Okay. Guess the last chapter wasn't so popular. Oh well. Here's chapter 4. Enjoy.

Chapter 4: Basil

Basil shrank back against the headboard desperately as Ratigan advanced. Defiance was one thing, but when you're caught unarmed, with a bullet hole in your leg and a sworn enemy advancing on you as you lie in his bed, no less, there are other priorities. Like bowel-loosening terror, and fury that you got yourself into this damned position in the first place. Both emotions were currently at war inside Basil and, strangely, it was the anger that came out on top. He sat up in sudden pique.

"How the hell did you bring me here, Ratigan?" he spat. The other paused. "What were you doing down there in the first place? And where's Dawson?" It had been nagging at him, and as soon as the words left his mouth, a wave of worry hit. Where was Dawson? Had Ratigan bothered to remove him from Crustworth's lair too, or was he still down there, in who knew what condition? Was he being entertained by angry followers of the homocidal mouse? Or Ratigan's followers? Or was he ... No! He refused to think that! He refused!

"My," Ratigan murmured, distracting him from his worries momentarily. "You really do care for the tubby doctor, don't you? You actually care for him. I had thought you merely found him useful. You're not ... comfortable ... with other people. But you do care. And rather a lot, too. How very interesting."

Basil panted in fury. "Where is he?" he ground out. Ratigan looked coy.

"Now, Basil, why ever should I know the whereabouts of your missing companion? I'm sure I have much better things to do than keep track of wayward doctors. Why would you think otherwise?"

Furious, as only Ratigan could make him, Basil swung himself out of the bed in a foolhardy attempt to attack the bastard. His leg, unsuprisingly, crumpled under him, to the tune of a wave of agony, but he barely noticed. Crumpled in a heap at Ratigan's feet, the detective glared up at the stunned villain, and snarled.

"Where is he?"

Ratigan crouched down beside him, cocking his head to examine him with a curious and attentive gaze. He seemed amused, whether by Basil's foolishness, or his pain, or his desperate questions, the detective couldn't be sure. He only knew three things for sure. One: he hurt! Two: he really needed to know where Dawson was. Three: there was no-one in the world he hated more at this minute than the rat leaning over him with that smug expression.

"Where?" he whispered.

Ratigan didn't answer. Instead, he caught Basil under the shoulders and behind the knees, curiously careful of the injured leg, and lifted him smoothly off the floor. He moved a step closer to the bed, as if to place Basil back in it, and then simply stood there, holding him. Basil stared up in angered surprise, and his breath caught. That look ... Ratigan stared down at him, and there was something ... A desire, a longing, something possessive and evaluating, something that set shivers rippling down Basil's spine. Shivers that for some reason were only partially of fear. Hell in a handcart.

"So devoted," the villain murmured. "So loyal. And so foolish. Such a prickly mix, detective. How do you reconcile all of yourself? How do you manage such internal conflicts? Ah, you fascinate me, detective. Utterly. You make me wonder. Not least what you expected to accomplish by lunging up onto an injured leg to challenge me." He laughed suddenly, and bent swiftly to deposit his baffled burden onto the bed. "So very foolish, detective. And so very brave. Exactly like you."

He straightened up again, looming over Basil, laughing silently. "Exactly like you indeed. Ah, me. Allow me to set your mind at ease. Your friend is safe, and uninjured save for a nasty bump on the head. Crustworth's work, not mine. He's been escorted back to the world above, blindfolded of course, and should be well home by now. He was remarkably reluctant to leave. Your loyalty would seem to be repaid in kind. The good doctor did not trust your safety in my hands. Can't think why."

Basil stared. "You ... You let him go?" he asked incredulously. "You let ... Why? Why would you do that? You ... you're lying! Where is he?"

Ratigan laughed out loud. "So untrusting! I'm telling you the truth, detective. Why be surprised? It was you I wanted, not him. Why would I bother keeping him, feeding him, dealing with his undoubted escape attempts? He is loyal to you. He would have tried to 'rescue' you, without doubt. Why give myself such a headache?"

"But ... that doesn't make sense!" Basil exclaimed. "You expect me to believe you released him, rather than just killing him?"

"Yes," Ratigan replied simply. "I expect you to believe it, because it's true. You are quite enamoured with the truth, are you not? Detective? I have no reason to kill Tubby. Every move he ever made against me was at your behest, or for your sake. He is not so much my enemy as he is your ally. I have neither the time nor the inclination to kill such a minor threat. Clear?"

Basil swallowed. It looked like the other was telling the truth, and quite frankly he would cling to any hope that Dawson was alive and well. The thought of the stolid doctor being dead was too much. Dawson was the epitome of unrelenting courage and perseverance, and he was Basil's closest ... only ... friend. He had to be alive. So as long as he could cling to that thought, he'd take anything Ratigan could throw at him. He'd believe him, if it kept that hope alive.

"Yes," he rasped. "He'd better be as safe as you say, but I think ... I think you didn't kill him. I think ... I believe you."

"Thank you," the villain smirked. "I'm so grateful that you overcame your inherent distrust of me to believe this one thing." The tone was sarcastic, but again there was something there ... As if he really was grateful. Basil squeezed his eyes shut. So many things were strange here. So many things had happened that he'd never imagined could happen. And there was that strangeness about the other, that sense that he wanted something more than just revenge. But for all his genius, Basil couldn't think what. Emotion was never his strong point, and whatever drove Ratigan had a basis in that shady, unsteady realm.

He felt himself slipping, back into unconsciousness. Ratigan noticed, and Basil sensed his retreat. He felt the presence by his side back away. For some reason, he felt bereft, but he put that aside, and steadied his mind to let it flow back into sleep.

He was fading fast, when he heard it. It was clear as crystal this time, with no fever or fractured dreamings to disguise it. The liquid sound of a harp, played by exquisitely skillful hands. Music, soothing and beautiful, drawn into being by his enemy's hands. Why? The confusion rocked his already unsteady mind, and he dropped suddenly away into dreams. This was so strange, and nothing was sure.

Or almost nothing. The one thing Basil could cling to, that wouldn't change, was that Ratigan had been wrong about Dawson. His friend was no 'minor threat'. If the doctor was indeed free, then there was hope. Dawson would come. And Basil would be waiting for him. He just had to survive that long.

Well? Maybe someone could review this one? I'd like to know if I'm doing okay. But only if it's no trouble. Thank you!