Fic - "A Private Little War"
Title: A Private Little War
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Basil, Ratigan, Dawson. The Great Mouse Detective.
Word Count: 4,000
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Between the capture and the kill, Ratigan savors the moment. Dawson observes and intervenes.
Warnings: Molestation, an F-bomb, general desecration of beloved Disney characters.
Notes: Seventh in the Basil/Ratigan series. This one was quite tricky to write (hence the long wait). Prompter at disney_kink wanted an episode in which "Dawson gets in the middle." Because of my determination to keep this series as canon as possible, this was a challenge, since the three characters co-exist for barely an hour before Ratigan makes his grand and final exit. I was able to find a window of opportunity, and I hope I've delivered the "emotional roller-coaster ride" that was requested. Most of my series takes place years before the film, and this episode takes place at the very end of it all. Consider this a flash-forward to a glimpse of the epilogue! I think Basil is the first Disney hero to have a complete mental breakdown, so that was fun to write! Obviously Ratigan has reached the point where he is truly going to kill Basil, but how he got there is a story (or rather, many stories) for another day...
Dawson has seen many soldiers broken on the battlefield, but none so broken as Basil looks now. The doctor has known him for only a short while, and perhaps that makes it all the more startling to see him like this--- his head hanging low and his shoulders slumped, contrary to everything Dawson has learned about him. It’s strange, but Dawson is sure that if had known Basil for much longer, he would not be so disturbed by this abrupt transformation. As it is, the doctor is left with the unmistakable realization that this is the end of a very long battle, and he has arrived on the field just in time to witness the surrender.
Of course, it would be difficult to do anything but surrender in a situation as grim as theirs. Less than twenty-four hours into his foray in the world of crime-solving and Dawson finds himself surrounded by a gang of intimidating thugs and being stared down by London’s most infamous criminal, Professor Ratigan. Due to his years abroad in the service, Dawson was unaware of Ratigan’s existence until yesterday, but if Basil is to be even half-believed (and the doctor has yet to see any reason to doubt him), then this villain is certainly a thing to be feared. Even without Basil’s warning, Dawson would know--- one develops an instinct for such things, when one has been to war.
For now, their worst punishment seems to be humiliation. Dawson glances cautiously about the crowd and sees no weapons, only pointing fingers and faces contorted with cruel laughter. He was already feeling self-conscious in this foolish disguise, and now he squirms in discomfort, looking to Basil for a signal on what to do next. He receives no such sign. He receives nothing at all--- Basil is standing quite still, quite silent, and when Dawson stoops to catch a glimpse of his eyes, he notes with alarm that they have gone glassy and dull. The last time Dawson saw eyes like that, he was about to remove a gangrenous leg from a soldier in a backwater outpost. There was no anesthetic available, and as the doctor gently informed his patient of the circumstances, he watched his eyes mist over with dread and resignation.
“What’s the matter, old boy?” Ratigan chuckles, his attention focused wholly on Basil. “No snappy remarks? No moral indignation, no outrage?”
No response. Basil stares bleakly, blankly, at the floor. Still laughing, Ratigan grabs him roughly under the chin, prompting another roar of guffaws from his henchmen.
“You vile fiend!” the rat cries in a false, high voice, working Basil’s jaw like a puppet. “You blackguard! You’ll pay for this!”
When the detective still doesn’t respond, Ratigan’s amusement turns quickly to annoyance. Dawson shivers as those golden eyes narrow into slits, the broad smile turning all too quickly into a sneer, the muscles in his neck tightening as his grip on Basil intensifies.
“Still no answer, hmm?” he growls. “Well then, I suppose I can do whatever I like with you and you shan’t raise a word of protest, although it’s only the latter fact that is a novelty.”
Then, to Dawson’s great surprise and disgust, Ratigan swoops down and presses his mouth over Basil’s in a shameless, shocking kiss. The henchmen, apparently accustomed to such vulgar displays, supply a chorus of whistles and jeers. There’s something truly disturbing about the way Basil continues to stare like a blind man, the way his fingers almost start to curl into a fist before going slack in submission. Dawson has considered himself a surgeon with a strong stomach, but he’s never seen depravity like this before, and he almost gags on it.
He has known Ratigan for an even shorter time than he’s known Basil--- a scarce handful of minutes--- and he already hates the villain as he’s never hated another living being.
Instinct compels him to act. Before he can even realize what he’s doing (and if he did, he wouldn’t do it), he charges over and separates them with his hands flat against their chests, driving himself between them with arms spread. Once they’re apart, he keeps Basil tucked behind his back, facing Ratigan and using himself as a shield.
“That’s enough!” he announces, trying to sound braver than he feels. “Stop this at once! Can’t you see he’s in no condition to fight back?”
The henchmen murmur in anticipation of violence, and Ratigan gives the newcomer a long, measured stare.
Finally, he says calmly, “I’m sorry, but, who are you?”
Puffing up his chest, he answers, “Major David Q. Dawson, of the 66th Regiment.”
“Oh ho, a soldier, eh?” the rat raises his eyebrows. “Basil always did have a fondness for uniforms.”
“Look here,” Dawson wants this to stay as civilized as possible. “You’ve made your point, the superior mind and all that. There’s no need for all this.”
“Have you been with him long?”
“With who?”
