Sorry it's been ages since I updated. Still, better late than never, eh? Enjoy.

Chapter 2: Crustworth

Basil leapt at the report from Crustworth's pistol, scrambling desperately to the side. Fast enough to avoid instant death, but not safe. The burst of fire in his leg, the sudden weakness of the limb, told him that. His paw crumpled under him, pitching him forward to lie before the murderer, downed and helpless. With the young criminal looming over him, and Dawson locked up somewhere in this subterranean pit, it really did not look good.

Crustworth crouched down above him, sneering, his weapon cradled companionably on one arm. "Well, well, Basil of Baker Street. Nice of you to drop by. And such good timing, too. You are punctual when it comes to traps, aren't you?" Basil said nothing, sick to the stomach as it was. "By the way, don't worry overmuch about your doctor friend. 'Ms Pertwee' will be keeping him very busy." He leered. "She's a good girl, Sophia. Come up in the world quite a bit since she threw in with us. Society lady is quite a step up from dockside whore, isn't it? But her acting skills have only improved."

He laughed. Despairing, Basil dipped his head. Crustworth raised the pistol again, the muzzle nestling cosily against Basil's head.

The click as the mouse cocked the weapon was swallowed by the hollow echo of clapping hands. Basil tensed in shock as the familiar velvet tones reached them, bringing his criminal executioner's head up.

"Excellent, excellent." Ratigan stepped smoothly through the now open cell door, patting his white-gloved hands together in a mockery of applause. "Not bad, young Crustworth, not bad at all. You're getting the hang of this, aren't you?"

The younger criminal lunged to his feet, pistol snapping out to cover the new threat. "Who the hell are you?" he exclaimed, trembling with rage. Basil choked back a hysterical laugh. Who was it? A bloody ghost! A spirit of the underworld come back from the dead to torment him.

Ratigan gave a long-suffering sigh, while Basil chuckled dementedly. "Really, Mr Crustworth, you disappoint me. You recognise this pin-sized detective, and yet you fail to recognise someone of my stature? Tut tut. Someone hasn't been doing his homework." The villain wagged a disapproving finger at the apopletic criminal.

"Or maybe death has simply diminished you, Ratigan old chum," Basil sneered, an arkward thing to accomplish convincingly from a supine position, but he did try. Casually, Crustworth kicked him in the mouth, snapping his head back and rather effectively shutting him up. Ratigan regarded this display with something like distaste.

"Ratigan?" the murderer asked, faux-polite when anyone could see the cold calculation in his eyes. "Everyone thought you were dead, sir. Your return is ..." A damned nuisance? "...Miraculous indeed. You are ... back in business, then?" The eyes sharpened as they regarded the looming figure of the previous criminal overlord. Ratigan smiled sharply.

"Oh, you know how it is," he murmured, gesturing self-depreciatingly. "Some murder here, a little empire-destroying there, and, of course, grand theft. Life without money is rather meaningless, isn't it?" He smiled companionably as Crustworth nodded. "I'm sure we have much to talk about, Mr Crustworth. But at the moment, I'm actually here to conduct some business with you, regarding a certain pesky friend of ours ..."

Basil met Ratigan's eyes. He should have known. Of course his old nemesis would want to dispatch him personally. He almost laughed. The situation, though undoubtedly deadly, was becoming patently ridiculous, with London's new and old crimelords arguing over who got to kill him. Oh, be still his beating heart! Hah! That wouldn't take long, the way things were going.

Crustworth grinned, revealing an impressive array of sharpened teeth. "What? You want to pull the trigger? Well, if you've got a pistol on you, be my guest!" He leered conspiratorily.

Ratigan spread his hands. "Oh no. I never carry firearms these days. I have underlings for that." Crustworth's grin slipped a bit as the insult hit home. The muzzle of his weapon came up a touch once more. Ratigan merely smirked. "So, if you don't mind, I'll just borrow yours." And he stepped forward.

Crustworth stood straight. "Are you mad? You think I'll give my weapon to you? Don't be stupid!" Ratigan came on regardless, smirking coldly. "NO! I don't have to give you anything! You're old news! It's all mine now! MINE! My gun, my prisoner, my city! You've got nothing. You are nothing! I get to kill him!" And he swung the gun back towards Basil, who'd been rather hoping they'd kill each other, and leave him be. Staring down the barrel of a gun held in the shaking hand of a furious psychopath of a mouse, he concluded that he had no such luck.

Crustworth lunged forward to shoot him in the eye, spitting at him as he did so. Basil ducked his head in automatic defense, and tensed for the report that would end his life. And it came. The gun sounded, sharp and angry. But no bullet tore into him. No leaden insult destroyed his fine mind.

He snapped open his eyes, to see the hapless young criminal caught up in the clawed hands of the black, looming figure that was London's once-overlord. Basil shrank back reflexively. Ratigan burned with a rage that Basil had only seen once before, in the bowels of the clock tower. Face twisted in a savage rictus, the rat tore the firearm from Crustworth's paw.

"You would steal my victory? You would defy me, and lay claim to my city? My enemy? MY RIGHT? IDIOT!" Ratigan roared, hoisting the younger criminal into the air, and hurling him into the wall. Basil winced at the crack of bone breaking. Dazed, suddenly lamed, Crustworth tried to rise, but Ratigan allowed him no quarter. The claws, clad in the ruins of a white glove, swept down with all the force of a demon's rage. When they rose, the glove was white no more.

Ratigan stood panting, glaring down at the corpse at his feet. The bloodlust that lived in him as strongly as his desire for power and respect painted his features with a grisly glow. He drew himself up, full of the pride of the triumphant hunter, the warrior that had made his kill. Suffused with dark joy, he kicked the body casually away. Basil shuddered. Never before had he actually witnessed his opponent in the act of killing. Never before had he seen the veneer of civilisation so completely ripped away to bare the monster within.

Ratigan recovered first, rolling his shoulders and smoothing back his hair with his clean hand. He regarded the ruined glove that clung limply to his left paw with the same distaste that had been his reaction to Crustworth's striking Basil. Peeling the rag gingerly off, he tossed it aside. It landed by Basil's head, drawing the detective's gaze to its soiled, glistening folds. His gorge rose in reaction. The events of the last few moments: the trap, the shock of injury, bloodloss, and the insult of another's death at the hands of a creature he'd thought dead, flooded his awareness as he stared at the fragment of still-white cloth, alone and fragile in the dark pool. His head swam and tipped forward to the ground.

He felt hands on him, pulling him roughly aloft, but the sensation was faint through the haze of pain and shock. He vaguely realised that putting weight on his wounded leg was going to hurt, and braced, but those ungentle hands instead clamped around him possessively. Before he faded away, he realised that Ratigan was carrying him. That was ... that was ...

Black.

Well? Sorry again about the slowness. And, Mouse Avenger? I'm sorry about not reviewing your stories yet, I've been kinda busy. (Though I know I read some, and I'm almost positive I reviewed at least one. Guess I'm more distracted than I knew.) Sorry, and thank you. R&R? Anyone? Thanking ye!