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 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.]

[She doesn't pull away immediately, instead Irene lets her eyes close briefly, as if savouring the momentary closeness. Her hand rests on his shoulder for that same duration, before she does inevitably draw away. She doesn't break his loose grip on her wrist, but she does step away enough that it is the only point of contact between them.

She tries not to think of how that would even work, with whatever life she was going to shape, with the child. She knows neither of them are meant to be parents, that they are both far too extraordinary, far too disconnected from the rest of the masses to really be trusted with something as innocent and shapeable as a child.

But if not them, in whatever fractured unconventional capacity, who else could? Especially this child.]

I always want you to rise to the challenge, Mr. Holmes. [A fleeting, wicked smile plays at her lips and her eyes sweep over him from head to toe, tempering the bare, vulnerable honesty.]

In all senses of the word.

[There were things he might have to tell another woman. He might have to tell another woman that he didn't want her to leave (though the likelihood that there would be another woman he might want not to leave is extremely slim). He might have to tell another woman that he would always follow where she would go. He might have to tell another woman to expect him there.

He didn't have to tell any of these things to the Woman. It was what made her special. It was what made her more than any other woman he had met or, in all likelihood, would ever meet.]

Can we extend the truce one more night?

[She should say no, because there are a myriad of reasons to say no. The plane at Heathrow. The new identity waiting. The housekeeper. The flatmate. The fact that she has overstayed already. The fact that Irene Adler is known to everyone to be dead and gone and the fact that the charade is in danger of collapsing with every moment she stays.

Well, that last one was a bit dramatic.

But he is asking. Simply asking, without the game between them. Twice, even. She knows that is as close to begging as he will ever get.

And she wants to say yes.]

Until sunrise.

[He's letting sentimentality obscure himself. He doesn't beg for people to stay, he doesn't extend truces. Of course, prior to the Woman's entry into his life, he never offered truces, either. It feels like hes begged for mercy. It feels strange.

A lot of what happens with the Woman feels strange, however. He's getting used to that.

John will be home at some point, so Sherlock mentally takes note of the time they have in this room, and at what point he should adjourn them to the bedroom for privacy's sake.]

Shame you're dead. The look on Mycroft's face if he knew would be worth more than I could probably mention.

[The smile that spreads over her face at his words is pure conspiratorial sin. It's more than the dominatrix smile, the one that keeps the submissive in line, that promises sex and pain and pleasure. Those had always been trappings. This was a smile that was more than the dominatrix, that was pure Irene Adler, The Woman, full of intellectual wit and cunning pleasure.

The smile of someone who has found not only an equal but a partner.

It doesn't happen often, even between them.

She takes a step back into his personal space and runs a finger along the line of buttons down the front of his shirt.]

It's almost enough to tempt a woman to come back from the dead, just to see that.

[Sherlock's own grin is a slow, careful spread across his face as he thinks about the ways Mycroft would "handle" the situation. It would be beautiful. The way the Woman smiles as she steps into his personal space---a place that she belongs right now---tells Sherlock that she thinks the same.

It's so infrequently that he can feel someone absolutely understand where his mind is going.]

You could, you know. And he'd have no choice but to protect you.

Of course, that would mean family Christmases.

[For a moment, she is almost tempted. Because protection is better than being in hiding. Because it would be easier to have and to raise this child around people who have some idea what he or she could be like. Because watching Mycroft Holmes trying to swallow his tongue three times over would be quite possibly the most fun she's had in ages.

Because he would then be close by.

She is too independent, too strong-willed, and far too fond of misbehaving for that.

But she is almost tempted, all the same.

So instead of answering either honestly or flippantly, she takes him by the back of the head and pulls him to her, in a kiss that is as much sentimentality as it is unspoken, unadmitted fear for what will come.]

[He doesn't expect her to say 'yes', but he's surprised to find that he honestly wants her to. He wants her to say 'yes', and he wants her to stay. He doesn't want the child to be here, all the time, because that's just disaster waiting to happen. But he doesn't want---

She kisses him, and he easily kisses her back, wrapping an arm around her waist and holding her close. They are so different, and yet so very alike. If nature really is the key to life, what sort of child could be produced by this? Some sort of a mixture of his madness and her unpredictability? Something woefully socially inept but longing to control everything?

