"Oh, no you didn't."

Dawson looked confused, because there was no way Basil, even with his genius intellect, could have guessed what they were up to. "Beg your pardon?"

The detective awkwardly got up from his chair, straightening his robe. Olivia looked up from where she lay on the carpet, reading a massive textbook, and cheerfully waved.

"Is that… a book on criminal law?" Flaversham asked, bewildered.

Basil ignored him and started pressing with questions of his own.

"My, you were gone an unusually long time. Dawson, what happened to your coat?"

"My coat? Er, it was—"

"Did you find the bat?"

"Well, no, um, that is—"

"Your fur's all damp and the hem of your trousers are muddy. Was there some sort of," he paused for dramatic effect, "incident?"

"Not at all."

Basil puffed his pipe and eyed Dawson and Flaversham up and down.

"Absolutely not," he said with an air of finality. "I forbid it."

"Forbid what? Nothing has happened!"

"Nothing? Ha! I'll have you know that aiding and abetting a traitor is treason in itself."

"We know," Flaversham said, a tired note in his voice. "Shall you be turning us in?"

The directness threw him off, and worse, interrupted his gloating. "I— It's not too late to turn this around. We'll simply pop on in to the Police Station on our way to whatever back alley you've stashed—"

Dawson had started up the stairs, and Basil was horrendously offended, but at the same time trying not to demonstrate just how offended he was.

"Excuse me! I am trying to—"

"Daddy!" Olivia stood and brushed herself off, precariously holding up the book that was almost the same size as she was. "Daddy, Basil's been teaching me about crime and, and the law."

"Oh, has he now?"

"Yes, and he's got this book." She hefted it up to show him. "And it says, it says that in Britain, and in um, America, if a mouse or rat is very very bad… like that mean old Ratigan…" Olivia's voice dropped to a whisper, "they get put in a mouse trap!"

"Aye, so they do. That goes the same for any wee beast that lives in Mousedom: voles, shrews, bats…" He shot Basil a pointed look. It was no accident that Basil had shown her this chapter in this book, and Flaversham knew it, and of course Basil knew that he knew it.

"And guess what, Daddy. In France, they take those very bad mice, and… and…" She set the book down. "They get put in a cigar cutter. Then… chop!" She made a dramatic cutting motion with her hand. "Isn't that just awful!?"

"It is awful, my dear, but I don't believe they do that anymore."

Dawson was sneaking back down the stairs, with a suspiciously over-stuffed medical kit bag in hand.

"Well, I'm off to… I have to go find my coat," he said.

"Dawson."

He turned with his back to Basil's work bench, trying his best to be subtle and failing spectacularly as he grabbed Fidget's hat. "I'll be back soon!"

"Dawsonnnnn…" Basil repeated, to no avail. Dawson was scrambling out the door.

He jumped when Flaversham placed a hand on his shoulder. "I… I think we need to have a talk, Mr. Basil."

Where Basil was an obstinate and combative patient, Fidget was ridiculously agreeable. Part of it was the fact that Basil was actually doing quite well and had strong emotional fortitude, while Fidget was exhausted and miserable. But part of it was their circumstances. Basil was triumphant, having saved the day, the girl, the Queen and country. Dawson's coddling rained on his parade. Fidget was adrift, having been defeated and betrayed, and was completely at their mercy. Dawson's attention was a much needed ray of warmth.

Fidget was fast asleep when Dawson returned, and a little disoriented upon waking, but clearly welcomed his presence. He meekly let Dawson walk him out behind the tin for relief; flinched but didn't protest when the doctor disinfected and dressed the cat bite wounds; took every foul-tasting medication offered.

Out front, Dawson built a fire in the bottom of a broken bottle, and boiled some water using the bottle-cap. He hadn't expected Basil would be on to them, and left in a rush, with only a fraction of the supplies he'd intended. Which meant he'd had to stop at a grocer on the way, which meant… well, it meant he was way more invested in this scheme than he should've been.

Basil's 'borrowed' clothes were still too big, but fit much better than Dawson's coat, and as long as it didn't rain, Fidget's own clothing would be dry in a few hours. It was such a small thing, but he was thrilled to get his hat back. To Dawson, the dried salted meat and hard biscuits were a meager meal, but Fidget was enthusiastic. The bottle-cap full of tea, over steeped and unstrained and served without cream or sugar, was the highlight of his day.

