"Doc and Mabel" (Part 1 of 2) (Fanfic, Basil of Baker Street/GMD), (2014 JWP Practice Prompt #4)
Title: Doc and Mabel (Part 1)
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Basil of Baker Street (Sherlock Holmes animal AU)
Pairing: Basil / Dawson
Word Count: 1646
Rating: PG (language)
Warning: Language. Violence to animals. Mouse-POV attitudes about cats.
Summary: A sequel, of sorts, to last year’s JWP 2013 entry, “ The Hidden Paw.”
Author's Notes: For the 2014 JWP Practice Prompt: Cliffhanger!
EDITED TO ADD: This story is now complete. Part 2 can be found here.
I saw the cat; he didn’t see me. Of course I saw him - I’m a mouse that’s survived to adulthood in a city teeming with the beasts, aren’t I? I gave the feline the berth he required, staying downwind and out of earshot; the tom did not twitch a whisker as I crossed the alley at the far end.
I did not loiter, for I had my patients to see to - young Timothy and his bad cough, old Penrose’s gout, poor blind feverish Violet who was surely not long for this world, Mrs. Barret who would soon have her pups. A doctor is well run off his paws in London.
Others shared the city streets with me; humans and horses on the great wide roads, dogs and cats, rats and mice on our own byways, pigeons and starlings where they would. The little fierce dogs and the cats posed the greatest personal threats; I also watched for crows, carriage wheels and great horse-hooves, the stomp of humans’ shoes and boots. I was quick and I was stealthy. So long as I make my medical rounds - even more than those occasions when I happily join my companion Basil in rooting out a mystery - my Army training will never wither for lack of practise. My poor friend pretends to be nonchalant about the perils of my work, but he holds me a little tighter on those days upon my return.
At a high-pitched cacophony of mews clustered on a pile of rubbish near another alleyway’s entrance I dashed the final feet, heart in my mouth. Then I was safe in Timothy’s hole in the wallboards of a clapboard shanty, without the horrid kittens or their she-devil mother catching wind of me. Hideous creatures, cats! (I have no quarrel with the roles Divine Providence has laid out for all the creatures of Her good earth - but whilst other natural-law-abiding predators kill only for the sake of feeding themselves and their young, and villains of every people exist to work mischief and mayhem on their fellows, cats, like humans and some dog species, will largely kill solely for the pleasure of the thing, or to indulge in cruelty.)
Timothy’s large family teemed in that cramped, miserable hole - little more than a crack - and most were anxiously clustered around the whisp of dirty straw where my patient lay and where his anxious mother sat knitting. “Jolly neighbors you have, lad,” I said heartily, to give the sickly young mouse a feeble laugh. “We must do what we can so that you can run errands for Mr. Basil once again. Is the syrup working, ma’am?”
I went through the motions and said all the right things to the family, but in my heart I knew the dire situation would not be alleviated with a dose or two. What the lad truly needed - what the family needed - was fresh air, decent food, escape from their murderous neighbors. A move to the park would be ideal, and as impossible as suggesting they all go to the Moon. I knew what garment his mother was knitting, and she would finish it just in time. I did what I could, and left that home with no less caution for the nursing queen-cat and her brood who would soon make short work of the rest of the family unless things looked up. But the poor lad slept more comfortably after the draught I’d given him, and the family’s gratitude for even that little bit of doctoring was humbling.
My next patient was a good deal easier on my heart; I dodged the horses in the costly townhouse’s carriage-yard to enter the wainscoting of the lavishly-furnished mouse-hole.
I heard my patient’s profane bellow before I saw him. “Damme, Dawson my boy, you’re damnably late! Both of ‘em are giving me gyp. Out with the nostrums, Major - double-quick!”
I laughed even as I opened my bag. “Good morning, Colonel!”
The enormous old mouse grunted, clearly in pain he tried to hide (though the bandages around his grossly swollen lower paws told the truth). “Hmph! Only just morning. Did you bloody sleepwalk here, soldier? I’d have had you flogged for that in my old unit.”
“My apologies, Colonel. I had a small cat problem on the way.”
“Hmph! Damned creatures, cats. Almost as bad as the damned stoats we beat back in ’58 - bored you with that tale a few times, haven’t I? You’ll be famished, I shouldn’t wonder. Oh pooh, don’t deny it lad. I’ll have Else fix you something for afterward.” The great fat old mouse rang a bell.