“Why, our dear Basil, of course.” Ratigan’s eyes have a dangerous gleam. “How long have you been with him?”
Dawson is tempted to lie. He wonders if they will gain leniency if he claims that their friendship has lasted a matter of weeks or months, rather than hours; if Ratigan believes that Dawson has a right to come between them. But somehow he knows it would never work. He can already tell that Ratigan knows everything there is to know about Basil, and no one would be more qualified to catch a lie about his past.
“Not long,” Dawson says cautiously, then, bolder, “But long enough, I should think.”
“Long enough for what?” Ratigan persists, his voice taking a sharper edge.
“Long enough to--- to speak on his behalf.”
The rat steps closer, and Dawson cannot ignore the height advantage, as Ratigan looks down the length of his crooked muzzle and pins the doctor under his golden stare. He stoops elegantly, lowering his head so that his chin almost rests on Dawson’s shoulder, his lips only a fraction away from the doctor’s ear. His breath is hot and smells of brandy.
“Have you fucked him yet?”
Outraged, Dawson jerks his arm up and strikes Ratigan across the face with the back of his hand. He lets that action speak for him, choosing to remain wordless with indignation, as Ratigan slowly withdraws like an eel pulling back into its crevice.
“Now, there’s no need to be upset,” he says coolly, rubbing his chin. “I’m well aware of the intoxicating effect that our detective can have on even the most sensible among us.”
“How dare you imply such a thing?” Dawson blusters.
“I would be a fool not to notice the way he shadows you now,” And Ratigan begins to circle the two of them, lion-like. “The way he inclines his head toward you, the way he leans his body in order to be closer to yours...”
As the predator circles, so Dawson follows, keeping himself between the villain and the detective. In this position he cannot actually see if this description of Basil’s behavior is true. He can’t afford to wonder or worry about that now. The mood in the sewer has changed dramatically, and while moments ago Dawson could have convinced himself that they were going to be all right, now he’s not so sure.
“Major Dawson,” Ratigan finally stops and draws himself to his full, imposing height. “I must insist that you step aside. You have come between me and something that belongs to me, and I won’t tolerate this for much longer.”
“He doesn’t belong to you,” Dawson hisses. “He hates you.”
“A slave hates his master,” the villain chuckles condescendingly. “Yet the one still belongs to the other.”
“You’re despicable!”
“Step aside, Major.”
“I won’t!”
“You’re testing my patience. That’s not wise.”
“I don’t care!” Dawson’s practically shouting now. “I won’t let you touch him again!”
Faintly, from behind him, he hears a ragged sigh. Ratigan’s ears press back flat against his skull, his teeth bared in sudden rage, and before Dawson can move, the rat belts him in the jaw with a vicious backhand blow. Dawson staggers under the momentum, and when the guard breaks, Ratigan takes his chance. He shoves past the doctor and seizes Basil by the scruff, cackling triumphantly while the gathered crowd cheers at the sport. Enthused, he plucks off the detective’s hat and lobs it towards the peg-legged bat, who catches it with an expression of confusion and awe.
“A little souvenir for you, Fidget,” the villain explains. “Since you always were so fond of him.”
“Thanks, boss!” the bat grins madly, bringing the cap to his face and sniffing it deeply.
“Ah, Basil,” Ratigan smiles at his captive. “I do believe you’ve realized that I’m going to kill you this time.”
“But why?” Dawson bellows. “Whatever for?”
The rat doesn’t even bother to turn his head, just says over his shoulder, “This is none of your business, little major.”
“He’s my friend!”
Then--- then--- Ratigan turns on him, as if seeing him for the first time, and he draws Basil close to his chest and strokes his head as if he were a pet.
“He’s your friend, is he?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“But are you his friend?”
Dawson desperately searches Basil’s face for a sign, for an indication of what he should say, for a wink that promises escape at any moment. The detective just stares, his eyes glazed, as if he has become completely empty, as if the strain of too many years has finally, finally wiped his mind clean into silence.
Quieter this time, Dawson repeats, “I believe so. Yes.”
Ratigan smiles patronizingly and observes, “Well, I can see at least that you’ve inherited his penchant for ridiculous disguises.”
Mortified and distinctly unsettled, Dawson sheds what he can of his attire, throwing aside his cap, earring, and eyepatch. The last one startles him unexpectedly, as his depth perception suddenly plunges back into its full focus. The dimensions of the room swim and he blinks furiously against it. He takes one traitorous moment to scrub at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and when he opens them again, he gasps in alarm. Ratigan has stepped in quite close, and once he confirms that he has Dawson’s attention, he shoves Basil roughly towards him. Instinctively, the doctor catches him in his arms, and just like that, it’s an embrace.
They’re close, and they only have a few seconds. Dawson squeezes him, shakes him slightly, desperate to wake him.
“For god’s sake, Basil,” he whispers fiercely. “You’ve got to come to your senses!”
“How tenderly you hold him,” Ratigan says in a tone that causes Dawson’s blood to run cold. “And how tenderly he allows himself to be held.”
Basil is too thin and too warm, as though consumed with fever. The fur on his forehead and neck is damp with sweat. His jaw is rigid and reminds Dawson of a tetanus victim. The doctor realizes that he really knows nothing about him, not his age or his health or his habits, whether he eats well or starves himself, whether he drinks or abstains, whether he keeps a regular sleep schedule or is an insomniac. Holding him like this, feeling the scrawniness of his frame, Dawson can only assume that the more unfortunate options are true. He wonders how long Basil has been like this--- weeks, months--- God forbid, but it might have been years.