A few rats came and went, eyeing Dawson as they passed, but to his surprise no one questioned him.

He put out the fire, gave instructions how much medication to take and when, and left the 'door' cracked open just enough for Fidget to squeeze out when he needed to.

It was dark by the time he got back to Holmestead, 221B-½ Baker Street.

Flaversham and Olivia were gone, and Basil had actually drifted off in front of the fire. Dawson tried to sneak past him.

"I see you found your coat."

Dawson nearly jumped out of his skin. He glanced back over at the half-asleep Basil and offered him a sheepish grin. "Er, yes, I found it."

"Pity you missed our guests. Well, goodnight Dawson."

He'd spent the entire walk back trying to think of convincing lies and was thrown off by the detective's sudden disinterest. Dawson sputtered for a moment, laughed nervously, wished Basil goodnight, and fled upstairs.

The next morning, after breakfast and tea, Basil gave him a dressing down.

"Dawson this is foolish, incredibly risky, and frankly a waste of time. Let's say you help this miscreant, and he goes into hiding… well, he's too distinctive to get away with an alias, and he isn't nearly clever enough to continually escape the law as Ratigan had. He'll get caught eventually, and without a doubt, finger you and Flaversham as accomplices in his escape." Basil crossed his arms, brows furrowed. "Alternatively, he manages to flee the country. I'm sure you're aware that criminal recidivism is in the range of eighty percent. You'll simply be dumping a violent crook onto someone else."

Dawson knew all this. He found himself unable to look his friend in the eye. "Basil, if you had seen him—"

"Ah, but I was under strict orders from my physician not to leave the house," he countered smugly.

"Besides, if Flaversham can—"

Basil cut him off again, raising his hand and gesturing for silence. "Flaversham's already explained the matter. I realize that I won't be able to… dissuade the two of you from this harebrained scheme. So now my concern is to keep you from failing and ending up in prison yourselves."

"Pardon?"

Basil was heading for his work bench, digging through a heap of coiled up maps. "I've apprehended a great many criminal delinquents over the years, Dawson. I know their habits, their hideouts, their caches… their methods for slipping between the cracks." He turned, a strangely devious look in his eyes. "I know what works, and what doesn't." With a flick of the wrist he unrolled a map, and spread it out on his workbench. "Now, take a look at this…"

A few hours later and they were out the door, Basil getting a temporary reprieve from 'doctor's orders'.

"We're not taking Toby?"

"Come now, Dawson, we can't treat the dog like our own personal coach." He scoffed. "Besides, we're taking a pigeon."

Dawson stopped in his tracks. "A… pigeon?"

"Indeed! You'd be surprised what they'll do for an ounce of sunflower seeds." Then Basil laughed. "On second thought, you probably won't be surprised at all."

They slid off the pigeon Cyril's back and right into Dawson's earlier fear: they were surrounded by rats.

There was a palpable tension as the mice and rats evaluated each other. Basil and Dawson were greatly outnumbered, but the rats didn't seem inclined to start anything.

"Good evening," Basil said, as calm and cool as if he was passing a neighbor on the street.

"Evenin'," replied one of the larger, more intimidating rats.

The uneasy pause which followed left Dawson feeling like he might explode from the stress. Just when he couldn't bear it anymore, the large fellow shrugged and turned.

"I suppose you're here for the little bat. Come on, then." He casually led them to the soup can, and the other rats went about their business, as if there was nothing out of the sorts. After a few rapping knocks, he swung open the lid 'door' like it was nothing. "Hey, creachán! There's a couple'a mice out here for you."

A minute later Fidget popped out, moving briskly on a forked twig that the rats had fashioned into a crutch. It wasn't quite as efficient as his peg leg had been, but he was clearly experienced with the set up.

"Hey Doc! Lookit what—" He caught sight of Basil, and the giddiness immediately deflated. "Aw, the jig is up."

"As a matter of fact," Basil replied dryly, "I'm afraid I'm 'in on it' this time."

Fidget eyed him incredulously.

"It looks as if you've made some new friends. You should be aware that the more rodents who know you're alive, the more likely you are to get caught."

