He'd ended up in a prison of sorts after all.

For the past few years Ratigan had done all the thinking for him, and Fidget simply existed. He didn't have to question what they did, or consider how it effected others, or worry about things like the future. Nuances like empathy, or self-examination, those were all above his pay grade. He followed orders.

Now he was alone with his own thoughts, and it was terrible.

Alone with Basil's stinging, painfully true words. With Hiram Flaversham's rejection of his apology. The grief for his master, because awful as he was, Ratigan had also been a teacher and friend of sorts. The burden of guilt that he'd blissfully ignored for so long.

The knowledge that being thrown out of that dirigible was the closest he'd ever get to flying again.

Dawson had told him 'the good news' was that the police believed he was dead, and no one was looking for him. Fidget had enough sense to suss out 'the bad news' for himself: there were very few bats actually living among mice, and of those, he was probably the only one in all of London missing a right leg. Maybe no one was looking for him, but they'd sure as hell recognize him if he was spotted.

Despite that risk, he spent the night out on the rooftop, where he watched his brethren hunt in the moonlight, humans stumbling from pubs or turning tricks, hard-working rats scavenging for a living. He bathed and washed his clothes in a pool of rainwater, caught a few mayflies, and wished he'd pinched Basil's flask of laudanum. When he finally went back inside to sleep, Fidget dreamt of tearing a ruined wing from razor talons and falling, falling, falling from the top of the larch tree, only instead of landing in leaf liter on the forest floor, he landed in the Thames river.

And the water was so cold.

He was up on the roof again, this time tipping out the sanitary bucket over the ledge, when the pigeon Cyril returned. To Fidget's immense relief, Hiram Flaversham was the only passenger— he wasn't sure he could bear facing Basil or Dawson so soon.

Better yet, he had brought ample supplies. Fresh water, better food, clean clothes. And books! Lurid adventure yellow-back novels, the cheap low-brow entertainment of the masses. Ratigan hated them as much as Fidget loved them, and had scolded the bat more than once with 'I didn't teach you to read for this'.

It was great, too, because Fidget had a talent for talking about nothing of substance, and his favorite trashy stories were perfect fodder for idle conversation. He jabbered away as he helped Flaversham unpack, never coming close to any uncomfortable, thought-provoking topics.

"I'm not one for fiction, honestly," Flaversham admitted. "I'll be sure to let Basil know you're happy with them."

"Basil?"

"Aye, the books were his idea. I think he even picked them out for you, they don't look like anything from his collection…"

Fidget laughed nervously in response, struggling to process this. It was hard enough coming to terms with the fact that his former victims were helping him, at great personal expense, and doing so with kindness and respect. The books were nonessentials, though, and a thoughtful choice— no, gift. The idea that Basil, who clearly hated him, would still be so considerate…

His train of thought derailed when he noticed Flaversham was pouring drinks from a thermos. "Mmm, tea."

"Better yet, hot toddies," he grinned, handing him a cup.

"Cheers," Fidget said out of reflex.

After a moment of hesitation, Flaversham lifted his cup. "To health."

Dawson came the next day, with food, water, more medicine, and re-treated Fidget's wounds.

"Your best option is to stay in hiding until you've recovered, then flee the country," Dawson said. "It'll be no use going anywhere in the British Rodent Kingdom, so any of our colonies are out… and honestly, America, Canada, or Australia would just ship you right back." He paused and smirked. "On the other hand, France might give you a medal…"

Fidget slumped. The idea of starting over yet again, all alone in a strange place with no prospects, unable to speak the language, unfamiliar with the culture… it filled him with dread. It was better than drowning or execution… but only marginally, as far as he was concerned. Hell, he'd lived in Mousedom longer than he had the Pipistrelle caravan, and still had trouble with English at times.

Dawson was quick to change the subject. "Any coughing? Weakness of breath?"

"Nope."

"Hot or cold spells? Aches?"

Fidget shook his head. "Just tired from all the… y'know, everything."

"You really are tough as old boots, aren't you."

He laughed. "Ratigan said I was 'indestructible'."

"Well, I think he may have been right about that one."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"How'd you end up a doctor?"

Dawson did a double take. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "Well, I… I decided to become a doctor because I had a strong passion for the sciences, and wanted to put that passion to good use. What better use could there be than medicine?" He paused. "I studied at St Bart's Mouse Hospital and got my degree from the Rodent University of London. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Ah, well." Dawson settled in and started sharing stories of his service in the 66th Regiment and being injured in the Battle of Maiwand, about his college days and early career and playing rugby in his youth.