“Do you care about him?” Ratigan asks, and his voice sound as if it’s coming from a great distance.
In a soft tone meant just for the detective, Dawson says, “Someone has to care for him.”
“But do you,” Ratigan clarifies. “Love him?”
The doctor’s grip tightens and he says, “Yes. As one should love a fellow soldier.”
Abruptly, Basil is torn from his grasp, and while holding them each by their collars, Ratigan gets so close to Dawson’s face that the doctor could count the red veins crowding the edges of his eyes, as wide as they are with anger.
“You presumptive wretch,” the rat snarls. “I ought to break your neck for such insolence.”
“I was just---”
“You have no right!” the villain roars. “You don’t know him! Not like I do!”
“Then how can you treat him so cruelly?”
“I can do whatever I like with him,” Ratigan declares, then adds wickedly, “Observe.”
There’s tremendous strength in that rat, and when he shoves Dawson away from him, the doctor staggers back several paces before he can regain his balance. He wants to charge right back into the fray, but at Ratigan’s signal, a pair of thugs grab Dawson’s arms and restrain him.
“I said I want you to observe, Major,” the villain growls. “Not participate.”
Then he turns to Basil, who stands haggard and hollow-eyed before him, his head tilted minutely in Dawson’s direction. Grandly, reveling in every moment, Ratigan tips Basil’s chin up towards him, and kisses him. Squeezing the detective’s slack jaw, he forces his mouth open and pours his tongue inside. Even from where he stands, Dawson can see it, huge and thick, scraping at the roof of Basil’s mouth and distending his cheeks with its girth. Revulsion surges in the doctor’s belly and he swallows hard against it.
With one last nip to his victim’s lower lip, Ratigan places a hand at the crown of the detective’s head and pushes firmly downwards. Catatonic as he is, Basil offers no resistance and allows himself to be driven down to his knees.
“Not a word of protest,” Ratigan notes, almost wistfully. “After all these years, you’re finally...”
He allows that thought to fall into silence, a thought perhaps too intimate for even an exhibitionist like him to display before a stranger. He cups a hand gently under Basil’s chin, his thumb stroking his parted lips, his head leaning like a bird’s, as though he can somehow make contact with the detective’s newly-blind eyes.
“It had to end sometime, Basil,” he murmurs. “But I shall have you, one last time, before the end.”
Turning towards Dawson, he bares his teeth in a grin that drips with all seven deadly sins, from pride to gluttony to unmistakeable lust.
“See how he kneels for me, Major,” he breathes heatedly. “For me.”
The hand still holding Basil’s chin loses all gentility, the fingers curling around the jaw like snakes, pulling his mouth inexorably open. Ratigan’s other hand palms his groin, coaxing, preparing himself for pleasure. Dawson pulls violently against those who restrain him, as horror lends new vigor to his struggling, his nerves boiling with panic bordering on hysteria.
“Are you mad?” he bawls helplessly.
“When it comes to this creature,” Ratigan chuckles with something almost like genuine affection. “I would say I am quite mad, indeed.”
He has just unfastened the first button of his trousers when they all hear a muffled, distant chiming. It comes from the impressive grandfather clock within the heart of the lair, and it announces the hour with soft, stubborn authority. Ratigan’s face falls into an expression of utter, profound disappointment. He anxiously confirms the time on his pocket watch, holding his breath for a long moment before releasing it in an exasperated, disbelieving sigh. With great reluctance, he sinks to one knee, drawing Basil’s face gently towards his own, stroking his cheeks with his gloved thumbs.
“Oh, my dear Basil,” he says darkly. “I don’t think I shall ever forgive you for being fifteen minutes late.”
Dawson’s knees give out from under him and his full weight is now supported by his captors. He watches in numb confusion as Ratigan gives Basil a final, lingering kiss, and for a moment they look for all the world like two lovers sharing a tender farewell on a train station platform. Then Ratigan stands abruptly, leaving the detective to collapse to his hands and knees.
“Take him to the trap,” the villain commands.
The henchmen obey, and as Dawson and Basil are dragged away to be bound, the doctor refuses to be moved by Ratigan’s shaking hands, his clenched teeth and his tightly-closed eyes.
- - -
Tomorrow they receive medals and formal thanks from the Queen. Tonight they lick their wounds. The Flavershams are tucked away in Mrs. Judson’s spare bedroom upstairs, while Dawson finds himself in a position he thought he might never fill again--- that of the battlefield surgeon.
Basil did his best to hide his wounds from the hysterical young Olivia, who sobbed and embraced him while the detective winced over her shoulder. He sat quietly on the floor of their makeshift aircraft until they managed to reach the ground, and as they were surrounded by police and palace guards, he stood and shook hands and said “no trouble at all” until the words lost their meaning. Only Dawson seemed to notice his trembling, and he stayed close to him, ready to catch him if it should become necessary.