"I… I know that! It's not like I— they're the ones who— I mean, I'm the one trespassin' here, and…" He grew flustered. "Well, whatever. Rats've always been friends to me."

Dawson groaned and face-palmed. "Fidget, Ratigan was not your friend. I cannot stress this enough: he tried to throw you to your death. He fed you to his cat. He— he— you know what? Never mind. This is giving me a terrible headache."

For a moment Fidget looked like he was going to argue, but decided against it. He looked up at the hulking rat, and gave a quick nod of respect. "Thanks much."

"It weren't any trouble," he replied warmly, playfully mock punching the bat's shoulder. Then he made a grand sweeping gesture towards the entrance to the alley. "Your ride awaits, small potato."

"Heh heh heh. 'Small potato'."

"This is positively ridiculous," Basil scoffed under his breath.

After collecting the supplies Dawson had brought ("These are my long johns and trousers!?" Basil seethed), they headed back towards Cyril. Halfway there a small rat child darted out and took hold of the detective's Inverness coat.

"'Scuse me! But… you stopped Ratigan, right?" she asked, and Basil rolled his eyes, expecting yet another fawning young fan. "Is it true, he almost stole the throne? And he's the most smartest rodent in London? And he's a rat and he's the smartest?"

There was a half second where Basil looked terribly offended by the questions… only Olivia had softened his rough edges, and he sighed.

"Well, to answer your questions, yes, yes, yes, and yes." He didn't argue that he'd outsmarted Ratigan or that, since the master criminal was dead, he was no longer the smartest anything of London. Instead, he continued, "However, you shouldn't admire him… and not just because he was a criminal. Professor Ratigan denied— he hated who he was. It's normal to aspire to a higher station in life, but not at the expense of your heritage." He gingerly patted the girl on the head. "That is to say… you should never be ashamed of being a rat."

She snorted. "I wouldn't never, mister."

"Hey, leave the poor mouse alone," the large rat warned, and the child scampered off, giggling. "It ain't nearly that simple, is it."

"No, I'm afraid not."

They stopped when they reached the pigeon, who was quietly preening his feathers.

Fidget was doing his best to play off his apprehension, but it was obvious he was horrified, unconsciously clutching at his bum wing. "We're… uh, we're gonna… ride… that…?"

"Don't worry, we won't let you fall." Dawson tried to reassure him, but Basil had already deduced the problem— and it wasn't a fear of flying.

"There's no other option. Just hold tight, keep your eyes closed, and…" he fished a flask from his coat, "this will help."

He unhesitatingly took a hit, and then choked. "Is this laudanum?"

"If you don't want it…"

Taking the point, he had another swing from the flask and handed it back. "Hoookay. Let's do this."

Cyril crouched and drooped one wing on the ground, and Basil climbed on. Dawson and the rat helped Fidget up, and finally Dawson joined them. "Wait, all three yous ridin' up top?"

"Sorry old chap," Basil said.

"You owe me, squeaker." Cyril shook his head disdainfully.

"I know." He grabbed hold of Cyril's feathers, and the bird started to take off. Then he tensed up when Fidget clutched his belt and buried his face into the back of Basil's Inverness. The nerve! "I didn't mean hold onto me, you half-wit! I don't even like you—"

"Go n-éirí leat!" the rat called out, waving as they took to the sky.

It was a nondescript factory, and entry to the mouse-sized safehouse was from the roof, making it inaccessible to actual mice. Or at least, in theory. The notorious red squirrel counterfeiter, Nutkin, certainly hadn't accounted for genius detectives who were willing to bribe pigeons. They disembarked and Basil rushed ahead, yanking open the trapdoor.

"I'm the only one left who even knows this place exists." Then he smirked and tapped his temple. "As well as the only one who could find it otherwise. It may well be the safest spot in the whole city."

"Unless there's a fire."

He did a double take. "Unless— there— what—!? A fire? What the devil are you on about?"

"Heh heh heh! I'm jus' messing with you." Fidget poked his head into the hatch and glanced around, then looked back up, growing serious for a second. "'Cause if there was, I'm onna roof and I can't fly." Then he was grinning again. "Heh heh!" He threw the crutch down, winked at Basil, and jumped in.