Fidget hung onto every word, and Dawson was oddly flattered by the bat's admiration.

It was two weeks since Ratigan's foiled plot, and Fidget was going stir crazy, trapped in the accidental prison, lonesome for all but a few hours each day. Cyril started visiting on his own initiative, even bringing his missus a few times. Fidget welcomed the company, even though avian sensibility meant they weren't much for conversation… it was still nice to have someone around.

He was crestfallen to find out that this was Flaversham's last visit.

"I'm lucky to have found a shopkeeper I can hire on such short notice," he was explaining. "Olivia and I will be heading back to Scotland tomorrow."

"Well… good luck, then."

Flaversham tapped his fingers against his knee anxiously. "I was meaning to tell you, before we left…" He hesitated. "Olivia doesn't know about, well, she doesn't know about… this," gesturing to the room and the bat. "But I asked her if you and Ratigan had survived, would she forgive the both of you. She said, 'if they were really sorry… I'd think about it'."

With that Flaversham gave a dry laugh, shaking his head.

"Well, I've been thinking about that. I don't know if I have it in my heart to forgive, not right now. For what it's worth, I do accept your apology."

"Okay," Fidget replied lamely. "I don't think Ratigan'd be sorry, though."

"That was hypothetical, laddie."

"Oh, right. I knew that."

When Flaversham laughed this time, it was genuine.

The worst thing about Flaversham leaving was that… well, Fidget found himself genuinely missing the Scotsmouse, and not just because he was desperate for company. The second worst thing was it meant Basil had to be more involved.

He was never as hard on Fidget as he'd been that first time, but that was partly because he never spent more than a few minutes at the safehouse. Conversations were short and to the point, which was why Fidget was so surprised whenever Basil actually engaged.

"Dawson says your health is improved enough to travel," Basil said. "I'll have you know, he's quite stunned that you've managed to dodge pneumonia or fever."

Fidget shrugged in response.

"In light of that, I've secured transport to Holland, and all the… necessary documentation."

There was a strained edge in Basil's voice, and Fidget realized how difficult it must have been for the detective to work on the wrong side of the law… for his formal rival's flunky, no less.

"Thanks. That's real big of you."

"Hmm." He paused, adjusting his hat. "You know I'm only doing this for Dawson and Flaversham."

"I know, but still."

Almost as an afterthought, Basil continued, "It's not that I don't feel pity for you, Fidget. The fact of the matter is that Ratigan committed a terrible crime, one you willingly helped him with. The Queen represents the very heart and soul of Mousedom and her subjects. There's no amends for the sort of treachery you've engaged in, no matter how sorry you may be about it now. The law demands retribution, and without law and order, we would be the mindless beasts that humans believe we are."

He scowled at that. "So? What'd you have me do about it?

"Go to Holland, make an honest living, settle down, put this life behind you. Or… do the honorable thing and turn yourself in."

"Yeah, and get snuffed. You'd like to see that, eh."

"Not particularly. Truth be told, I'm not an ardent supporter of the death penalty. I find it rather… distasteful." He gave the bat a pointed look. "However, in consideration to the nature of Ratigan's and— by extension— your crimes, I would like to see justice served."

Fidget snorted dismissively. "Sounds to me like a long-winded way'v saying 'you get what's coming to you'."

Basil was right though, of course. Of course. It ate at him, and Fidget found himself missing Ratigan, missing his old life, when things were simple and he didn't have this sickening guilt in his gut all the time.

It was a weight, pulling him down, wearing away at him. Every bad decision he'd made, a lifetime of them… The more Fidget thought about it, the more he realized that he'd never made a single good decision in his life. It wasn't even like he could place the blame squarely on Ratigan. No, Fidget had chosen to throw his lot in with the rat, to serve him faithfully, to carry out every wicked order.

He was painfully aware just how little he deserved Flaversham's and Dawson's— even Basil's— kindness and generosity. Because the fact of the matter was…

…on some level, he'd enjoyed doing the terrible things that he had done.

His dreams were plagued with the same nightmares: He was falling, from the roof of the colony cave, from the treetop, from the dirigible. He was drowning, in the water, in the dirt, in the cesspit.

When he woke up, he found he was still falling, still drowning.

No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't stay aloft.

Dawson was distraught when, a few days later, he found the safehouse abandoned. Cyril bashfully admitted he'd given Fidget a ride to the ground.