Now, safely hidden in his study, Basil gingerly strips off his ruined garments, from the tattered remains of his jacket to the torn dress shirt that has sealed to his wounds, pulling up dried blood and pouring out fresh as it leaves him and falls into a messy heap on the floor. The housekeeper has stoked a nice fire for them, and between its glow and a few lamps, Dawson has enough light to do his work. How fortunate that habit still compels him to carry a doctor’s essentials with him to this day--- from his old leather bag he is able to produce iodine, needle, and a spool of black silk thread.
Basil, naked to the waist, waits for him on the couch near the fireplace. Dawson pulls up a footstool to sit in front of him. He taps the detective gingerly under the chin, and when Basil obediently lifts his head, he reveals the wounds that first caught Dawson’s eye--- a series of deep gashes where Ratigan swung for Basil’s throat and missed the carotid artery by a lucky fraction. Dawson mops the injuries with iodine but Basil doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t even flinch when the doctor draws the flesh together in a set of continuous stitches. Halfway through Dawson realizes that he has the time to perform a more effective interrupted stitch, but war-time instinct compels him to work as quickly and efficiently as he can, in order to move on to the next patient in line as soon as possible. It’s refreshing and strangely sobering to realize that there aren’t going to be any more patients, not after this one.
Although Basil’s neck and jaw sustained the most blows, there are two other strikes that left significant damage. The first was a drive straight down Basil’s chest, and as Dawson turns the wounds into rows of neat sutures, he can’t help but notice that they cut across a set of existing scars, thick and unmistakably deep. When he has finished repairing the new injuries, Dawson cautiously brushes his fingertips against the old ones, and for the first time since they arrived back at Baker Street, Basil makes eye contact. Dawson immediately wishes he hadn’t. The detective’s eyes are wretched and full of pain, bottomless in their haunted grief, and the doctor’s heart feels faint at the sight.
“Basil,” he wonders cautiously. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m curious, doctor,” the detective says in a strained voice. “How did you feel when it was over?”
“When what was over?”
“Your war.” After a beat, he clarifies, “Yes, the war itself continued in your absence, but when your tour of duty was complete, the war ceased to be the immediate frame of your existence. How did you feel?”
“Well, relieved, I suppose,” Dawson has never bothered to consider this, and he struggles to remember. “I was pleased to be going home.”
“Did you not suffer from--- from a sense of---” Basil swallows his words, and Dawson can only guess what he wants to hear.
“I did feel a bit--- that is, I was rather--- it was difficult at first.” He checks Basil’s face, sees a glimmer of something like hope, and continues. “I had a certain sense of--- uselessness. To be without purpose, after so long fighting the same fight--- I would say I suffered, yes.”
“I can’t help but--- cling to your tenses, Dawson.” He gives a short, brittle bark of laughter. “The past tense.”
Dawson slips a soft and soothing hand to his shoulder. “It will pass, old boy.”
“A promise,” Basil whispers, and he closes his eyes. “Something else to cling to.”
After a certain period of silence, Dawson prompts gently, “Come on, then. Let’s have a look at that back of yours.”
The detective faces the fireplace, a pillow hugged to his chest as he leans forward to expose the worst of his wounds--- four jagged lines torn deep into the flesh of his back, starting at his shoulder blade and slashing diagonally towards the opposite hip. With a doctor’s eye for detail, Dawson notices immediately that they’re a mirror of the scars on his chest, solving the mystery for him without him ever asking. He reaches for his spool to re-thread the curved suture needle, but as he pulls out a length of black silk, Basil gives a significant cough of discouragement.
“That won’t be necessary, doctor,” he says, audibly fighting to keep his voice level. “Bandages will be quite sufficient.”
“Basil, if these aren’t stitched properly, these wounds will leave---”
“---scars.” His voice is unnervingly quiet. “Yes, I know.”
Dawson sighs and begins to prepare the gauze, and he mutters under his breath, “I can’t imagine why you would want such a thing.”
But Basil’s ears are much sharper than Dawson gives him credit for, and he snaps, “How fortunate, then, that this decision does not depend on your apparently limited imagination.”
Guilt spreads like a balm over Dawson’s scorched nerves, which had been frayed to the breaking point by the trials and torment of the long night they’ve had together, and he applies the gauze without further protest. When Basil speaks again, his voice is distant and dark, unlike anything the doctor has heard from him before.
“It feels--- proper,” he explains, as if to himself. “That these wounds should be--- preserved. For the sake of history.”
Dawson follows his riveted stare and realizes that Basil is spellbound by the sinister portrait still hanging over the mantel.
“They are, after all, the--- last wounds that he will ever--- that he shall ever give---”
His voice breaks, and he clutches at his chest as though the new stitches might pull open from the force of his heart expanding suddenly, agonizingly, in a spasm of unexpected grief. Though his body shudders and his throat constricts, his eyes remain fixed on that wretched portrait, burning, yearning with a force that cannot be explained. He’s completely frozen, pinned by Ratigan’s painted smile, and his eyes start to water, unable to even blink in the grip of this horrible paralysis.
Impulsively, Dawson reaches around to his face and presses his hands over his eyes, pulling him into darkness. He’s heard that horses must be treated this way, that they panic at the sight of danger and must be blindfolded before they can be led to safety. Evidently the same holds true for poor Basil, who, finally free, turns and buries his face against Dawson’s neck, releasing his trapped breath in a gut-wrenching howl.
Tomorrow they receive medals and formal thanks from the Queen. Tonight they lick their wounds and pray for the strength to endure.