Difficult to tell. Impossible, actually, from where she is at this point. Easier to tell once the child is older.]

[She doesn't melt against him. That's too simple, too easy, and they are anything but. But when he kisses her back some of the tension does leave her. Because this part of the script is still the same. They still fit each other in ways that matter, even with the new wrinkle in the way.

And maybe it is sentimental to think so, that it is enough to hang the life of a child on. A child who will no doubt be far too intelligent for his peers, and far too cunning to follow the rules. Who will know parents for whom sentiment is a thing rarely admitted or shown, who will learn from first breath that deduction and discernment are the instruments to navigate a world that cannot hope to catch up.

No, the world was definitely not ready for this.

But then maybe it hadn't been ready for either of them either.

Still, the idea he's planted refuses to leave and Irene hears herself murmuring]

Ask me again in four months.

[Because it really would be priceless.]

[She wouldn't vanish forever, then. Of course, considering the Woman's unpredictability, he could only wonder if she would be gone forever the moment the sun went up. Or if he might see her again, ready to go to the hospital. Or if she'd only reappear at birthdays or Christmases.

But the strangest thing of all was, he cared what would happen to her. She was one of the only people in the world that could invoke that in him.]

I won't forget to.

[If he'd been able to predict how things would fall out in four or six months' time, Irene would have been impressed. Especially given that she still didn't know what she was going to do, besides catch a flight to New York City tomorrow morning.

Four months. Four months to decide whether or not to stay in whatever life she'll have carved out for herself in the States, or to come back to England. Or maybe neither, and she'll disappear again, to Paris or Milan or Montenegro or Algiers for another year, three.

And it should all matter, she feels, that she should have some idea what she wants to happen, where she wants to go.

But all that she can really think about mattering is the now, how the two of them fit, mentally and physically, and how she is pleased, glad, that he asked her to stay.]

You could always text.

You know how I can be, Irene, I can't even guarantee I'll reply to a text.

[Part of him wanted to promise it, of course. But he knew himself. He knew his mercurial attitudes and days of ennui where he'd realize it was suddenly November. It was part of his list of the Very Many Important Reasons He Could Not Be A Father.

He couldn't even promise to try. Promising to try was as useless as promising nothing at all.]

If you're here, you know I can't ignore you.

[That makes her laugh, soft and knowing and deeply amused. She pulls away just far enough to look him in the eye.]

You used to be better at ignoring me.

[He was better at not responding, but he's never been good at ignoring her. Every text was immediately memorized, and never forgotten. Even now, he knows he can recite her text history and the times she sent them. He can even recite what he was doing when that breathy moan came over his phone.]

Did that bother you?

Only after John said you always respond. [But even that had been short-lived, once she realized he had never changed the text alert noise.]

[He smiles at that, but doesn't respond. Even now, he can't really say why he never responded. It's not that he didn't have a response, she often left herself with a wide-open area for response, he just didn't know what would be appropriate. No, it was more than that. Pride was involved somehow.]

You never did answer the question. [She wondered idly if other people, normal ~~boring~~ people, exchanged words like they did. Bantered and flirted with that same careful edge of tension, of wills and pride.

She doubted it.]

Does that make me special, Mr. Holmes? [She had more than ample proof of it. But she still liked asking, just to see his response. Or lack thereof.]

[he knows this isn't about knowing, it's about having him tell her. That's very her, verymuch the Woman. He can't stop the smile tugging on his lips.]

Make a deduction.

[She smiles at that. It had been that precise challenge that had gotten them here in the first place, hadn't it?]

No, I'm already indulging you by staying.

That you are.

[See that? Question avoided.]

And you won't do the same. [The smile becomes a laugh, but she still makes absolutely no move to leave his personal space.] Did I ever manage to make you beg twice?

[And he does the same, staying close to her, keeping no distance between them. To move away is to accept defeat, and truce or not, he's not accepting any defeat. Not giving up the battle.]

Never.

[Out loud, at least.]

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womanwhobeatyou - 2012-03-28 18:48 (UTC) - Expand

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