Hey there! I didn't really know how to handle this prompt, and I watched The Great Mouse Detective recently, so... yeah, this came out.

Today's prompt: Toby by the fire with the riding crop

From: Stutley Constable

Hope you all like this! ~Alex


Holmes grinned a rare full smile as we bounded into the cab to return to Baker Street. "A most satisfying denouement, my dear Watson!" he remarked, as we rolled along. I smiled back at him, my blood still singing with the thrill of the chase. The crisp air of December tingled on my skin, pluming in my face when I exhaled.

When we reached our flat at last, I groaned and Holmes cried out in horror.

Chaos – that is, even more chaos than usual – reigned in 221B. Papers were scattered everywhere, my armchair was toppled over, and one of Holmes's precious experiments was in ruins on the table, beakers tipped on their sides and liquid spilled on the table. And there was a very familiar dog laying in front of the fire with a riding crop in his mouth.

"Toby!" Holmes whined. "You naughty dog, what on God's good earth have you done to the flat?"

I noticed some very familiar scurrying by the fireplace, and I hurried over, crouching by the crack I knew was there. "Basil?" I whispered, low enough that Holmes, amid his clattering on the table, would not hear. "Dawson? Are you there?"

My mouse colleague popped his head back out. "Most certainly, Watson," he replied, in just as low of a tone. "Awfully sorry about the disarray; Toby was tracking down a criminal of ours and got a bit overexcited."

"Ah," said I. "That's no trouble then. Is all well?"

He chuckled. "All is well, sir. I do hope Mr. Holmes doesn't mind the mess too much."

"I think not," I promised. I looked over my shoulder, where Holmes was angrily examining the shambles of his setup. "Well, let me calm him down for a day or two, or better yet, wait until he has a case again."

"Right, Watson!" said David Dawson with a wink, disappearing down the mouse-hole with incredible agility for someone with such an unwieldly build.

"Watson?" Holmes asked distractedly from where he was mopping up the spilled fluids. "What are you doing there?"

I rose and dusted off my hands. "Taking Toby back to Mr. Sherman. I shall only be a few minutes." At his answering 'hm', I bounded out with the dog, digging around in my pocket as I tripped on down the stairs. When I saw that there was still a beam of light from under the bush box, I reached down and poked my prize into it – a bit of cheese, nicked from Mrs. Hudson's stores.

"Come on then, Toby," said I, patting his lop-eared head. "Back home you go."