_______end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Basil, Ratigan, Dawson. The Great Mouse Detective.
Word Count: 4,000
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Between the capture and the kill, Ratigan savors the moment. Dawson observes and intervenes.
Warnings: Molestation, an F-bomb, general desecration of beloved Disney characters.
Notes: Seventh in the Basil/Ratigan series. This one was quite tricky to write (hence the long wait). Prompter at disney_kink wanted an episode in which "Dawson gets in the middle." Because of my determination to keep this series as canon as possible, this was a challenge, since the three characters co-exist for barely an hour before Ratigan makes his grand and final exit. I was able to find a window of opportunity, and I hope I've delivered the "emotional roller-coaster ride" that was requested. Most of my series takes place years before the film, and this episode takes place at the very end of it all. Consider this a flash-forward to a glimpse of the epilogue! I think Basil is the first Disney hero to have a complete mental breakdown, so that was fun to write! Obviously Ratigan has reached the point where he is truly going to kill Basil, but how he got there is a story (or rather, many stories) for another day...
Dawson has seen many soldiers broken on the battlefield, but none so broken as Basil looks now. The doctor has known him for only a short while, and perhaps that makes it all the more startling to see him like this--- his head hanging low and his shoulders slumped, contrary to everything Dawson has learned about him. It’s strange, but Dawson is sure that if had known Basil for much longer, he would not be so disturbed by this abrupt transformation. As it is, the doctor is left with the unmistakable realization that this is the end of a very long battle, and he has arrived on the field just in time to witness the surrender.
Of course, it would be difficult to do anything but surrender in a situation as grim as theirs. Less than twenty-four hours into his foray in the world of crime-solving and Dawson finds himself surrounded by a gang of intimidating thugs and being stared down by London’s most infamous criminal, Professor Ratigan. Due to his years abroad in the service, Dawson was unaware of Ratigan’s existence until yesterday, but if Basil is to be even half-believed (and the doctor has yet to see any reason to doubt him), then this villain is certainly a thing to be feared. Even without Basil’s warning, Dawson would know--- one develops an instinct for such things, when one has been to war.
For now, their worst punishment seems to be humiliation. Dawson glances cautiously about the crowd and sees no weapons, only pointing fingers and faces contorted with cruel laughter. He was already feeling self-conscious in this foolish disguise, and now he squirms in discomfort, looking to Basil for a signal on what to do next. He receives no such sign. He receives nothing at all--- Basil is standing quite still, quite silent, and when Dawson stoops to catch a glimpse of his eyes, he notes with alarm that they have gone glassy and dull. The last time Dawson saw eyes like that, he was about to remove a gangrenous leg from a soldier in a backwater outpost. There was no anesthetic available, and as the doctor gently informed his patient of the circumstances, he watched his eyes mist over with dread and resignation.
“What’s the matter, old boy?” Ratigan chuckles, his attention focused wholly on Basil. “No snappy remarks? No moral indignation, no outrage?”
No response. Basil stares bleakly, blankly, at the floor. Still laughing, Ratigan grabs him roughly under the chin, prompting another roar of guffaws from his henchmen.
“You vile fiend!” the rat cries in a false, high voice, working Basil’s jaw like a puppet. “You blackguard! You’ll pay for this!”
When the detective still doesn’t respond, Ratigan’s amusement turns quickly to annoyance. Dawson shivers as those golden eyes narrow into slits, the broad smile turning all too quickly into a sneer, the muscles in his neck tightening as his grip on Basil intensifies.
“Still no answer, hmm?” he growls. “Well then, I suppose I can do whatever I like with you and you shan’t raise a word of protest, although it’s only the latter fact that is a novelty.”
Then, to Dawson’s great surprise and disgust, Ratigan swoops down and presses his mouth over Basil’s in a shameless, shocking kiss. The henchmen, apparently accustomed to such vulgar displays, supply a chorus of whistles and jeers. There’s something truly disturbing about the way Basil continues to stare like a blind man, the way his fingers almost start to curl into a fist before going slack in submission. Dawson has considered himself a surgeon with a strong stomach, but he’s never seen depravity like this before, and he almost gags on it.
He has known Ratigan for an even shorter time than he’s known Basil--- a scarce handful of minutes--- and he already hates the villain as he’s never hated another living being.
Instinct compels him to act. Before he can even realize what he’s doing (and if he did, he wouldn’t do it), he charges over and separates them with his hands flat against their chests, driving himself between them with arms spread. Once they’re apart, he keeps Basil tucked behind his back, facing Ratigan and using himself as a shield.
“That’s enough!” he announces, trying to sound braver than he feels. “Stop this at once! Can’t you see he’s in no condition to fight back?”
The henchmen murmur in anticipation of violence, and Ratigan gives the newcomer a long, measured stare.
Finally, he says calmly, “I’m sorry, but, who are you?”
Puffing up his chest, he answers, “Major David Q. Dawson, of the 66th Regiment.”
“Oh ho, a soldier, eh?” the rat raises his eyebrows. “Basil always did have a fondness for uniforms.”
“Look here,” Dawson wants this to stay as civilized as possible. “You’ve made your point, the superior mind and all that. There’s no need for all this.”
“Have you been with him long?”
“With who?”
