I clutched the edge of the mantel, fumbling for the familiar comfort of my pipe.
"Perhaps you should sit down, Mr. Holmes – I believe my colleague Dr. Dawson would agree with me, you look a trifle unwell."
I stared at the mouse, who sniffed at me and drew himself up to his full height – about five inches – and then reached out a tiny paw behind him and hauled another, stockier mouse from under one of Watson's journals which had fallen over upon its side.
"There's – two of you?" I gasped.
What was I saying?
I staggered over to my desk, unlocking the drawer and hauling out my Moroccan case. The clasp was rusty with disuse, and the velvet inside completely dry. No, I had not used the drug…
Why was I seeing talking mice then?
"Dr. Watson, I believe a drink might be in order for Mr. Holmes," I heard a tiny voice advise, not that of the taller mouse but of his companion.
Watson choked, spluttering at being addressed directly by a rodent, and hastily handed a glass to me.
"It's impossible," I muttered.
"Not so, Mr. Holmes. But if we're going to discuss matters intelligently, don't you suppose we should be formally introduced?"
Now it was my turn to splutter.
I took a deep breath as the mouse began.