"It's for the best, really," Basil had tried to reassure him. "We were playing a dangerous game, helping him on the lam. It's better for all of us if we don't know where he's gone."

They weren't in the dark for long.

"Huh."

'Huh' was the only warning he got. "Is it a clue about the missing emerald?"

Wordlessly Basil handed him the newspaper, and Dawson's heart sunk.

The criminal genius Professor Ratigan's right-hand bat— presumed dead by the authorities— had mysteriously re-appeared, surrendering and giving a confession of his part in the rat's plot to seize the throne. The article mentioned his remarkable survival, but nothing about him receiving any sort of aide. The fact that they were learning all this from the paper, and not the police, told them that Fidget kept mum on their involvement.

It left Dawson feeling like their efforts had been in vain, but Basil seemed almost proud of Fidget.

"I didn't think that scamp had it in him," he said, taking pause when he caught Dawson's look. "Well, there's nothing we can do now. One could argue that he was under duress, Ratigan certainly killed any disobedient henchmice… but coercion is no defense for high treason. One could argue insanity… but while Fidget may be scatterbrained, he's still perfectly sane." Basil paused for a moment. "Really, the only hope he has now would be a royal pardon."

"I suppose you're right," Dawson replied glumly.

"Chin up, my friend. If that little peg— sorry— bat was decent enough to turn himself in, then the least I can do is be decent myself, and request leniency on his behalf. It's a long shot, of course, but they did overlook Flaversham's part in the plot…"

It was obvious Basil expected nothing to come of this. It was an empty gesture, really, because he might not have done it if he actually thought it would work.

Dawson was touched nonetheless.

"Unbelievable."

Basil stumbled slightly as he made his way into the study, slumping into his wing-back chair as he re-read the letter for a third time.

"What is it?" Dawson popped out of the kitchen, tea-tray in hand.

Casually, the detective held out a piece of paper. It was a response to Basil's plea for leniency on Fidget's behalf. It wasn't even directly from the Queen, rather the Lord High Chancellor, but it reflected her sentiments. Throughout her reign there had been multiple attempts on her life, and Ratigan's was the most sinister by far. It was an outrageous request, and if anyone but Basil had asked…

But Basil had asked, and his daring and spectacular rescue saved no only the Queen, but the throne itself. His rational argument that Fidget could've run, and his surrender was evidence of genuine remorse, was not taken lightly. The fact that Basil's own reputation would be at stake, should the bat be freed, was given consideration.

Dawson's brows arched as he glanced up from the letter. "Basil…"

The detective started his massaging his temples, trying to stave off the growing headache.

"Un-be-liev-able, Dawson. They're actually giving him a bloody pardon."

Hopping a moving carriage turned out impossible with the crutch, which meant it was a long walk from prison gates to the nearest human cable trolley stop, followed by an even longer trek to his destination. Fidget stood outside the door to 221B-½ Baker Street for several long minutes before he worked up the nerve to knock.

Mrs. Judson answered, warm and friendly, as if he were any old client. But she had to know, he thought, as she ushered him in. "Oh good, good, I see you got Dawson's telegram. They're in the study, this way now…"

Basil was waiting, fingers steepled, watching with intense scrutiny as Fidget scampered in.

"Sit," he said, giving a firm command. Fidget planted himself in the chair across from Basil, only for the mouse to leap to his feet. "You know, saving the Queen and all of Mousedom, that's a once-in-a-lifetime experience." He started pacing.

"Yeah, I know."

"I like to believe that any upstanding mouse would have done the same, but nevertheless, it earned me a certain degree of… influence. Influence that could be used to ask a once-in-a-lifetime favor without being laughed out of England." He paused. "A favor I've squandered on a royal pardon for one 'Fidget the peg-legged bat'."

"Don't be too cruel, Basil," Dawson said.

Fidget's ears folded back as he shrunk into the chair. "I— I can't ever repay you for any of this…"

"No, of course you can't. That's why it's called a 'royal prerogative of mercy'. It is an act of mercy, and by its nature, forgives a debt which cannot be repaid." He gave Fidget a questioning look. "Do you have any idea why you were pardoned?"

"'Cause… 'cause you asked?"

He laughed. "Well yes, but do you know why I asked?"

"Oh, um… I turned myself in, like you said."

Dawson gasped. "Basil, you put him up to it?"