“Why, our dear Basil, of course.” Ratigan’s eyes have a dangerous gleam. “How long have you been with him?”
Dawson is tempted to lie. He wonders if they will gain leniency if he claims that their friendship has lasted a matter of weeks or months, rather than hours; if Ratigan believes that Dawson has a right to come between them. But somehow he knows it would never work. He can already tell that Ratigan knows everything there is to know about Basil, and no one would be more qualified to catch a lie about his past.
“Not long,” Dawson says cautiously, then, bolder, “But long enough, I should think.”
“Long enough for what?” Ratigan persists, his voice taking a sharper edge.
“Long enough to--- to speak on his behalf.”
The rat steps closer, and Dawson cannot ignore the height advantage, as Ratigan looks down the length of his crooked muzzle and pins the doctor under his golden stare. He stoops elegantly, lowering his head so that his chin almost rests on Dawson’s shoulder, his lips only a fraction away from the doctor’s ear. His breath is hot and smells of brandy.
“Have you fucked him yet?”
Outraged, Dawson jerks his arm up and strikes Ratigan across the face with the back of his hand. He lets that action speak for him, choosing to remain wordless with indignation, as Ratigan slowly withdraws like an eel pulling back into its crevice.
“Now, there’s no need to be upset,” he says coolly, rubbing his chin. “I’m well aware of the intoxicating effect that our detective can have on even the most sensible among us.”
“How dare you imply such a thing?” Dawson blusters.
“I would be a fool not to notice the way he shadows you now,” And Ratigan begins to circle the two of them, lion-like. “The way he inclines his head toward you, the way he leans his body in order to be closer to yours...”
As the predator circles, so Dawson follows, keeping himself between the villain and the detective. In this position he cannot actually see if this description of Basil’s behavior is true. He can’t afford to wonder or worry about that now. The mood in the sewer has changed dramatically, and while moments ago Dawson could have convinced himself that they were going to be all right, now he’s not so sure.
“Major Dawson,” Ratigan finally stops and draws himself to his full, imposing height. “I must insist that you step aside. You have come between me and something that belongs to me, and I won’t tolerate this for much longer.”
“He doesn’t belong to you,” Dawson hisses. “He hates you.”
“A slave hates his master,” the villain chuckles condescendingly. “Yet the one still belongs to the other.”
“You’re despicable!”
“Step aside, Major.”
“I won’t!”
“You’re testing my patience. That’s not wise.”
“I don’t care!” Dawson’s practically shouting now. “I won’t let you touch him again!”
Faintly, from behind him, he hears a ragged sigh. Ratigan’s ears press back flat against his skull, his teeth bared in sudden rage, and before Dawson can move, the rat belts him in the jaw with a vicious backhand blow. Dawson staggers under the momentum, and when the guard breaks, Ratigan takes his chance. He shoves past the doctor and seizes Basil by the scruff, cackling triumphantly while the gathered crowd cheers at the sport. Enthused, he plucks off the detective’s hat and lobs it towards the peg-legged bat, who catches it with an expression of confusion and awe.
“A little souvenir for you, Fidget,” the villain explains. “Since you always were so fond of him.”
“Thanks, boss!” the bat grins madly, bringing the cap to his face and sniffing it deeply.
“Ah, Basil,” Ratigan smiles at his captive. “I do believe you’ve realized that I’m going to kill you this time.”
“But why?” Dawson bellows. “Whatever for?”
The rat doesn’t even bother to turn his head, just says over his shoulder, “This is none of your business, little major.”
“He’s my friend!”
Then--- then--- Ratigan turns on him, as if seeing him for the first time, and he draws Basil close to his chest and strokes his head as if he were a pet.
“He’s your friend, is he?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“But are you his friend?”
Dawson desperately searches Basil’s face for a sign, for an indication of what he should say, for a wink that promises escape at any moment. The detective just stares, his eyes glazed, as if he has become completely empty, as if the strain of too many years has finally, finally wiped his mind clean into silence.
Quieter this time, Dawson repeats, “I believe so. Yes.”
Ratigan smiles patronizingly and observes, “Well, I can see at least that you’ve inherited his penchant for ridiculous disguises.”
Mortified and distinctly unsettled, Dawson sheds what he can of his attire, throwing aside his cap, earring, and eyepatch. The last one startles him unexpectedly, as his depth perception suddenly plunges back into its full focus. The dimensions of the room swim and he blinks furiously against it. He takes one traitorous moment to scrub at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and when he opens them again, he gasps in alarm. Ratigan has stepped in quite close, and once he confirms that he has Dawson’s attention, he shoves Basil roughly towards him. Instinctively, the doctor catches him in his arms, and just like that, it’s an embrace.
They’re close, and they only have a few seconds. Dawson squeezes him, shakes him slightly, desperate to wake him.
“For god’s sake, Basil,” he whispers fiercely. “You’ve got to come to your senses!”
“How tenderly you hold him,” Ratigan says in a tone that causes Dawson’s blood to run cold. “And how tenderly he allows himself to be held.”
Basil is too thin and too warm, as though consumed with fever. The fur on his forehead and neck is damp with sweat. His jaw is rigid and reminds Dawson of a tetanus victim. The doctor realizes that he really knows nothing about him, not his age or his health or his habits, whether he eats well or starves himself, whether he drinks or abstains, whether he keeps a regular sleep schedule or is an insomniac. Holding him like this, feeling the scrawniness of his frame, Dawson can only assume that the more unfortunate options are true. He wonders how long Basil has been like this--- weeks, months--- God forbid, but it might have been years.
