Basil

"Grandfather, how did I get my name?" My grandson climbed into my lap. "Some of my friends were talking about how they got their names, and I don't know how I got mine."

"Well, Basil, you were named after someone very special," I answered.

"Who?" he asked.

"Someone who once helped our family," I replied. "It happened many years ago, of course, but that's a story for when you're older."

"What did he do?" my grandson persisted.

I tried to simplify. "When your mother was a child, some bad men tried to cause trouble for her, and Mr. Basil made sure all those bad men went to jail."

The child grinned. "That's a great story, Grandfather!"

Indeed it is, but he's far too young to understand just how great. He has no idea about the bell-shaped monument in the cemetery, dedicated to all those who lost their lives to Ratigan. He doesn't know about the detective's scars that should have been mine. He has no memory of London or the retired investigator. I pray he never feels a rifle in his back or lives with the guilt that he almost killed his own child.

When he gets older, I'll tell him. He must know the truth. The name "Basil of Baker Street" must never be forgotten, and as long as I live, it never shall be.