bakerstreet | Rabbit Done Died Meme

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Rabbit Done Died Meme

"The rabbit died" is an old saying meaning one is pregnant, coming from the now no longer practiced rabbit test.

Congratulations!

You're pregnant. Knocked up. Eating for two. Have a bun in the oven.
Insert your own cliched phrase here. No matter how you say it, you're
downright fertilized. Even if you're not typically in possession of a
womb, somehow it happened. Are you scared? Happy? Gassy? A combination
of everything? And who's the father, anyway?

1. Post with your character with their name and series in the subject line. If
you want to avoid any of the options, this would also be a good place to
list them.
2. This is one of those RNG memes, so you'll want to go to our good friend Random Number Generator and roll 1-6 for how far along you are. Or just pick what one you'd prefer.
3. If you're replying to someone, roll 1-4 for how you factor into this madness!

So, how far along are you anyway?

1. Two months - Sooooo all this sickness is kind of annoying, isn't it? At least you can still fit in your old clothes, right?

2. Four months - Okay, so things are getting a little tight. Time to break out the flowy stuff!

3. Six months - OH MY GOD IT'S AN ALI-- oh, no. It's just the baby moving. Although it's still kind of creepy, isn't it?

4. Eight months - Please. Please let it be over. Have mercy.

5. Overdue - C'mon kid! I'll buy you a pony! NO! TWO PONIES! My baaaaaack.

6. Wildcard - Your choice!

What's your role in this whole mess, person replying?

1. YOU ARE THE FATHER - Well, now you've gone and done it. Are you going to take responsibility, or head for the hills?

2. Friend - You may not have done the deed, but you're going to be there to help your buddy. No matter HOW weird the circumstances!

3. Enemy - Do you feel a 'HAW HAW' coming on? This is just too funny.

4. Wildcard - Second verse, same as the first.

Not my meme. Shamelessly copied!

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[He found, not for the first time, that he desperately wanted to say yes. He wanted to just sit down and accept that this, whatever it was with them, was happening and he couldn't really fight it.

But the fight was part of it.

He took a step towards her and slipped a hand to her waist, just above the hipbone.]

I don't cook.

[If he had said yes, Irene might well have lost what little composure she had left. In the wake of everything between them now, it would have been an irrevocable change in their interactions, in the tenuous balance of the power play.

Because, even with proof positive of the fact that something had changed between them, the banter, the game, needed to remain the same. It was a frustrating, comforting constant.

Still, at the touch of his hand, warm against her hip, she smiled and rose to her full height (which was considerably less without the stiletto heels), stepping closer to him as she did.]

Not even if it were the end of the world?

It's not the end of the world. We're still alive.

[Read: She is still alive. He'd be just fine if he wasn't alive, and imagines that even with this unexpected wrench thrown into her life that she'd be fine as well.

The world would end, again, if Irene Adler died.

While he's not adept at making the first move, even in the months of this strange half-truce between them, he does manage to move to kiss her. Something brief, quick, but clearly sentimental. Reserved for moments of truce only.]

[At the kiss, her smile softened into something far more genuine than she would normally allow, though despite the softness it never lost its hint of arch amusement. Their little truces were always interesting, oscillating between moments of indomitable will and sentiment, of cool intelligence and silent warmth.]

Is that offer of tea still open, or is John on his way back?

We've got time.

[Tea is something he can do, though the idea of pulling away from her just yet seems---it doesn't seem like something he wants right now. Sentiment is very confusing like that.

He does, though, after a moment, and heads over to the kitchen.]

[She doesn't follow, but she does linger along the periphery of the room, her fingers tracing along a bookshelf piled high with all manner of things. There's order in the shelving of books, but then a barely contained chaos of things piled on top of them. Bits of shattered bone, some sort of rock. Research, no doubt. And the books' organization John Watson's doing.

As she looks, a familiar sight catches her eye and Irene's fingers run along a length of black leather. No doubt Sherlock Holmes made different use of a riding crop than she did, but the fact that it is here amuses her. She picks it up, testing its pliancy with a practiced hand, just to occupy her hands, if not her thoughts.]

Whose idea was it, to hide your school records, you or Mycroft?

[A guess, purely a guess on her part but his reaction would tell as much as anything he said. And for the first time Irene found herself curious just what he had been like as a boy.

Call it research.]

Neither. Our mother never did like people researching us without her knowledge.

[he steps into the kitchen and finds two fairly clean cups and a pot. He sets the kettle to boil as he prepares the teapot. He glances back over his shoulder at her, determines what he's fairly certain is her preference in tea, and sets it next to the cup.

She's got his riding crop, and he raises an eyebrow.]

Your personal inventory will have to change in five months.

[The answer actually does surprise her, and she lets the surprise show through an arched eyebrow, and a faint dry laugh.] Well that makes things difficult.

[Not impossible, but considerably more difficult in some ways. A challenge.

The crop is not as supple or pliant as her own, obviously nowhere near as cared for, but it's clearly been used. His raised eyebrow earns him the sharp dominatrix smile that made men and women ache to bend the knee, and she runs her fingers along its length again.]

Earlier than that, I expect. I did say I'll endeavor to behave.

[He smiles, and then narrows his eyes, his gaze curious]

Nature or nurture?

[She meets his gaze steadily] Why does it have to be either/or?

Because it can't logically be both.