“Do you care about him?” Ratigan asks, and his voice sound as if it’s coming from a great distance.
In a soft tone meant just for the detective, Dawson says, “Someone has to care for him.”
“But do you,” Ratigan clarifies. “Love him?”
The doctor’s grip tightens and he says, “Yes. As one should love a fellow soldier.”
Abruptly, Basil is torn from his grasp, and while holding them each by their collars, Ratigan gets so close to Dawson’s face that the doctor could count the red veins crowding the edges of his eyes, as wide as they are with anger.
“You presumptive wretch,” the rat snarls. “I ought to break your neck for such insolence.”
“I was just---”
“You have no right!” the villain roars. “You don’t know him! Not like I do!”
“Then how can you treat him so cruelly?”
“I can do whatever I like with him,” Ratigan declares, then adds wickedly, “Observe.”
There’s tremendous strength in that rat, and when he shoves Dawson away from him, the doctor staggers back several paces before he can regain his balance. He wants to charge right back into the fray, but at Ratigan’s signal, a pair of thugs grab Dawson’s arms and restrain him.
“I said I want you to observe, Major,” the villain growls. “Not participate.”
Then he turns to Basil, who stands haggard and hollow-eyed before him, his head tilted minutely in Dawson’s direction. Grandly, reveling in every moment, Ratigan tips Basil’s chin up towards him, and kisses him. Squeezing the detective’s slack jaw, he forces his mouth open and pours his tongue inside. Even from where he stands, Dawson can see it, huge and thick, scraping at the roof of Basil’s mouth and distending his cheeks with its girth. Revulsion surges in the doctor’s belly and he swallows hard against it.
With one last nip to his victim’s lower lip, Ratigan places a hand at the crown of the detective’s head and pushes firmly downwards. Catatonic as he is, Basil offers no resistance and allows himself to be driven down to his knees.
“Not a word of protest,” Ratigan notes, almost wistfully. “After all these years, you’re finally...”
He allows that thought to fall into silence, a thought perhaps too intimate for even an exhibitionist like him to display before a stranger. He cups a hand gently under Basil’s chin, his thumb stroking his parted lips, his head leaning like a bird’s, as though he can somehow make contact with the detective’s newly-blind eyes.
“It had to end sometime, Basil,” he murmurs. “But I shall have you, one last time, before the end.”
Turning towards Dawson, he bares his teeth in a grin that drips with all seven deadly sins, from pride to gluttony to unmistakeable lust.
“See how he kneels for me, Major,” he breathes heatedly. “For me.”
The hand still holding Basil’s chin loses all gentility, the fingers curling around the jaw like snakes, pulling his mouth inexorably open. Ratigan’s other hand palms his groin, coaxing, preparing himself for pleasure. Dawson pulls violently against those who restrain him, as horror lends new vigor to his struggling, his nerves boiling with panic bordering on hysteria.
“Are you mad?” he bawls helplessly.
“When it comes to this creature,” Ratigan chuckles with something almost like genuine affection. “I would say I am quite mad, indeed.”
He has just unfastened the first button of his trousers when they all hear a muffled, distant chiming. It comes from the impressive grandfather clock within the heart of the lair, and it announces the hour with soft, stubborn authority. Ratigan’s face falls into an expression of utter, profound disappointment. He anxiously confirms the time on his pocket watch, holding his breath for a long moment before releasing it in an exasperated, disbelieving sigh. With great reluctance, he sinks to one knee, drawing Basil’s face gently towards his own, stroking his cheeks with his gloved thumbs.
“Oh, my dear Basil,” he says darkly. “I don’t think I shall ever forgive you for being fifteen minutes late.”
Dawson’s knees give out from under him and his full weight is now supported by his captors. He watches in numb confusion as Ratigan gives Basil a final, lingering kiss, and for a moment they look for all the world like two lovers sharing a tender farewell on a train station platform. Then Ratigan stands abruptly, leaving the detective to collapse to his hands and knees.
“Take him to the trap,” the villain commands.
The henchmen obey, and as Dawson and Basil are dragged away to be bound, the doctor refuses to be moved by Ratigan’s shaking hands, his clenched teeth and his tightly-closed eyes.
- - -
Tomorrow they receive medals and formal thanks from the Queen. Tonight they lick their wounds. The Flavershams are tucked away in Mrs. Judson’s spare bedroom upstairs, while Dawson finds himself in a position he thought he might never fill again--- that of the battlefield surgeon.
Basil did his best to hide his wounds from the hysterical young Olivia, who sobbed and embraced him while the detective winced over her shoulder. He sat quietly on the floor of their makeshift aircraft until they managed to reach the ground, and as they were surrounded by police and palace guards, he stood and shook hands and said “no trouble at all” until the words lost their meaning. Only Dawson seemed to notice his trembling, and he stayed close to him, ready to catch him if it should become necessary.
