"Ouch! Get off, I'm fine!"

"Basil, you do not want to end up with an infection from improper medical attention. Stop squirming and behave yourself."

Olivia and her father had been safely ensconced in a hostel after the night's ordeal, and Doctor Dawson had taken Basil back to Baker Street, where he had promptly removed the remains of the detective's coat, vest and shirt, and insisted on looking over the injuries Ratigan had inflicted on him. Much to Basil's immense indignation and displeasure.

The mouse detective gave Dr. Dawson the sort of scathing glare that could strip paint from the wall, but the doctor just glared back, daring him to try his (admittedly considerable) patience. The contest lasted for ten seconds before, with a very sulky expression, Basil backed down, allowing Dawson to continue cleaning, bandaging and occasionally stitching the assortment of scratches and bruises that adorned his back (having decided that it would be best to handle those first, before tending to the ones on his chest, face and arm).

Admittedly, Basil knew that the sting of the disinfectant Dawson had insisted on placing on his wounds felt better than an infection would. And at least he hadn't been taken to a hospital, where he'd be poked and prodded and looked over by complete strangers (he didn't consider Dawson a stranger, despite the short amount of time they had known each other so far). In some ways the protests were simply automatic response to the pain and the feeling of being babied, given out of instinctual contrariness and pride. But ultimately, he knew Dawson was in the right here. So he allowed himself to be doctored without further complaint (except for the occasional grunt of pain), and reflected on what had happened.

It seemed so hard to believe that Ratigan was truly...gone. After all, for years he had been Basil's purpose. He knew that his goal in life was to capture him, by finding just the right piece of evidence linking him to a crime, or (even better) the entrance to his oh-so-elusive lair. The picture over the fireplace of his evil smug grin had constantly spurred Basil on in his quest. And now it was all over, due to the chiming of a clock. It was almost laughable.

I doubt that anyone will truly be able to replace Ratigan as my greatest adversary, Basil thought. And smiled a bit at how horrified he knew Dawson would be to hear him hope for such a thing. It quickly turned into a grimace as the other mouse sat him up and began taking care of his other wounds.

"You're lucky not to have broken something," Dawson said aloud finally. "As it is, your ribs are bruised, and you've lost some blood, meaning that you're not to go running around for the next few weeks."

"Out of the question," Basil snorted. "I may have clients-"

"Who can wait until you're better." Another stern look. "I will sit on your legs if I have to, in order to keep you from going out and exacerbating your injuries."

The idea seemed counterproductive to helping him get better, but Basil decided that arguing and wheedling could wait until later, when he'd had a chance to rest.

"It also looks like you're going to have a few scars," the doctor continued. "Hopefully the fur can grow back around them, but they're still going to be rather prominent."

The detective snorted. "I don't mind, Dawson. Scars are nature's medals, to help you remember the adventures that got them."

Surprisingly, Dawson snorted and grinned the tiniest bit. "You want to remember Ratigan tossing you around like a rag doll?"

Seeing the look on Basil's face, and realizing what he'd just said, the grin vanished and he blanched a little. "I'm sorry, Basil, that was uncouth of me. I shouldn't-it's just, it's true. I hadn't imagined that he would be able to beat you so brutally."

Basil shrugged, wincing as it jostled his injuries. "I am not completely inexperienced in fighting larger criminals. However, Ratigan took me a little by surprise. It shouldn't have; I always knew there was a beast lurking behind the gentlerat."

As he thought about it, though, he was a little ashamed of himself for being so helpless at the claws of his adversary. He had been...he had been genuinely frightened by the vicious attack. The pain from each strike, and being so forcefully reminded just how strong and savage Ratigan was, had rendered him incapable of fighting back. And so he'd been, as Dawson had said, tossed like a rag doll, and then nearly thrown to his death. It was rather humiliating for such a proud mind as Basil's. But it was somewhat reassuring that Dawson's teasing him about it contained no malice or condemnation, lessening his embarrassment for now.

"Almost done...there." Dawson finished bandaging his new friend's chest, then produced a thick wool nightshirt that he helped him slip into. "Now I think it's best that you get some sleep."

"Really, Dawson, you think that I'll be able to sleep after-" He betrayed himself by yawning. Blast the limits of a fragile mortal body.

The doctor just chuckled. "Come on."

As he was being tucked in, Basil said softly, "Thank you. Your administrations will be quite beneficial in the long run."

Dawson smiled, a bit sadly, to the younger mouse's surprise. "It goes to show that I can be useful to you in some form, hey?"

What on earth-? Why would he-

After a moment of thought, Basil realized that he was thinking about the times when he had allowed Olivia to be captured by not making sure she stayed with them in the human toy shop, or drank the drugged pint without realizing it and then made a fool of himself on the stage of the pub. Did he really not see the times when he had been exceptionally useful? When he'd found the list which helped them find the pub in the first place, or helped Basil to snap out of the funk he'd been in when they were in Ratigan's trap by giving him the inspiration he needed?

In Basil's mind, those far outweighed any mistakes he might have made in helping with this investigation.

With a small, gentle smile Basil reached out and placed a paw on the doctor's shoulder.

"Don't sell yourself short, Dawson. It's most unbecoming."

And he closed his eyes on the doctor's surprised-yet-touched expression, sinking into a much-needed sleep.

Lately I've had The Great Mouse Detective on the brain, so I decided that I had to write this fic. I know other people have written about the aftermath of Big Ben; I hope my take is original enough to be interesting to you. And I guess this is kind of drabble-ish, in that it doesn't have a big dramatic climax or anything; just a conversation between two characters and some thought processes. But again, I hope it's interesting.

Also, I think I might have made Dawson a bit more like John from Sherlock. But it can sort of fit, under the circumstances (he's forcibly taking care of Basil, so he's not going to take any nonsense from him).