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Ratigan: Ah, not another one Ratigan: Ah, not another one!

Me: And why not? You said it yourself: I need to get a jump on these things!

Ratigan: Well, not necessarily in that particular phrasing.

Me: Yeah, I think it was something along the lines of "Get those freaking stories done and stop abusing me!" Was that about it?

Ratigan: I think "freaking" was actually something a bit more vulgar, but the idea's still there.

Me: Joy.

Anyway, this third story was inspired by repeated readings of Hellsing volume 1, particularly the part where Seras is trying to escape Father Anderson (the wacko) and pulls out the last of his bayonets. So I think this story is gonna be R or NC-17 rated.

Ratigan: See?! You abuse me in every freaking story! Enough already!

Me: --;

Disclaimer: I own no one except Veeken and Des. Basil and Ratigan belong to Eve Titus and Disney, while Father Alexander Anderson and Enrico Maxwell belong to Kohta Hirano.

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Day was slowly turning into night at Baker Street. The day had been overcast and relatively quiet, so naturally it set Basil's nerves on edge. Nothing had happened all day, but, knowing his luck sometimes, it meant that something was gathering its energy for that night. All the unnerved detective could do was waiting to see what came...

Sighing, he strode to the window, opening it for a breath of fresh air. That was when he heard it.

".../Basil/...", the voice rasped.

There was something behind that plaintive call, a whisper of power that increased his curiosity at who it was. Without another moment's thought, he went to the door that led to the front steps. Outside there were bushes on either side of the steps leading up to Holmes's flat, which were where the voice was coming from.

".../Basil/..."

He had already deduced the voice was coming from the one next to his window, where Olivia had spotted Fidget lurking outside over five years ago. It was clear that someone had wanted him down here. Basil realized that he had forgotten his gun in his flat, and decided caution would be the best tactic here.

That was when he scented the coppery odor of blood. His instincts first told him there was a wounded something hiding there, or whatever it was had just killed someone. Praying it wasn't the latter, and ignoring his instinct's repetitive urges to turn tail and flee, he pushed aside a few branches.

Professor James Ratigan, father to Veeken was sitting propped up against some of the branches. This in itself was enough of a surprise to Basil, but then he realized why he was smellng blood and why his voice was barely a rasp.

"Oh, my God, Ratigan! What happened?"

Ratigan looked up from where he was fingering one of the blades now sticking out of his chest. "Ah", he rasped . "I was wondering when you'd get here. I was getting tired of waiting..."

"Ratigan..."

"Yes, I heard you the first time", Ratigan retorted as well as he could.

"Yes, but I- How did-?"

"Just shut up and get me inside", Ratigan managed to rasp before he passed out.

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Ratigan woke up again from a sharp pain in his back. Ratigan rasped out an almost-silent scream, and glanced up at Basil, who was examining one of the blades in his back with rubber-gloved hands.

"I know this is going to be an extremely obvious statement, but that hurt."

"Really?", Basil replied dryly, glancing along the blade's length. "I didn't notice."

Ratigan made an attempt to push himself up onto his knees - and failed.

"I suppose you're going to tell me how you wound up like this."

"Some bastard by the name of Father Anderson thought I was a Midian vampire and tried to turn me into a headless pincushion, but he got away before I could return the favor."

"You lead such a charmed life."

"Just consider yourself lucky none of these pierced my heart. Now less talk, more blade-removal."

"Ah... right. Um..." Basil was at a loss. "How?"

"Just pull them out."

"Right. Pull them out."

"What, you sincerely thought that detective work was easier than this?"

"No, it's just-"

"Just pull them out quickly, and the healing process should take it from there."

Basil sighed. "All right." He reached for one of the protruding blades, hesitating. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"It could be worse."

Basil nodded, his hand now on the blade. He sighed, then pulled it out in one swift motion, grimacing at the second almost-silent hoarse scream in so many minutes. His nose wrinkled at the blood, he set it down on the plastic wrap next to the first. "This is going to take awhile...", he sighed.

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/Eventually.../

Ratigan coughed as he lay back on the bed. The last of the blades had been taken out a couple minutes ago, and he had been bandaged up to prevent further bleeding until he healed.

Basil glanced up from his examination of the last bayonet. "How's the healing coming?"

"It's almost done, I think."

"Mm." Basil strode over to a bare section of the wall, pressing his hand flat against it. The area underneath his hand glowed, and divided to reveal a small refrigerator.

"What is this room, anyway?"

