The Great Mouse Detective and the Basil of Baker Street Mysteries belong to the Walt Disney Company and the late Eve Titus respectively. Oscar Milde, Chief-Inspector Vole and Detective Inspector Clawes are the creations of Mlle. Irene Relda. This story had been inspired by "A Present for Basil", a commissioned work for Brinatello by TpT at deviantART.

The First Snowdrops

Given my association to one Mr. Basil of Baker Street, I have been subjected to a number of trials and hardships in my later years. His multiple experiments and cases, one more bizarre then the other, had not just once brought me to the edge between sanity and insanity. I still have nightmares concerning the frog legs I found underneath my bed at a certain point. But one thing over another, I could not wish for a better flat mate.

It is true that in my public writings I have named him an arrogant, harsh and overall uncaring mouse with little to no regard for other people's feelings. I shall not, by any means, take that back, for he is all that and much more, but at the same time, I had found that there is another side to him. Although he was always careful to hide this side I speak of, I can often catch glimpses of this other Basil: a shy, uncertain and terribly lonely mouse that simply doesn't seem to fit in with all the rest.

I always find myself getting mad at the world each time.

Indeed, Basil is a very lonely mouse, for despite his numerous acquaintances (would you believe that the Prime Minister once invited him over for tea!) there are very few that he could call 'friends'. Apparently, his eccentricities had created quite a gap between him and everybody else - that is true, but if one was to look just a bit under the mask, they would find a very special person, in more then just brains and deduction abilities. If I could see past it all, then surely it cannot be that difficult.

Sometimes, I feel that with the exception of a few of the inspectors of the yard, Vole and Clawes especially (very well… mostly Clawes; Vole looks half the time ready to strangle him), that Milde fellow (a writer whom, if I recall correctly, went to University with my friend) as well as Mrs. Judson and myself, Basil really has nobody to even think about him.

It breaks my heart to see him so alone and so (dare I say it) invisible to everyone else.

I have been sharing lodgings with him for almost two years now and in that time I have accompanied him on countless cases, many for them being trivial, yet many others being ones in which the life of a client would depend upon Basil's wit and knowledge of the British Mouse Law. Still, not once have I saw more then just that common, momentary gratitude a client would give him for a job well done. A 'thank you' here or an 'I am now in your debt' there or even the occasional 'we shall never forget you, Mr. Basil'. But of course, that has been far from the truth. As far as I know, nobody had even bothered to send him a Christmas Card last year! No matter that he doesn't care much for them, it's the principle of it all.

When I voiced my thoughts on the matter the morning after Boxing Day, my friend merely stared at me before jumping in into a full-blown laughter.

"My friend, you must indeed be terribly naïve if you believe for one second that there is someone out there that truly gives a damn about me." To say I was shocked to hear such words was an understatement. I was angry with him for thinking such thoughts, and I had been ready to tell him that, were he have not continued with: "People only care about me as long as it serves their interest. Once my job is done, they will undoubtedly care on with their lives as if nothing would happen, and I for one will not blame them for doing so." He had paused for a moment to lid his pipe. "You see, the average brain, much like the ones that have it, is remarkably simple once you establish a pattern. It keeps all the good, or in my case useful, information alive while all the bad simply slip away, along with all their implications. It's a natural defense mechanism, one I know you must be aware of. But in any case, the point I am trying to get to is that people only come to me when they are in trouble, when their perfect world is on the verge of collapse – in short, a bad thing, and in their tiny little heads, I become associated with that 'bad' thing. Remembering me would undoubtedly lead to remembering their past problems and tragedies. Nobody wished to be reminded of such things."

"But – but – I? The inspectors? And – and…"

"Oh, it's still all association, my friend." He replied with a smile. "Since we have done so many things together (given the fact that we actually live together) you naturally tend to associate me with a lot of things, many of which are – surprisingly enough – good things. Even the inspectors might associate me with a good thing. After all, I believe some even got a promotion or two thanks to me." He chuckled for a moment. "But all in all, my friend, I do not mind. Simply doing what I do is reward and gratitude enough for me, and I daresay I would not change anything. People may forget me if they so wish. As long as I keep getting cases, I am quite pleased with my existence. After all, it's not our fault we can't all be associated with spring and snowdrops."

At the time, I truly did not know what to say. His logic was unbeatable, so for months on end, I was simply struck speechless on the subject. I didn't like it, but that still didn't change the fact that I had no way of beating that logic of his. How could I have explained to him that he was a person that deserved and deserves so much more then merely associated with an event or something along the same lines? In the end, it seems I didn't need to, for the following spring a certain someone decided to return to London for a brief visit.

The day started simple enough, or as simple as a morning can be with Basil as a flat mate: a small breakfast and morning paper on my part and chemical experiments on Basil's. At one point however, when the smoke and stench of his concoctions became a bit too much to stand and I was heavily contemplating on making up a reason to be out of the house, a knock was heard at the door.

"Oh, who can that be?" I heard my friend grumble, clearly less then pleased of having someone interrupt his experiments. "Dawson, old chap, would you mind getting that?"

I did not mind that in the slightest. Anything to get away from that awful stench! But maybe had I not been so eager to evacuate the room, I could have pointed out that maybe he had added a bit too much wolfsbane to that concoction of his. Alas, that I did not. Instead, I merely opened the door.

"Hello, Dr. Dawson!" Imagine my surprise, dear reader, when on our doorstep stood none other then little Olivia Flaversham, along with her father no less! And my, it may have been me, but had she not grown since last I saw her?