And a child of mine would be even more difficult if it's more nature.

[A touch of humour touches her eyes, banishing some of the tiredness, at least momentarily.]

And mine isn't likely to play by your rules. Interesting, isn't it?

My intellect, your cunning. I doubt the world would be ready.

[But it would have to be. His gaze drifted down to her midsection, where said child was growing. Cells dividing. Chromosomes replicating.

The water began to boil and he turned away, back to the tea.]

[And for a moment, Irene considers staying in London. Letting the plane and the carefully laid plans and new identity go without her. Because the world won't be ready, and it would all be far more interesting to see up close.

But the water boils and he turns back to the kitchen and Irene Adler sets the riding crop back on its shelf with a momentary twinge of regret.]

And maybe that's the way she'll want it.

[he brings the tray of tea over to the side table by John's chair]

Maybe he'll embrace it, maybe not.

[She laughs softly at that and follows, perching on the arm of John's chair. She shifts a little as she does, still not used to the changes in balance, in body weight and where it all is.

The conversation sounded light to her ears, almost normal. Which was utterly abnormal for them. But given the reason for her visit, it seemed appropriate. And still, the tension simmered behind the words, unspoken but present.

She pours, two cups.]

May want to start keeping an eye on the papers in a few years.

I keep an eye on them as it is.

[But he understands her implication, of course, and he can't help but smile at it. His child, part detective and part criminal. His child. A thought more frightening than he'd expected.

[Irene picks up one of the cups, adds a little lemon, but just holds it. More for the sake of having something to do than actually wanting tea. An excuse to be here, like the truce.

There are words on the tip of her tongue. Things she wants to say before she left, things that should probably be said. Things that are sentimental, that are practical, that are things that either close this chapter between them or leave it open to something more than these tenuous moments.

But the words on the tip of her tongue don't come, because she likes this. This game, this unpredictability, this tension that never quite leaves no matter how many times they meet like this.

The sentiment is probably a sign that she would make a terrible mother, but Irene had never been very good at playing by the rules.

She smiles.]

Then maybe I should continue to misbehave. The papers are terribly dull.

Try something a bit more interesting than political intrigue. That requires a level of knowing who's-shagging-who that I just don't care about.

[he adds a bit of milk and sugar to his own tea and stirs it slowly. Once the tea is over, he imagines she'll leave and move on, and he might not see her until the child is born, or starting to grow up. Part of him is honestly relieved by that, because the stress of a new thing in his life that isn't a case---a new permanent thing without a solution or foreseeable end---could throw his entire world upside down.

But another part of him, the part that is, perhaps, a bit more mature than the former part of him, is disappointed. There are things he never did with his own family that would---that should be rectified in the future. John would be excellent at that sort of sentimentality. Sherlock is lacking.]

[That gets another smile from her.] It's never really about who's shagging who. That's just the clue.

[It'd always been about the balance of power, of information and who gets what when. Sex is just the most reliable way of gaining that.

She sets the cup back on its saucer, untouched. There's no logical reason to be here. She should have left the moment she'd said what she'd wanted to say. "Hello. I'm pregnant. Goodbye Mr. Holmes."

But she had and she really should salvage the whole thing and leave]

Well, Heathrow is waiting.

[She rises and, as she does, wonders idly what he'll make of it. Whether he'll think it's a bluff, that she's deliberately obfuscating the trail, or if it's a bit of sentiment, or an actual clue.

But it doesn't really matter. He won't tell her even if she asked, and she won't ask. They'll find each other again. She rests a warm hand on his arm as she passes him.]

Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.

Irene.

[his hand goes to her wrist. He could easily stop her by simply physically overpowering her, but he won't. He won't hurt her. He wouldn't, even before all of this. But he would take her wrist, hold her there if he could.]

[His reaction genuinely surprises her, and she stops, said surprise written clear on her face. Because it is a deviation from the script, the familiar way in which these moments of truce end. That one of them will slip away and the other will not stop them.

She tries to read his expression, but either he is at the moment just unreadable or deep down she doesn't really want to be able to read his expression at the moment. So instead she just looks at him.]

It's been a long time since you've called me that, Sherlock.

[He can't give in. There's part of him that never will, but---but right now---]

Where will you go?

[The fact that he asks is far more proof of sentimentality than she would ever ask for. She considers refusing him, telling him it's a puzzle to solve for later, but she of all people knows how significant the question is, and for once playing the game doesn't hold as much appeal as telling him.

She leans forward and kisses him lightly on the cheek, warm lips against cool skin. There doesn't need to be more, not when his question and her answer are far more intimate.]

New York City. Nobody can find me in that mess.

[Except him.]

[He's memorized those lips. He knows the way they feel against his mouth, against his skin. Yet, the way they feel now against his cheek is different than any other time. He can't quite understand why.]

Do you want me to rise to that challenge?

[He says the words with no fight, no teasing. Nothing but an honest question: Does she want Sherlock to appear in her life? He doesn't doubt that she will raise the child and be brilliant at it in ways that he would be utterly incapable. But would she want him to just arrive? To appear and exist in either her life or the child's?

He could never be a proper father. He could never promise that. But he could find her. He could exist, for her.]

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Tell me that letting John find out would be a horrible idea.

It would be horrible. IT WOULD BE AWESOME.

Clearly needs to happen sometime

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