"It's something Dawson set up after he moved in. So far I've mainly used it for treatment of minor injuries."

"I take it most of these 'minor injuries' were caused mainly by me?"

"Mostly, yes." The mouse detective opened the refrigerator, pulling out a beaker. The contents were clear, but the glass felt as cold as an icicle, and a fine layer of frost had clearly formed around the liquids. This forced a slightly raised eyebrow from him. "Ah... what is this?"

"My daughter didn't tell you?"

"Not really. She just installed all the equipment, and explained what circumstances I'd need to administrate this." He briefly shook the vial, in case the contents had settled.

"Oh", Ratigan muttered, faintly disappointed. "I don't believe you've heard of the ring of Tara, have you?"

"In passing reference, yes."

"This is water from a well sixty meters below it, and is very potent, magically speaking." [1]

"Really?"

"Yes, really." The beaker floated out of Basil's hand and moved to Ratigan's hand. He casually uncorked the beaker, took a sip and shuddered. "Unfortunately", he continued, voice slightly shaky from the aftereffects, "this gives it a little bit of a punch to it, so it's a case of 'drinker beware'."

Basil smirked. "And here I was thinking that only applied to alcohol."

Ratigan returned the smile, then finished the rest, shuddering at the brief burst of cold energy that pulsed through your body. "Now, for the second vial."

"Right." Basil turned back to the refrigerator, pulling out the next vial. /This /one, however, wasn't coated in frost or full of clear liquid, but a dark red liquid that was clearly-.

"Ah, Ratigan?"

"Hm?"

Basil held the beaker between his index finger and thumb. "Would I be wrong in guessing that this is-?"

"Blood?"

"I had figured that much. Who's the lucky donor?"

"An old friend. The beaker has a spell on it to prevent the ravages of time, meaning it can keep for a long time. Cheers." He uncorked the beaker as casually as the last one, but casually took his time in draining this one, savoring it like a fine wine.

"Have you always been..."

"Something I suspect came as part of becoming a dæmon, or I might have always been this way and not known about it."

Basil grimaced as he remembered his fight with the ex-Professor atop Big Ben. It wouldn't surprise him if it turned out to be the latter. "Now, let's see the results", he said briskly, handing a pair of scissors to Ratigan.

Cutting the tight knot formed by the bandages, Ratigan quickly began to undo the rest, almost tearing through it in his haste. Eventually the last bandage fell away, and the pad fell away, stained in blood, but the wound was no longer there. Ratigan ran a hand down his stomach as if the wound would open up again if he didn't.

"Well, I've heard of quick healers, but this...", Basil muttered, faintly smiling.

"Yes", Ratigan grinned toothily. "Now call Veeken and let her know I will be arriving shortly. I believe I have a debt to collect from Father Anderson."

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In his office, Father Enrico Maxwell was surprised to hear a phone ring. Perhaps it was Father Anderson with the results of his mission in Scotland. He glanced over at the cordless receiver, but the small screen wasn't glowing, so that one was out. But that meant...

With a sigh, Maxwell opened the desk drawer to reveal the sleek black cell phone. He flipped it open, and snapped "What is it?"

"Ah, Father Enrico Maxwell. I need to speak to you about the conduct of your emissary, 'Paladin' Alexander Anderson."

The bottom dropped out of Maxwell's stomach. "Oh, I see. In fact, I believe I may know what you're talking about..."

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/Eventually.../

Ratigan smiled as he hung up on the other end. Across the room, a teenage girl, almost mistakable for being entirely rat if not for the furred lion's tail, looked up. "Well?"

"Nine requests for nine blades. All in all, not a bad day's work, Veek, considering what I went through."

"And Anderson doesn't know he's bound to your will in case he tries something."

"Not yet, but it'll be fun to have him find out."

There was a moment of silence between father and daughter.

"So, you didn't tell him about the blood?"

"Would /you /have?"

Ratigan paused. "No. Not really. Basil found out by himself before I could interject, so I felt no need. Besides, he has enough problems on his plate as it is."

Another moment of silence as he reclined in his chair. "Yes, just another ordinary evening."

FIN

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1: A reference to the Artemis Fowl series by Eoin Colfer.

Ratigan: You abuse me too much, you know.

Me: I do /not/!

Ratigan: How many blades did you stick in me again?

Me: About half a dozen, give or take a few...

Ratigan: See?!

Me: Oh, whatever. You can't die, remember?

Ratigan: Yes, but that turns into a bit of a double-edged sword at times...