"Olivia! And Mr. Flaversham! Bless me, this is quite the surprise." I exclaimed in delight. Basil must have heard me for he was besides me in an instant.

"Who is it, Dawson?" Basil asked before he himself started exclaiming: "My, is it isn't the Flavershams! What brings you to London?" They smiled at his joyful greeting, and I let out an involuntary giggle when Olivia came crashing into him, exclaiming how much she had missed him.

"Olivia and I found that we had a little bit of free time this season –" Flaversham started as his daughter ended the hug "– so we decided to stop by for a visit and see how things were going for the mouse whom brought us back to each other." At that, he looked at his daughter, much in the same fashion Olivia was giving at her father. I turned to Basil and noticed that he looked touched by Mr. Flaversham's words. I could almost cry just by thinking back at the image… if not for the explosion that followed less then a second afterwards.

Now, one must understand that with Basil as your flat mate, filed experiments can be a rather common thing. Rest assure, explosions happened almost just as often (much to the dismay of our long-suffering landlady).

Half an hour lather, after I have assured them that Basil's cries of "Confound it!" were directed at the experiment itself rather then its reaction and that Basil himself was right as rain ("a little sore regarding his honor, but quite fine otherwise") I suggested a stroll to Regent's Park and back until Basil had the chance to clean up the house. Basil had forbidden us from stepping foot into the house until he managed to clean the mess and something told me that until my friend's substance stopped eating away Mrs. Judson's prize rug, it was best if we were to follow his advice.

Mr. Flaversham and I took the time to speak about the time and useless gibberish Basil wouldn't enjoy while Olivia was exploring the park under our watchful eye. It was still early springs, thus there was not that much vegetation to speak about, but Olivia seamed to have become fascinated with some snowdrops that sprung out of the still frozen earth. I never noticed them before, so those must have been the very first snowdrops of the ear. And Olivia appeared to be thinking of something concerning those flowers, but until we have gotten back at lower 221B Baker Street, I did not know quite what, nether would I ever know where it not by accident that I would forget my cup of tea in the living room.

Oh, but each at its own time. Basil did warn me that I tend to get ahead of myself when telling a story. So, where was I? Ah, yes. Now, it was well past noon when I returned to the Flavershams back to our flat. Apparently, Basil had finished cleaning up and ingeniously hid away to eaten portion of the rug with a stool. It would be only a matter if time before Mr. Judson found it though, but for the moment we could once again enter the flat without fear of certain things eating our shoes away.

Basil wasted no time to apologies for the mess he had created and I am sad to say that despite all our assurances that it was all-right, he looked close to falling into another one of his depressing black moods. I think he felt ashamed of himself as a host. We had so few visitors these days… real visitors that was…

I immediately suggested we have some tea and Mr. Flaversham looked most egger to assist me. Our housekeeper was away for that day, as I'm sure you must have guessed, so the cooking was entirely up to ourselves. Basil said he would be with us in a moment (he must have had the intention of having a bit of time alone) and Olivia was apparently busy looking for something in her traveling bag. I decided to let them be. After all, it didn't take three and a half to make tea.

As Flaversham and myself were busying ourselves in the kitchen, I noticed that we were missing one china cup. It had occurred to me that I must have left it back in the living room so it was with a heavy hearth that I trailed back there, hoping Basil didn't think I was not trusting him to be alone.

As I opened the door though, I saw a sight I only dreamed of seeing. As unmoving as a stone, I watched how Olivia ran up to my friend, tugged on his sleeve to gain his attention, then with a giggle, handed him a most precious snowdrop.

For a moment, Basil merely looked at her, wide eyed and clearly disbelieving. He seamed uncertain of her action, or maybe uncertain of his own, that I will never know. But that doesn't change the fact that he looked lost – more lost that I ever saw him before. Well, I knew that one usually doesn't give a man a flower, but still, one would say that this was the first time anyone had ever given him something. Then a horrible thought struck me: what if this was the first time someone had ever given him something, a gift… The smile he gave her confirmed that.

"Oh, is… is this for me, my dear?" he asked, his voice almost breaking. She nodded vigorously, trusting the flower a bit more towards him. With hesitant, almost trembling fingers, my friend took the flower with such delicacy one would think it was made of glass. He paused for a moment, looking from flower to girl, before sniffing the blossom's sweet scent.

"Thank you." Was all he could say, but I thought that was enough. Apparently, so had Olivia, for with no hesitation, she hugged him for the second time that day, only this time, he had hugged her back.

I do not regret turning back and leaving them alone. Nor do I regret that I lied to Mr. Flaversham concerning the tea-cup. I don't even regret pretending to know nothing of the little snowdrop dropped carefully in a porcelain vase in the living room when Mr. Judson asked about it (the Flavershams had long since taken their leave by the time she had returned). I regret none of these things, for I had witnessed a scene so precious and so rare that I cannot help but smile. Even now, as I write these lines, I cannot help myself. I smile.

Basil is hardly – if ever – wrong and if we are to associate people with events, then so be it. But if the same can apply to memories, then I shall always associate this moment with the blooming of the first snowdrops.

Due to a most annoying author's block (and most unwelcome stress), I seem to have been having some difficulties writing the next chapter of Whispers in the Dark but never fear - it is not yet abandoned. In the meanwhile though, enjoy this little oneshot ;)

Reviews are most welcome and greatly appreciated!