Butterflies leapt in Clara's stomach as she made her way to Baker Street. That bat had stolen her temporal suit, no doubt thinking that it was a priceless emerald gem. Even without her scanners, her suit was still vital to her mission. The scanners were open to invasion from the environment and were malfunctioning from something present, but her communication board, database link, weapons, and time travel capabilities were all protected and therefore functioned properly. Any of which could have solved her problems, particularly her tranquilizer gun. She could have shot him in the back when she spotted him running away.

After she had recovered from the collision, she checked to make sure her ring hadn't been lost. The moment she noticed it gone, she looked around for the black creature. She spotted him, about to disappear into the crowd, and began to chase after him. But the crowd coming off the train was too thick, and she had been buffeted this way and that. When she finally had dislodged herself from the melee, the bat had gone; melted into the night still freshly wet from the storm, and the clouds covering the full moon parted, laughing at her desperate misery.

For a full hour, Clara walked aimlessly down the streets of London lamenting the loss of her suit, and the friends and family she would never see again. She could not return ever again. Or, worse still, that someone from this time discovered what the ring really was and altered history so that the life that Clara had known never even existed. She would remain as an empty specter of time, neither alive nor dead, but as an eternal image of what could have been unable to interact with the living world nor capable of death; the worst immortality.

She looked up at the stars, and wondered if there was some way to get her ring back, and complete her mission.

Clara sprang up. An idea had struck her, a brilliant, wonderful idea! It was so simple that she silently cursed herself for not thinking of it sooner! This was the right time in history, and she did need the services of someone who understood this time to help her. Someone who knew the criminal underworld. Someone blessed with strength, cunning, and tenacity. She needed her childhood hero: Basil of Baker Street!

She began to run, hoping that her home was indeed his current residence. She had no choice, but to find him with blind luck.

She began to hunt for the right address on the near deserted street. Once, a male mouse with ginger muttonchops passed her, a little girl hot on his heels wearing an ensemble of blue. He tipped his hat to her, saying "evening" in a Scottish brogue as he did so, and she smiled warmly to both the man and girl as she gave her reply. But other than that small encounter, she passed no one.

Finally, she found 221B. Steeling herself, she knocked. A short, fat man with a thick blonde moustache opened the door.

"I-Is this the home of the famous, Basil of Baker Street?" She asked, looking around the room from the doorway, hiding her disappointment. Surely, this mouse was not Basil? The detective was supposed to be brilliant and athletic, but perhaps history had exaggerated his accomplishments. Could he help her?

"Indeed it is, Miss," the mouse replied, taking off his black bowler hat. His face fell. "You look as if you're in some trouble."

Briar stepped over the threshold, dabbing her eyes as she did so with her handkerchief. "Oh, oh, I am. I am." She looked down at him imploringly.

"Then you've come to precisely the right place."

A taller man bounded over the first's shoulder, startling Clara, saying: "Ah! Allow me to introduce my trusted associate, Doctor Dawson. With whom I do all my cases." He looked at Dawson, "Isn't that right, Doctor?"

Dawson turned, evidently surprised. "Wh-what? Well, yes. Yes, by all means." The two gentlemen shook hands.

Clara dabbed at her eyes throughout the exchange, but thinking all the while about how to best present her case. How much would be truth, and how much would be lies. She had to be very careful, if history was right, then the slightest investigation from Basil would send her precarious mission toppling down around her.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when Basil began to speak again. He chuckled once, cleared his throat as he adjusted his tie, and said, "As you can see, Dawson, this young lady's just arrived from the Hempsted District, and is troubled about the mysterious disappearance of an emerald ring missing from the third finger of her right hand. Now, tell me the story and, pray, be as precise as possible."

Deep in the corners of her mind, part of Clara was fangirling so hard, she could've passed out. She wanted to say how much of an inspiration he was to her. She wanted to ask him a million questions about all of his adventures, even if some may not have happened yet. Her inner little girl was bursting with joy, but she composed herself and spoke easily, if not a little quicker than usual.

"H- how did you know all that?"

"Simple. The flower on your hat is made from Chinese silk, and your coat is trimmed with velvet. They are just as spotless as your hands, which both mean that you are of a wealthy status. Your collar is made from an emerald, and a high- class woman like yourself always matches her jewelry. I can tell that your ring was on your third finger because your fur there is flattened down further than the other fingers. I also can smell the faint traces of artist's paint, thereby tracing you specifically to Hempstead."

"Uh. Well, as you said, I just arrived from Hempstead to pay a visit to family here. After I landed on the platform, a black bat with a peg leg bumped into me. I glanced down at my hand, and saw my ring was gone!"

"A bat, did you say?"

"Yes, black. With a peg leg. Why?"

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He apologized for bumping into me, yes."

"Did he have a high timbre with gravely undertones?''

"He did."

Dawson interrupted, "I know what you're thinking, Basil, but it's not possible. Fidget was thrown into the Thames just this very evening."

"It is likely he survived, Dawson. Many times we discover that the impossible is more often than not the truth."

Science in a nutshell. Thought Clara as she said aloud: "Will you take my case?"

But she need not have bothered asking. Basil had already tossed off his robe, and was pulling on his suit jacket.

"Lead us to the exact spot, Miss-?"

"Clara Woodson."

"Whatever," he waved a flippant hand as he adjusted his coat, "Just lead us to the exact spot, Miss Wilson. We'll take Toby."

"It's Woodson, and who is Toby?"