the candy shard into the bat's hands, "and get some rest. Doctor's orders. I'll be back with medicine and fresh water."
"I've had about enough of water," Fidget replied, pulling a face before settling in and gnawing at the candy.
"Well, ah, I see. Perhaps I can swing a spot of tea."
"Mmmm." He hesitated, and then, timidly: "Thank you."