Yay, my first crossover!

This is a Great Mouse Detective take on the BBC drama Sherlock. This show was aired in the U.S. in late October to very early November. I've loved the show so much, that I decided to write about it. It was too short a season, and I am very excited for the next!

This story is done in two persons: David Dawson's and the third person. (just in case anyone is confused at certain parts.) I've changed a few names, characters, and places so as not to completely copy the series. I have looked at John Watson's blog, which is a BBC website, and it is not open to the public. It has been used as the determiner for the dates and for a few occurrences as well. Feedback as to whether or not I should continue is requested! Also, you can tell me what I should/should not change.

The original name of "Sherringford" for Basil's first name, Myerricroft Basil, and Chief-Inspector Vole are creations of Mlle. Irene Relda.

The Great Mouse Detective belongs to Disney and the late Eve Titus, and Sherlock belongs to BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat respectively.

Dust and sand skirt around in the air. I can feel the dryness of the hot land cake around my nostrils.. Gunshots are fired in the distance, a warning sound for all of my comrades and me. The bullets fly, whizzing past my ear to injure those behind me. The heat burns inside of my throat, and grows ever stronger until pain strikes, and all seems to ebb into a room…

The scene of burning sunlight, and a parched land fade. No longer do I feel the burn of chronic heat. I awake in a cold sweat, and chilly tears slipping off my head. My left paw shakes to touch my forehead.

Not again. I remorse.

The same dream plagues me, every night. However, each one of my nightmares becomes more real. Oh god no. I hope it is not from those ghastly pain medications for my wounded leg.

Minutes after calming myself, I sit up on my bed. It is a cold, cloudy mid-December morning, much different from those that had enough sunlight to blind those that were still sleeping. I was not all that used to being back in London again, one of the many reasons for me to feel stressed.

My crutch in the corner of my apartment room haunts me. It recalls me to that morning, where I felt most fearful for my life. Assuredly, there is fear in every waking moment in war, especially if you were a surgeon that had to stay alive in order to keep others in your regiment alive. That morning, though, was the most terrifying of them all.

I shudder at the memories of my service in war. These dreams will plague me if I do not rid my time in Afghanistan from my memories. Or, so my psychotherapist said.

Still later, I eat my breakfast, consisting of a fresh pear and some warm tea. I detest cold weather, so I heat the beverage more than usual. I place the mug in a microwave to heat and sit down at my desk. While it heats, I spot the regimental crest on the side. Pity, how not everything about the war cannot be erased.

My drawer opens to reveal my laptop. I take it out of the cavity, only to reveal my gun. "You can take the mouse out of the war, but you cannot take the war out of the mouse" Is what I say, no matter what psychotherapist warns.

I shakily open my computer and stare at a blank page with my drab, unsmiling face, complete with beige fur, on the top. My fur was much lighter than it is now. To the side are the bolded, blue words, The Personal Blog of Dr. David Q. Dawson.

I arrive at my psychotherapist's office and sit on an upright chair. My wounded leg is sprawled on the floor, so that it can have more room to relax. The trip there was short, riding on the footstep of a cab in the vice-like hold of the freezing London air.

"How's your blog going?." She asks.

I clear my throat and stare at her in the eye. "Uh, good. Yeah, good." My eyes dart about nervously.

She gives me a troubled stare and narrows her brows. She knows. "You haven't written a word, have you?"

I stare down at her notepad. I can see the words she writes, and frown in disbelief. "And," I begin, "you just wrote 'still has trust issues'."

The dark-furred mouse pointed her pen at me, as if to prove a point. "And, you read my writing upside-down." No, I'll never be normal again. I think. See what I mean?" I turn up my mouth, as if complying with her. My agitated tail twists on the floor, as though it were a worm.

"David," the therapist starts, absent of any emotion, "you're a soldier, and it will take you a while to adjust to civilian life again. Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.

I swallow back a rush of sadness that flows over me when I realize the truth about m current situation. "Nothing ever happens to me."

October 12th. A well-dressed mouse is talking with his Personal Assistant on his mobile asking her for help because he has gone to the wrong train station. She tells him that he has no choice but to take a cab, something that he is obviously not used to do. Their voices soften when they speak to one another, as he and his PA are having an affair.

He is seen later looking scared and taking a drink from a small glass jar filled with colorless, odorless liquid. Later, he is sprawled on the ground of an abandoned office building, having suffered from a mysterious seizure. His wife sobs later on a press release on how unexplained his suicide was while the once-loved PA cries on in the background.

November 26th. The trees are at their peak of taking the color of the fires of late summer as two young male mice walk under the rain under one umbrella. One tries unsuccessfully to hail a cab, then decides to go back home for another umbrella. His friend waits for a while and walks back to search for him. The first mouse is seen in an empty indoors gym, soaking wet from heat to tail, taking a drink from a similar jar with the same colorless liquid with tears in his eyes. A newspaper report later announces the news of the 18-year-old's suicide.

January 27th. A wild party is going on to celebrate the nomination of a local MP to the Ministry of Transport. Two of the her assistants meet at the bar. One of them, a concerned female mouse, has removed the car keys from the MP's bag, who has had more than one too many drinks. Her ride home will be on the footstep of a cab, and they both know that if she is not sober enough to stay on the step, she will fall. Both of the assistants ask each other about their boss' whereabouts, but neither of them know..

They both look around, thinking that their employer is still dancing to her success, but never catch sight of her. The MP is seen by her car, looking for the car keys, then looking around. She is then seen in a fenced yard full of rental containers and sobs, with a jar of clear liquid by her paw.

End of first chapter.

Well, what did you think? Leave your comments in the reviews. Also, tell me if I should continue this.

Thanks for reading!