Waking Nightmares(Lined Bullets)- A GMD Fiction

Chapter 1: Waking Terrors

       I was on Big Ben again, but something was wrong... I had fallen onto the hour hand of the clock, but there was no sign of the Flavershams or Dawson in their make - shift Union Jack blimp anywhere. My mind was scattered; I couldn't think nor could I find a way off this giant clock. I raced to the tip of the hand but Rattigan got there first.
       "There's no escape this time, Basil," he yelled. Then our battle ensued, though I was getting the greater number of injuries, but instead of being knocked over the tip of the hand, Rattigan pounced on me and began choking me. My sight began to haze and as my strength left me, I felt Rattigan's breath in my ear.        
       "I am the victor now, Basil," he whispered.
       My head fell back against the hand and I heard the clock strike ten. The vibrations sent us both off the edge.
       We were falling... falling... falling... until...
*****
       "No," I cried.
       I sat straight up from my bed, cold sweat clinging to my fur. I whipped my head around my room until I heard footsteps pounding against the floor, ceasing at my door. A knock came from behind the door.
       "C-come in," I practically whispered with a little more shake in my voice than I really wanted to come out.
       My good friend Dawson came in slowly, his head peeking past the door first. Concern could be seen written all over his face as he looked at me. He came to my bedside and sat down in a chair that had been recently added so that he could watch over me when I got injured.
       "Basil, are you okay," he asked softly. "I heard you screaming from downstairs."
       "I'm so sorry old chap. Did I wake you?"
       "Oh, no worry, I just got back from a late night at the clinic. My worry is focused on you... Basil, why on Earth were you screaming?"
       "I-I... I...," I looked down, ashamed of having to deal with such childish things such as nightmares. "They're just childish nightmares."
       I looked up to see my old friend looking rather peeved. My ears bent back slightly, afraid I had struck a nerve. He got up, grabbed my arm, and dragged me over to my mirror in the corner of my room. I had taken off my shirt, but hadn't cared to put a night shirt on, so I could see all the damage Rattigan had caused me.
       "Basil," said the good doctor. "Look at your right arm. What do you see?"
       I looked at the scars on my right arm left there by Rattigan.
       "Scars," I said deflated-ly.
       "And your back?"
       "More scars... C-confound it, Dawson, what is the purpose of you dragging me to my mirror and looking at my blasted scars from the fight on Big Ben?"
       Dawson sighed. "My point, Basil, is that with all these scars, there comes a traumatic aftermath. Take it from someone who has seen the ugliest side of war. Those nightmares are common things that occur after such a horrendous fight. Scarring and nightmares are a much better outcome than losing your life. Basil, what I'm trying to say is that nightmares are common and far from childish. Confound it all, even I still have nightmares occasionally."
       "But Rattigan is dead, Dawson, yet my mind continues to plague my dreams with him. I mean, dare I say it, but what if he's still alive somewhere out in Mouse London? What if, he is scheming something bigger that I can't comprehend... what if we end up in another fight. Dawson, I-I don't think I can survive another fight like that."
       My hands begin to shake and my brain began to shut down; typical signs of a panic attack. Soon enough I couldn't breathe. Tears filled my eyes as fear gripped my heart.
       "Basil! Basil, calm down. You're okay, you're fine. Basil?"
       It seemed as if I was relapsing into my nightmare. I could see it all happening. I felt my body being laid down by Dawson. He continued to walk me through calming myself, but I couldn't seem to get the picture of the Napoleon of Crime out of my head. After precisely ten minutes, I calmed down enough to breathe and not have my hands shake uncontrollably.
       "I say, Basil, one of these days you're going to give me a heart attack," he breathed.
       I sat up slowly, and gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry old chap. I suppose my imagination got ahead of my rationality."
       Dawson stared at me for a long time until he sat down again and looked at me again with concern.
       "Basil, how long have these nightmares been occurring?"
       "Why, what makes you ask?"
       "Basil, it doesn't take a detective to take note of the dark circles under your eyes."
       I let out a heavy sigh and put a hand to my head.
       "In that case, they've been occurring for... oh, about three weeks."
       "Three weeks? Basil, why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"
       Dawson shook his head; astonished. I could tell he was getting tired, but I also knew that he wouldn't leave my side until I was sound asleep. This was what happened when I first got nightmares after Big Ben and my wounds would reopen in my fearful thrashing.
       "You're not leaving until I fall asleep, are you?"
       "Not in the least. You must be exhausted. How could you have possibly solved our past few cases?"
       "Erm... adrenaline shots that I might have taken the liberty of taking from your medic bag."
       His eyes widened, and then anger was written all over his features. I looked down. What I did was wrong, and I had no right to confiscate anything in his bag.
       "Basil, you could have killed yourself!"
       "You mean... you're not..."
       He looked at me confused.
       "Am I mad at you," he asked. I nodded slowly. "I am admittedly a bit peeved, but I'm more concerned that at any moment, you could have over-dosed or administered it the wrong way. What on Earth were you thinking?"
       I was completely shocked. He wasn't mad at me. He was more concerned that I could have hurt myself. Dawson moved the little ways over to my bedside and put an arm around my thin frame. He soon removed his arm and grabbed my shoulders.
       "I can not guarantee that Rattigan is dead or alive, but what I know for sure is that you can not go on like this. You need to get some rest."
       "I can't Dawson, the scenes are too fresh in my mind."
       I pulled at my hair. There wasn't a single thing that I could think of that could help me go to sleep. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my back and it began to rub my back in small circles. I looked over at Dawson warily and sighed. Though the scars on my back were still a bit sensitive, it felt soothing. Soon enough, I was laying on my side with my back facing Dawson as he continued to rub. My eyelids grew heavy. Before I fell into another slumber, I wanted to say something I rarely remembered to say.
       "Thank you..(yawn).. Dawson," I whispered. Then, my mind fell into peacefulness.