I changed Colonel Penrose’s dressings, gave him a tincture, left him another bottle of pills and collected my fee before sitting to a well-appreciated salad and cuppa in the kitchen before leaving the manse.
Such was life in London; wealth whisker-by-jaw with poverty. It seemed oddly balanced that one as prosperous as old Penrose should suffer just as much in his affluence as pauper Timothy in his privation.
I made my way to the park, but as I approached Violet’s burrow I was met by a great burly rabbit - Jacks, Violet’s mate this season. “Don’t need you no more, mouse doc,” he said, looming over me and running a paw over one ear. “She left her burrow last night.”
My heart sank. Myxomatosis is as foul as the Black Death that struck down half of London’s rat population twice in our history. Violet must have felt her death coming and, true to her lagomorphic species, had taken herself away to die apart from everyone. “You stayed well away - you and the others.”
“Oh aye, we’re no fools. I only went the once, day or two past, to bring her an apple core. She wouldn’t eat.” Jacks shook his ears and scratched them hard, which sent a chill down my spine. Myxo is spread by rabbits’ ear-fleas. Again, no cure; only to make the patients comfortable.
I could only nod heavily. “A shame.”
“Aye, mouse doc, she was all right.” Jacks scratched his ears again.
“Jacks?” I hated to do it, but he had to know. “I think, perhaps…you should use Violet’s burrow. And stay away from the others.”
“What, this? Oh, no it’s just an itch is all! Just an itch!” Jacks stopped. He scratched his ears hard again. And again. “Ballocks,” he said softly. “I’ll go blind and get those spots, won’t I?”
“I’ll come back in two days,” I said. “If you aren’t feverish, you’re safe.”
“And if I’m sick?” Jacks whispered. He scratched again.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Bloody little, mouse doc,” Jacks snapped. “Don’t come back. We die alone!”
I nodded. He had his lapine pride. “If you’re ill I won’t return. I’m sorry I couldn’t help Violet. See you later, Jacks.”
After the day I’d had, my visit to the expecting Ethel Barret was refreshingly banal. She was a healthy young mouse, well-fed and ensconced in a neat little hole in an up-and-coming neighborhood, and would in all probability pup without incident. Most of my visit was simply to reassure her worried husband Bill on that account.
“I’ve been having these terrible dreams, Doctor,” she continued a one-sided conversation whilst I used my stethoscope to let her enthralled mate hear the half-dozen heartbeats in his wife’s belly. “The babies are born eyes-open and furry, like those nasty foreign guinea pigs!”
“Dear, I work with a guinea pig, they’re very nice,” Bill protested.
“Do you think that means something? Is it a portent of ill fortune?” she continued as if she hadn’t heard.
“Dreams of harm coming to the babies are very common in this stage of pregnancy, Mrs. Barret,” I reassured both. “Perhaps it is the way your unconscious mind’s worry for your pups expresses itself.”
“Unconscious mind? What rot!” she scoffed. “Doctor, surely you don’t believe in that German gerbil quackery!”
“Psychoanalysis is not quackery, Mrs. Barret,” I countered. “Perhaps not all of it is useful, but many aspects of that field -”
“Nonsense! My best friend, Mrs. Carter, is having my tea leaves read this Wednesday and she’ll have an answer for me even if you don’t!” Mrs. Barret flopped back onto her bed, the very emblem of patient suffering. “William, this ordeal is beyond my ability to describe! Lord knows how I endure!”
“Yes, dear,” Bill said, and patted her paw. He was young, but already a wise and excellent husband. I pitied him even as I understood her fear, but knew that once the litter came both would be too busy caring for their thriving brood to worry. It was a good problem to have.
Leaving Mrs. Barret with a phial of lavender oil and Mr. Barret with instructions to massage his wife’s swollen belly with it, I left that home and turned my face to home, exhausted from the chatter.
A hot bath, I thought longingly, heading along the cobbles toward the nearest cab pointed toward Baker Street. A good strong cup of Mrs Judson’s tea. And then the good strong arms of my mate, who would deduce my entire day and know what I needed.
I saw and heard other cats, rats, avoided a starling fight. My instincts had not deserted me though I was emotionally worn and physically tired from my rounds. So when the enormous paw came down across my back the only thought that went through my mind was This one’s good - before I was pinned, with the kind of weight behind it that could only mean one creature.
“An assassination, Dr. Dawson,” the cool voice of the queen-cat purred in my ear. “My client wishes it. That is all you need to know.”
Of all the reactions this mouse-killer had expected from her terrified prey, I am sure she was not ready for mine.
