These mice won't stay out of my head...
"Dr. Watson?"
One of the curses of living with the world's noisiest private detective was that one learnt to be an exceptionally light sleeper, unless one wished to be awoken by various methods including pitchers of ice water.
This was no exception. I rolled over and opened my eyes – realising there was no one there!
I sat up confusedly to see the speaker, relieved to find I was not hearing things.
"I'm sorry to waken you like this, Doctor."
"It's all right, Dawson – what on earth's the matter?"
The mouse's furry face was worried, as much as a rodent's expression is possible to be.
"It's Basil, Dr. Watson – he's contracted a severe cold and I confess to being out of tonic," he said sheepishly, "and as you are closer than the apothecary's down the street –"
I sighed but got into my dressing gown, putting the mouse in my pocket, going to the sitting room to find my cough syrup.
A door creaked open behind me and Holmes's voice sounded sleepily.
"Wha's wrong, Wats'n? You ill?"
"No, the mouse needs cough syrup," I said absently, digging through my bag.
There was a pause, and then his voice came again, fully alert this time.
"What mouse?"
"The one in my pocket."
"The one… Watson. Have you ever been prone to sleepwalking before?"