There was a crash, and Basil pinched the bridge of his muzzle. "There's. A. Ladder! You nincompoop." He shot Dawson a derisive look. "Dearest Dawson, I may never find it in my heart to forgive you for this."

"Erm, sorry." He grinned sheepishly and shrugged.

Once they were all inside, Basil went about lighting the lanterns. "The factory keeps their furnaces running twenty-four-seven, so it's quite warm." He blew out the first match before it reached his fingers, and looked knowingly at Dawson. "Since you're worried about this dirty reprobate coming down with the pneumonia."

"Basil, he did nearly drown…"

"Yeah, what he said," Fidget agreed.

Basil lit another lantern and flicked the spent match at Fidget. "It was a bird, wasn't it?"

"What about a bird?" Dawson asked.

But Fidget understood, and he stared hard at the ground, ears folded back.

"Owl."

"A-ha. I had a suspicion it was an accident of misfortune, not a birth defect. I suppose you lost your leg in the same incident?"

"Nope."

Basil was surprised that he'd made the wrong call there, but pressed on. "You must've been quite young."

"Yeah."

"Come, come, now. Give me some multi-syllabic answers here, Fidget the peg-legged oh wait…"

"Basil!" Dawson was horrified.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about this."

"It's not all the same to me," Basil said in a warning tone.

"Yeah, I was around, um, around the age of that Flaversham girl."

"Oh, that's terrible."

Basil ignored Dawson. "She has a name, you know." He finished lighting a third lantern.

"Olivia." Fidget wilted as he said it.

"Olivia. And you're now, what, at least twice that, give or take…?"

"Give or take."

"But you don't really know, do you. So the leg, what happened there?"

Fidget sat down slowly, placing the crutch across his lap. "Mousetrap."

"Ahhhh, there it is."

Dawson looked expectantly at Basil, ready to hear his assessment.

"After all, there's no place in the roost for a 'ground-crawler'… that's what your kind calls us, correct? You try to make a life here, among mice, only to go from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. Then comes along Professor Ratigan, and with him food, shelter, a sense of security. In return, he gets to add a pet bat to his menagerie—"

Fidget was seething. "I ain't nobodies pet."

"Oh yes you were," Basil countered. "You and Lizard William and Inky the Shrew and Four-Aces-Fred the Hedgehog, all the same as that blasted cat, Felicia. Think about it, if you posses the brain power. You can't fly, Fidget, do you think Ratigan kept you around because of your skills?"

To that, he hid his face in his wings and made a small hitched choking sound.

"So you loyally follow your master, until he gets angry with you or grows tired with you— as he did with Inky and Four-Aces-Fred— because you haven't the initiative or discipline to better yourself. And here we are."

"What…?" Dawson started, and frantically glanced from Basil, who was now climbing up the ladder to the roof, and Fidget, who was having a meltdown. "Basil! Wait!" He scrambled after his friend. "Basil, how could you? That poor creature—"

Basil, without the slightest hint of malice, held up a hand. "Please, Dawson, let me stop you right there. You're an honorable mouse, kind-hearted and full of compassion, and I sincerely hope that never changes. What you fail to understand, however, is that they're all poor creatures. Every murderous scumbag, every mean-spirited lowlife, blackguard, thug, and ne'er-do-well. They are starving orphans, and abused children, and the undeserving poor who've been beaten down until their spirit is crushed. The desperate, who turn to desperate acts because they feel like there's no other option, and they can't see another way out. Each and every one of them has a sob story about how their tragic life turned them to crime. Yes, even Ratigan."

He stepped closer and placed a sympathetic hand on Dawson's shoulder.

"There have been times that I've turned a blind eye, or refrained from handing over evidence to Scotland Yard, when the culprit was unlikely to re-offend. Minor offenses, extenuating circumstances, the truly remorseful… You and Flaversham, however, are proactively helping someone who made an attempt on the Queen's life, and had a hand in Ratigan's wicked coup d'état plot. I've chosen to humor you on this one, Dawson, because you're new to this and it's all fresh and horrific to you.

"But rest assured that there will always be another 'Fidget'. Another sad, broken creature drowning in the Thames; another harrowing tale of loss. You need to learn to let justice take it's course, because otherwise, these 'poor creatures' will ultimately drag you under with them."