“Goddammit!” I roared. “Hasn’t there been enough death today?”
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Basil of Baker Street (Sherlock Holmes animal AU)
Pairing: Basil / Dawson
Word Count: 1646
Rating: PG (language)
Warning: Language. Violence to animals. Mouse-POV attitudes about cats.
Summary: A sequel, of sorts, to last year’s JWP 2013 entry, “ The Hidden Paw.”
Author's Notes: For the 2014 JWP Practice Prompt: Cliffhanger!
EDITED TO ADD: This story is now complete. Part 2 can be found here.
I saw the cat; he didn’t see me. Of course I saw him - I’m a mouse that’s survived to adulthood in a city teeming with the beasts, aren’t I? I gave the feline the berth he required, staying downwind and out of earshot; the tom did not twitch a whisker as I crossed the alley at the far end.
I did not loiter, for I had my patients to see to - young Timothy and his bad cough, old Penrose’s gout, poor blind feverish Violet who was surely not long for this world, Mrs. Barret who would soon have her pups. A doctor is well run off his paws in London.
Others shared the city streets with me; humans and horses on the great wide roads, dogs and cats, rats and mice on our own byways, pigeons and starlings where they would. The little fierce dogs and the cats posed the greatest personal threats; I also watched for crows, carriage wheels and great horse-hooves, the stomp of humans’ shoes and boots. I was quick and I was stealthy. So long as I make my medical rounds - even more than those occasions when I happily join my companion Basil in rooting out a mystery - my Army training will never wither for lack of practise. My poor friend pretends to be nonchalant about the perils of my work, but he holds me a little tighter on those days upon my return.
At a high-pitched cacophony of mews clustered on a pile of rubbish near another alleyway’s entrance I dashed the final feet, heart in my mouth. Then I was safe in Timothy’s hole in the wallboards of a clapboard shanty, without the horrid kittens or their she-devil mother catching wind of me. Hideous creatures, cats! (I have no quarrel with the roles Divine Providence has laid out for all the creatures of Her good earth - but whilst other natural-law-abiding predators kill only for the sake of feeding themselves and their young, and villains of every people exist to work mischief and mayhem on their fellows, cats, like humans and some dog species, will largely kill solely for the pleasure of the thing, or to indulge in cruelty.)
Timothy’s large family teemed in that cramped, miserable hole - little more than a crack - and most were anxiously clustered around the whisp of dirty straw where my patient lay and where his anxious mother sat knitting. “Jolly neighbors you have, lad,” I said heartily, to give the sickly young mouse a feeble laugh. “We must do what we can so that you can run errands for Mr. Basil once again. Is the syrup working, ma’am?”
I went through the motions and said all the right things to the family, but in my heart I knew the dire situation would not be alleviated with a dose or two. What the lad truly needed - what the family needed - was fresh air, decent food, escape from their murderous neighbors. A move to the park would be ideal, and as impossible as suggesting they all go to the Moon. I knew what garment his mother was knitting, and she would finish it just in time. I did what I could, and left that home with no less caution for the nursing queen-cat and her brood who would soon make short work of the rest of the family unless things looked up. But the poor lad slept more comfortably after the draught I’d given him, and the family’s gratitude for even that little bit of doctoring was humbling.
My next patient was a good deal easier on my heart; I dodged the horses in the costly townhouse’s carriage-yard to enter the wainscoting of the lavishly-furnished mouse-hole.
I heard my patient’s profane bellow before I saw him. “Damme, Dawson my boy, you’re damnably late! Both of ‘em are giving me gyp. Out with the nostrums, Major - double-quick!”
I laughed even as I opened my bag. “Good morning, Colonel!”
The enormous old mouse grunted, clearly in pain he tried to hide (though the bandages around his grossly swollen lower paws told the truth). “Hmph! Only just morning. Did you bloody sleepwalk here, soldier? I’d have had you flogged for that in my old unit.”
“My apologies, Colonel. I had a small cat problem on the way.”
“Hmph! Damned creatures, cats. Almost as bad as the damned stoats we beat back in ’58 - bored you with that tale a few times, haven’t I? You’ll be famished, I shouldn’t wonder. Oh pooh, don’t deny it lad. I’ll have Else fix you something for afterward.” The great fat old mouse rang a bell.
I changed Colonel Penrose’s dressings, gave him a tincture, left him another bottle of pills and collected my fee before sitting to a well-appreciated salad and cuppa in the kitchen before leaving the manse.