"Not at all. I told him it was the honorable thing to do. The fact that he did it… that was all you, Fidget, hm? It showed integrity, repentance, and," Basil paused to tap Fidget on the forehead, "that you're capable of growth." Then Basil shrugged. "Besides, Dawson is inexplicably fond of you, and I hated to see him so glum."

"It's called 'compassion', Basil."

"Ah, well scratch that then… Dawson doesn't like you either, he just thinks you're pathetic."

"That's not what I said!"

"You got a point?" Fidget asked Basil, growing irate.

"Yes! The point is, under that repugnant, villainous surface, is something worth salvaging. Tell me, Fidget, are you aware that criminal recidivism for ex-offenders is around eighty percent?" He saw Fidget's glazed look, and sighed. "It means relapse. Eighty percent of the time, a thief finishes his sentence and goes right back to stealing."

"Oh, er, no. I didn't know it."

Basil's eyes lit up. "Yet the rates for juveniles is much better… around twenty percent. Can you guess why?"

He thought about it for a moment.

"Kids're more adaptable?"

"That's a good guess. Actually, it's because of reformatory schools and apprenticeship programs. Youths are taught a trade and given employment. While an adult with forms face reduced employment opportunities. On that note…" Basil crossed his arms. "I've staked my very reputation on you, Fidget. Don't make me regret it. If you can't shape up, then you'd best ship out." He reached into his robe, and handed the bat a parcel. "The earlier offer to leave for Holland still stands, if you think you can't hack it. But if you want to stay…"

Fidget looked at him expectantly.

A smug look spread across Basil's face. "If you want to stay, arrangements have already been made. I've secured a working apprenticeship with a former client. It's in a print-shop, which means a respectable wage for someone of your station. Plus, you'd get to make those horrid yellow-backs you love so much." He made a dismissive gesture, just to make clear his low opinion of the boorish stories.

"Mrs. Judson's worked out an agreement for you to room with the red squirrel family in one of the attic flats," Dawson added. "She's covering your rent in exchange for basic home repairs and household chores…"

"Which you're expected to perform in addition to your actual job."

Fidget stood and made his way to the fire place, lost in thought as he gazed at the dancing flames.

"It's not a free ride. You'll have to work hard and diligently, keep on your best behavior, and live honestly. There won't be any second chances."

Silently, he flipped through the documents from the parcel: a new identity, fake employment history and health records, a travel itinerary. He casually dropped them into the fire.

"Y'know, Ratigan hated those trashy novels as much as you do." He flashed a cheeky grin at the detective.

"You know, if that lout hadn't thrown you out the aircraft, he wouldn't have crashed it, and quite possibly would have gotten away." Basil replied with a smirk.

Fidget's eyes widened, the thought hadn't occurred to him. "Heh heh heh! You're right!" Then he lunged at Basil. Before the mouse knew what was happening, he was trapped in an overly enthusiastic bear hug.

"Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you—"

The first time Olivia embraced him was bad enough. Then, Basil was uncomfortable. Now, he was appalled. "Oh, good grief! Dawson! Get this infernal thing off of me!"

Dawson chuckled as he intervened, prying Fidget away from a distressed Basil. "There's one more thing." Dawson had an excited, tightly-wound note in his voice, as if he'd been waiting all night for this.

"Ah, yes, how could I forget?" Basil paused, aggressively brushing himself off. "You also owe me ten shillings."

"Ten shillings!?" He was dismayed. In that moment, it was just as impossible of a debt as the royal pardon was.

"Mm. Well, I sound foolish calling you 'peg-legged', but 'Fidget the amputee-on-crutches bat' just doesn't roll off the tongue, now does it?"

"I'll take you tomorrow to get fitted," Dawson continued, grinning, "and pick up a new prosthetic…"

And then Fidget was clamped onto Basil again, trembling as he desperately tried not to cry.

"Ugh," Basil groaned. "It's an advance, not a gift, you dunce. You still have to pay me back." But when Dawson moved to free him, he waved him away. "No, it's… fine. I'll just… lie back and think of England…"

Fidget started laughing through the tears. He'd been such an idiot, thinking the fall from Ratigan's craft was the closest he'd get to flying again. Because for once, he was finally gaining altitude.

A/N: Criminal recidivism really was around 80% towards the end of the 20th century (although their laws were also totally bonkers). Current rates are around 50%.

Lower class laborers lived 'hand to mouth' and almost all of their paycheck went to food and shelter. 10 shillings is 1/2 to 1/3 an average paycheck. That cost is historically accurate.