Now, safely hidden in his study, Basil gingerly strips off his ruined garments, from the tattered remains of his jacket to the torn dress shirt that has sealed to his wounds, pulling up dried blood and pouring out fresh as it leaves him and falls into a messy heap on the floor. The housekeeper has stoked a nice fire for them, and between its glow and a few lamps, Dawson has enough light to do his work. How fortunate that habit still compels him to carry a doctor’s essentials with him to this day--- from his old leather bag he is able to produce iodine, needle, and a spool of black silk thread.
Basil, naked to the waist, waits for him on the couch near the fireplace. Dawson pulls up a footstool to sit in front of him. He taps the detective gingerly under the chin, and when Basil obediently lifts his head, he reveals the wounds that first caught Dawson’s eye--- a series of deep gashes where Ratigan swung for Basil’s throat and missed the carotid artery by a lucky fraction. Dawson mops the injuries with iodine but Basil doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t even flinch when the doctor draws the flesh together in a set of continuous stitches. Halfway through Dawson realizes that he has the time to perform a more effective interrupted stitch, but war-time instinct compels him to work as quickly and efficiently as he can, in order to move on to the next patient in line as soon as possible. It’s refreshing and strangely sobering to realize that there aren’t going to be any more patients, not after this one.
Although Basil’s neck and jaw sustained the most blows, there are two other strikes that left significant damage. The first was a drive straight down Basil’s chest, and as Dawson turns the wounds into rows of neat sutures, he can’t help but notice that they cut across a set of existing scars, thick and unmistakably deep. When he has finished repairing the new injuries, Dawson cautiously brushes his fingertips against the old ones, and for the first time since they arrived back at Baker Street, Basil makes eye contact. Dawson immediately wishes he hadn’t. The detective’s eyes are wretched and full of pain, bottomless in their haunted grief, and the doctor’s heart feels faint at the sight.
“Basil,” he wonders cautiously. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m curious, doctor,” the detective says in a strained voice. “How did you feel when it was over?”
“When what was over?”
“Your war.” After a beat, he clarifies, “Yes, the war itself continued in your absence, but when your tour of duty was complete, the war ceased to be the immediate frame of your existence. How did you feel?”
“Well, relieved, I suppose,” Dawson has never bothered to consider this, and he struggles to remember. “I was pleased to be going home.”
“Did you not suffer from--- from a sense of---” Basil swallows his words, and Dawson can only guess what he wants to hear.
“I did feel a bit--- that is, I was rather--- it was difficult at first.” He checks Basil’s face, sees a glimmer of something like hope, and continues. “I had a certain sense of--- uselessness. To be without purpose, after so long fighting the same fight--- I would say I suffered, yes.”
“I can’t help but--- cling to your tenses, Dawson.” He gives a short, brittle bark of laughter. “The past tense.”
Dawson slips a soft and soothing hand to his shoulder. “It will pass, old boy.”
“A promise,” Basil whispers, and he closes his eyes. “Something else to cling to.”
After a certain period of silence, Dawson prompts gently, “Come on, then. Let’s have a look at that back of yours.”
The detective faces the fireplace, a pillow hugged to his chest as he leans forward to expose the worst of his wounds--- four jagged lines torn deep into the flesh of his back, starting at his shoulder blade and slashing diagonally towards the opposite hip. With a doctor’s eye for detail, Dawson notices immediately that they’re a mirror of the scars on his chest, solving the mystery for him without him ever asking. He reaches for his spool to re-thread the curved suture needle, but as he pulls out a length of black silk, Basil gives a significant cough of discouragement.
“That won’t be necessary, doctor,” he says, audibly fighting to keep his voice level. “Bandages will be quite sufficient.”
“Basil, if these aren’t stitched properly, these wounds will leave---”
“---scars.” His voice is unnervingly quiet. “Yes, I know.”
Dawson sighs and begins to prepare the gauze, and he mutters under his breath, “I can’t imagine why you would want such a thing.”
But Basil’s ears are much sharper than Dawson gives him credit for, and he snaps, “How fortunate, then, that this decision does not depend on your apparently limited imagination.”
Guilt spreads like a balm over Dawson’s scorched nerves, which had been frayed to the breaking point by the trials and torment of the long night they’ve had together, and he applies the gauze without further protest. When Basil speaks again, his voice is distant and dark, unlike anything the doctor has heard from him before.
“It feels--- proper,” he explains, as if to himself. “That these wounds should be--- preserved. For the sake of history.”
Dawson follows his riveted stare and realizes that Basil is spellbound by the sinister portrait still hanging over the mantel.
“They are, after all, the--- last wounds that he will ever--- that he shall ever give---”
His voice breaks, and he clutches at his chest as though the new stitches might pull open from the force of his heart expanding suddenly, agonizingly, in a spasm of unexpected grief. Though his body shudders and his throat constricts, his eyes remain fixed on that wretched portrait, burning, yearning with a force that cannot be explained. He’s completely frozen, pinned by Ratigan’s painted smile, and his eyes start to water, unable to even blink in the grip of this horrible paralysis.
Impulsively, Dawson reaches around to his face and presses his hands over his eyes, pulling him into darkness. He’s heard that horses must be treated this way, that they panic at the sight of danger and must be blindfolded before they can be led to safety. Evidently the same holds true for poor Basil, who, finally free, turns and buries his face against Dawson’s neck, releasing his trapped breath in a gut-wrenching howl.
Tomorrow they receive medals and formal thanks from the Queen. Tonight they lick their wounds and pray for the strength to endure.
_______end.