The Best of the Worst

I can scarcely believe it.

As I kneel before Her Majesty, Queen Moustoria, it still seems most perplexing to think that Professor Ratigan will never again commit another crime. I have all I need as evidence to convict him in a court of law: the wreckage of the robot built by the felon's hostage, several witnesses willing to testify that they saw Ratigan commit high treason, the bell he used to summon his cat to murder disobedient henchmen and innocent citizens alike, slight tears in my jacket from the fiend's claws…

What came to pass on the hands of clock tower was truly a fight for our lives. If I had survived, Ratigan would surely have been hanged. That being, we both knew it was our final confrontation, for in order to have the slightest chance of extending his own life, he would have to end mine. Our innumerable conflicts over the years resulted in one final battle.

Who has proven victorious?

I kneel before the queen to be knighted, yet I am quite certain that if I were a lesser mouse, I would be forced to admit I was bleeding to death, feeling myself gradually becoming weaker as massive exsanguination soaked the borrowed jacket, which I had gratefully donned, as rapidly as torrents of precipitation during a storm. An ordinary mouse would no doubt be unable to enjoy his knighthood ceremony due to the utter torment of his agony.

However, I am Sir Basil of Baker Street, and I care not a whit whether or not my back aches so dreadfully that I can scarcely move my arms. In a cruel twist of irony, I also find myself unable to delight in the highest honor in all Mousedom. There isn't an investigator in the empire who hasn't dreamed of being the one thanked by Her Majesty for seeing Ratigan brought to justice, yet although I smile graciously, I wish this fate on any detective other than myself.

Ratigan is dead.

I knew I had merely been deceiving myself, yet I had always hoped he would reform in prison if I apprehended him, and upon his release, we should resume our friendship. Now I am no longer granted the foolish belief that this may yet come to pass.

Who has proven victorious? Ratigan is dead; thus he cannot feel the extent of his most serious injuries: the stabbing pain of a broken heart or the heavy weight of a crushed spirit. His throat is not so tight that he can barely breathe, and his eyes do not sting dreadfully as if he were standing too close to smoke. He will not live until the day of his retirement or experience longevity, eventually dying peacefully in his sleep after living several more decades from this night. He has not been wounded deeply by someone who was once close to him, prior to watching his former companion perish as the clock bell tolled during a storm.

Although he was once my only friend and we were as brothers, it is true that Ratigan and I loathed each other for years. I often wondered how I would feel if Ratigan perished. Would I partially feel elated at being rid of my rival while feeling slight remorse that none existed who could ever challenge my wits to such an extent? I envisioned any manner of emotions I may have experienced would prove most complicated, yet now that this day has arrived, it's rather elementary: I have survived, and my friend has perished.

I silently scold myself. I remind myself of all the innocent lives that are no longer in danger, and I recall the various attempts on my own life. Furthermore, I truly am grateful to have had the chance to be of service to our gracious queen, although I would have preferred if her life had never been in danger at all. What a disgrace I am to all who strive to see justice served! What law enforcement official does not work to succeed in keeping the empire safe, as I have done this very day, and who would be ungrateful for the opportunity to accept knighthood? I also know that if I'm to be completely honest, I lost my friend years ago. The rat who perished this evening was blatantly my enemy.

Although I humbly keep my eyes lowered as our queen continues her brief speech, I cannot resist a brief glance at the mouse kneeling beside me. This Dawson fellow is frowning slightly. Confound him! I dare wager he has noticed the slight red stain already growing on my sleeve! Physicians never can resist any opportunity to interfere in matters that do not concern them!

He is indeed a most peculiar mouse. He seems as if he truly cares about the needs of others, even rodents with whom he has barely become acquainted, and although he lacks vulpine wit, he has managed to draw my attention to certain details that greatly assisted me in solving this case. Moreover, Mrs. Judson insists that Dawson can nearly match my obstinacy, although I haven't the slightest notion what she means, for I am never obstinate; however, I will admit he certainly understands quite a bit about conversing properly.

I should very much enjoy his company if he were to consent to remain at Baker Street, for he intrigues me. Working this case with him has nearly reminded me of the pleasures of friendship, a form of contentment I have not experienced since my youth. I had not realized until now how much I had missed amiable conversation or someone with whom I could share my adventures.

Perhaps I should ponder some manner to convince him to stay. He could assist me with future cases. As Dawson currently has nowhere else to reside, this arrangement would benefit him as well.

However, he can forget this ludicrous notion of examining my back and tending any wounds he may find! In the first place, I have no intention of entrusting a physician with my health, especially not the same mouse who only hours earlier made a complete imbecile of himself after consuming drugged liquor. Second, I am not injured. The dampness between my shoulders is precipitation, nothing more, and it shall do me no harm. Perhaps I received a few minor abrasions, but the exsanguination must surely have finished by now, and lastly…

Lastly, if I may be pardoned for stooping to the level of including colloquialism in my personal dialect, who gives a rat's tail? My friend is dead, and I am knighted. I care not a whit for anything else, yet as if the events of this evening were not troubling enough, I now have a physician insisting that I place myself in his care because he believes I have been mortally wounded!

I rise from my knees as I am bidden, observing as Queen Moustoria addresses her loyal subjects.

"I present to you Sir Basil, the great mouse detective."

The crowd cheers for the one who has indirectly murdered his former best friend, and I attempt to conceal the red marks on my jacket. If I were an ordinary mouse, I might have the displeasure of experiencing both physical exhaustion and mental fatigue, not to mention emotional instability, but as I have previously stated, I am Sir Basil of Baker Street, and there are innumerable rodents who look to me to preserve justice, and it is my most sacred duty to ensure I do not fail them.

For now, I prepare myself for yet another dispute. Dawson looks as if he has something on his mind, and he will no doubt begin another quarrel as soon as we step away from Buckingham Palace. How shall I ever manage to convince him I am entirely unscathed when I myself am beginning to doubt such a claim?

That is to say I would begin to doubt as much if I were a lesser mouse, but I am Sir Basil, the great mouse detective, and I am incapable of feeling any manner of emotion, especially self-doubt.