Such was life in London; wealth whisker-by-jaw with poverty. It seemed oddly balanced that one as prosperous as old Penrose should suffer just as much in his affluence as pauper Timothy in his privation.
I made my way to the park, but as I approached Violet’s burrow I was met by a great burly rabbit - Jacks, Violet’s mate this season. “Don’t need you no more, mouse doc,” he said, looming over me and running a paw over one ear. “She left her burrow last night.”
My heart sank. Myxomatosis is as foul as the Black Death that struck down half of London’s rat population twice in our history. Violet must have felt her death coming and, true to her lagomorphic species, had taken herself away to die apart from everyone. “You stayed well away - you and the others.”
“Oh aye, we’re no fools. I only went the once, day or two past, to bring her an apple core. She wouldn’t eat.” Jacks shook his ears and scratched them hard, which sent a chill down my spine. Myxo is spread by rabbits’ ear-fleas. Again, no cure; only to make the patients comfortable.
I could only nod heavily. “A shame.”
“Aye, mouse doc, she was all right.” Jacks scratched his ears again.
“Jacks?” I hated to do it, but he had to know. “I think, perhaps…you should use Violet’s burrow. And stay away from the others.”
“What, this? Oh, no it’s just an itch is all! Just an itch!” Jacks stopped. He scratched his ears hard again. And again. “Ballocks,” he said softly. “I’ll go blind and get those spots, won’t I?”
“I’ll come back in two days,” I said. “If you aren’t feverish, you’re safe.”
“And if I’m sick?” Jacks whispered. He scratched again.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Bloody little, mouse doc,” Jacks snapped. “Don’t come back. We die alone!”
I nodded. He had his lapine pride. “If you’re ill I won’t return. I’m sorry I couldn’t help Violet. See you later, Jacks.”
After the day I’d had, my visit to the expecting Ethel Barret was refreshingly banal. She was a healthy young mouse, well-fed and ensconced in a neat little hole in an up-and-coming neighborhood, and would in all probability pup without incident. Most of my visit was simply to reassure her worried husband Bill on that account.
“I’ve been having these terrible dreams, Doctor,” she continued a one-sided conversation whilst I used my stethoscope to let her enthralled mate hear the half-dozen heartbeats in his wife’s belly. “The babies are born eyes-open and furry, like those nasty foreign guinea pigs!”
“Dear, I work with a guinea pig, they’re very nice,” Bill protested.
“Do you think that means something? Is it a portent of ill fortune?” she continued as if she hadn’t heard.
“Dreams of harm coming to the babies are very common in this stage of pregnancy, Mrs. Barret,” I reassured both. “Perhaps it is the way your unconscious mind’s worry for your pups expresses itself.”
“Unconscious mind? What rot!” she scoffed. “Doctor, surely you don’t believe in that German gerbil quackery!”
“Psychoanalysis is not quackery, Mrs. Barret,” I countered. “Perhaps not all of it is useful, but many aspects of that field -”
“Nonsense! My best friend, Mrs. Carter, is having my tea leaves read this Wednesday and she’ll have an answer for me even if you don’t!” Mrs. Barret flopped back onto her bed, the very emblem of patient suffering. “William, this ordeal is beyond my ability to describe! Lord knows how I endure!”
“Yes, dear,” Bill said, and patted her paw. He was young, but already a wise and excellent husband. I pitied him even as I understood her fear, but knew that once the litter came both would be too busy caring for their thriving brood to worry. It was a good problem to have.
Leaving Mrs. Barret with a phial of lavender oil and Mr. Barret with instructions to massage his wife’s swollen belly with it, I left that home and turned my face to home, exhausted from the chatter.
A hot bath, I thought longingly, heading along the cobbles toward the nearest cab pointed toward Baker Street. A good strong cup of Mrs Judson’s tea. And then the good strong arms of my mate, who would deduce my entire day and know what I needed.
I saw and heard other cats, rats, avoided a starling fight. My instincts had not deserted me though I was emotionally worn and physically tired from my rounds. So when the enormous paw came down across my back the only thought that went through my mind was This one’s good - before I was pinned, with the kind of weight behind it that could only mean one creature.
“An assassination, Dr. Dawson,” the cool voice of the queen-cat purred in my ear. “My client wishes it. That is all you need to know.”
Of all the reactions this mouse-killer had expected from her terrified prey, I am sure she was not ready for mine.
“Goddammit!” I roared. “Hasn’t there been enough death today?”