Holmes had been crawling under the couch as I spoke, and he jerked his head up straight into the bottom of it, cursing loudly.
The mouse at my feet squeaked what I assumed to be the rodent equivalent to a snicker. Holmes scrambled up and over the couch, glaring at me warningly. I wordlessly pointed a finger at my feet.
The mouse climbed up on the arm of my chair, regarding us with twinkling eyes.
"Having a bit of trouble, Mr. Holmes?"
"I don't talk to mice, I don't talk to mice," I heard him mutter desperately, and I could not restrain a laugh. Basil joined me, glancing at me in amusement.
"Stubborn chap, isn't he?"
"Definitely," I agreed with a grin.
"What's your difficulty, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, whiskers twitching as he turned that tiny piercing gaze back to my friend.
"I dropped a bullet I was inspecting – now wait!"
I snickered, and Basil did as well.
"You don't talk to mice, eh?"
"Don't start with me, Watson!"
The mouse jumped off my chair and I watched interestedly as he began to make his way through the litter, wriggling in and out of the stacks of books until he finally disappeared under a loose stone in the hearth.
And a moment later, he emerged, dragging with him the lost bullet.