I know this is a little fast, but I had the first couple of chapters done already. So here's chapter one. Have fun!

Chapter 1: New Enemies

Gesturing excitedly with his pipe, Basil paced his drawingroom floor. Dawson stood by the fireplace, and Ms. Pertwee sat demurely in one of his armchairs, both listening attentively. Every so often, she would cross and uncross her legs, a nervous habit that Dawson seemed to find rather distracting. Basil filed that away for future reference, smiling secretly, before turning his considerable mental faculties to the matter at hand.

Since Ratigan's fall two months beforehand, the London underworld had been severly unsettled, to say the least, as various factions struggled to fill the vacuum of power. Out of the chaos, one group had risen to lord it over the rest. Their leader was a vicious young mouse, one Crustworth by name, with a penchant for kidnapping young socialites with a view towards charging ransom. Unfortunately, he also had a penchant for killing them once the money was in hand. Which was why Ms. Pertwee had come to him in the hopes of finding and rescuing her captured sister before the madmouse murdered her.

He'd spent the last two weeks in persuit of a trail that would lead him to the new crimelord. In some ways, it had been horribly easy. There had been none of the mental twists and challenges that had characterised ... Ratigan's work. Perhaps he'd spent too long getting into the mind of that one person. But he was closing on the mouse. He knew it. The location of Crustworth's lair, and the imprisoned debutante, were almost clear to him. He had only to look anew at some old clue, rearrange the pieces of the puzzle in his mind, and it would come to him. Hence the pacing. It always helped.

His housekeeper had given up trying to discipline him, and had abandonned her attempts to replace his carpet. He paced his usual route, along the worn path that marked his previous mental struggles. Dawson, who'd grown used to his vagaries since he'd been staying here, had positioned himself out of the line of fire, so to speak. Unfortunately for both of them, Ms. Pertwee had no such experience. Her legs uncrossed again, drawing Dawson's attention yet again, and stuck out into his path.

His thoughts scattered to the winds as he flipped over her heels, to land in an undignified heap beside her chair. Lying bemused on the ground, his eyes blurred, the first thing he focused on was the stitching of her skirts, right before his face. Rough thread, that spoke of mending, and smooth stitching, that spoke of practice. Practice. Of course! Crustworth had practice. The mouse wasn't patient. He'd learned that, through his walks in the other's mind. So if he practised, it would be in the same area as the kidnappings. He'd be close. Close to them. Close to the girls. Uptown, but not upscale. Underground. Under ...

Galvanised, he leapt to his feet, almost falling over Dawson, who'd rushed to his aid. Unconcerned, he danced around his friend, leaping for his coat and cap. Dawson followed him, desperately trying to catch hold of his sleeve.

"What is it, Basil! What's wrong!" Dawson panted. Almost laughing with eagerness, Basil swung to him, gripping his shoulders.

"I've got him! By Jove, Dawson, I've got him! I know where he is! I know where to find him! He's mine!" Basil cried. He spun once more to leave, but this time the hand on his arm was feminine. He looked up at Ms. Pertwee.

"You're going after him? Now? But what about me? What if someone comes for me while you're gone? Please, don't leave me!" She looked slightly desperate. Basil faltered. She had a point. More to the point, he didn't know how to deal with women in trouble. He knew how to solve the problems, but he had no idea how to calm them in the interim. To be honest, he didn't know what to do. He wanted to go after Crustworth. It was what he did. But he couldn't leave her alone.

"Um ... Basil?" Dawson. Of course. Basil smiled.

"Of course! Dawson, old chap, would escort Ms. Pertwee to somewhere safe? I'll meet you at the location, in an hour's time. Alright? Capital!" He didn't bother to wait for an answer, already moving towards the door. Dawson grabbed hold of him again, and he turned impatiently. "What!"

"Basil," Dawson began patiently. "Where am I to meet you?"

Oh. Right. He hadn't told them yet. "Miser Street. The grating under Miser Street. He's underground. He likes to watch them." And, finally, he made it out the door without being caught again.

The night was wet. Very wet. He skulked around the entrance to the underground, wondering what it was in the criminal mind that attracted them to deep places. Personally, he'd always prefered a little light and air. But not tonight. Tonight it was wet. He'd been waiting twenty minutes, and was soaked through.

Movement caught his eye. Two figures, creeping up to the grate. One hulking, large, the other smaller and fine-boned. The smaller moved with a dance in her step, a dance he recognised. Ms. Pertwee? What was she doing here? And where was Dawson? The other figure was too huge, too lopsided. It almost looked like it was in two parts, like a pair of mice standing on each other's shoulders. Or a big mouse carrying a body. Dawson!

He leapt forward, his only thought to ascertain that it was his friend, and retrieve him if it was. He gave no thought to the fact that if Ms. Pertwee were involved, they would know he was here. So he was unprepared for the blow to the back that knocked him flying, or the huge weight that flattened him to the ground a moment later. Dazed, he looked up into the leering face of a thug, one with little grasp of hygiene. His mind caught on to the terrible odor before it realised the danger it posed. He was captured.

He expected a cell, or an audience with the gang, as would have been Ratigan's way. But this wasn't Ratigan. This was Crustworth. So, again, he was caught unprepared when his captor threw him into a small room, and locked the door behind. A room containing one other occupant.

Raising himself onto his knees, Basil studied his foe. The confident manner and air of surpressed energy left him with no doubt. This was Crustworth. The criminal was young, no more than twenty, but he was scarred enough for a lifetime. A slice on his face twisted one side of his mouth up into a perpetual grimace. He held a pistol in one paw, as casually as another mouse would hold a book or a hat. And he was smiling at Basil, a strange, deranged smile that made the detective more than a bit nervous. The creature was obviously insane.

"Welcome, Mr. Basil," Crustworth laughed, and brought the pistol up to fire in one smooth move. The shot rang out, right at Basil.

Well? Sorry for the cliffie. Next chapter depends on it. R&R?