Title & Link: A Lagomorph in Baker Street
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock/John; Teen
Warnings/Content Notes: none
Title: Doe Si Do
Pairings & Rating: None; G
Warnings/Content Notes: none
Summary: Four linked 221B's telling a small bunny's tale -- with some advice from beyond, above, behind, and dubiously by a caring observer.
Doe Si Do
Hop it said the voice in the night. An unknown voice. The baby bunny twitched her ears. A...wrong voice. She sniffed once. Twice. Nothing else. Nothing that drew breath as she did; but she was small and new. This was a complicated and disorienting place. The Ones with hands were possibly dangerous. Possibly good things. One fed her. Her eyes closed, her ears drooped. The One gave her warm bedding and this dark place to hide. If you ask me, said the voice, run. Best out of here. She closed her eyes tight and made herself smaller and still.
“It’s only temporary. A cage.”
“A cage, a box, and the litter pan you’re planning to conceal under the bath for long term accommodation of excretory needs.”
“A box within a cage. And wherever Doe goes ultimately, so goes the pan. Portable. Not a fixture. Hygienic necessity. Trust me, I’m the doc. Wait...do I hear a ‘What’s up’?” The One with food dispensing hands brought his huge face close to the bunny’s side, making her jump away.
“You’re frightening her.” The One with dangerous smelling hands shouted, making the bunny jump into the sheltering hidey box. He made a sharp noise through his nose. “Brainless!”
A door slammed, shaking her dark retreat. The bunny shivered.
The unknown voice laughed. Brainless.
There was a second voice in the night. The first voice was great and hollow. This one was muffled and stuffy. They were different to the voices of living, visible things. The rat behind the wainscoting. The raven that pecked at the windowpane. The curious squirrel.
Rabbits are not meant to live alone, said the stuffy voice. Rabbits who live alone become depressed and mad and die.
Everything dies, said the hollow voice. Just you wait.
She lunged forward and the bag would not give. She shook her head and the bag rattled. There was no slack to nip between her teeth. She shook. She jumped. She twisted, and the bag made a fearsome noise. And then, the hands, the One who smelled dangerous (but not now), the One who never touched her, grabbed her sides through the bag and lifted her into dizzy space. The hands pulled, and her head came free. She scrambled for footing with her hind legs. She bit the closer hand, to blood, almost to bone.
You’re for it now.
“That’s gratitude,” said the One. He crouched down and pressed her to the floor, grounding her; held her, tearing away the remaining, crinkling bag. He stroked her ears and let go.
“No nightmares, eh?”
The bunny turned her head toward him. She blinked and breathed.
Up here. On the wall.
I see you through the glass.
Ignore them, advised the rat. Can’t move, can’t hurt. It stole her carrot slice.
Dead things, rapped the raven on the windowpane. Dead dead.
The cage door was not difficult to open, after she bit through a wire. Run. Mad. Alone.
She was born one of six, in a hidey box. She missed her litter mates. She missed her mother. She missed warm fur and a beating heart to nestle against and the same animal belonging smell. She hopped, down, onto the carpet, and across the complicated space.
“Reveal yourself, you idiot creature!”
He’d been shouting for some time, disarranging furniture and papers and chemicals and things fallen to the floor. He was clever, but not a hunter of small game, not even in a domestic setting. “What are you smirking at?” he asked the bison skull. “Where the devil is she?” he asked the taxidermied bat. He threw a cricket ball at the hole of the resident rat, that John had yet to observe.
A thunder of steps up the stairs ended with the door being flung open. “I’ve been looking for over an hour,” he bellowed at his roommate just arrived.
“You’re a berk,” said John. “Right. Have you checked the cupboards? Kitchen, under stairs, back bathroom?”
The One with disturbing smelling hands held her often now.
Now she had a different cage, outside under the sun. Now she could feel the earth beneath her feet and eat growing food.
Now she had done another interesting thing
The umbrella swung and smacked the Black Angora smartly in the ribs. “Bad rabbit. Run along.” The stupid buck wrinkled his nose and bared his teeth. Another smack. He bridled but turned and hopped back through the hole in the fence. That One moved a tall pot to cover it. He frowned and wiped his hands. “Shoo,” he said to the bunny. “Get inside.” She looked at him. “Find Sherlock. Home.”
“Pigeons home,” said the One who feeds, from the doorway. “Does don’t.”
“Are you raising her to eat?”
The bunny looked hopefully at the fence. The hole was still blocked. She raised her tail. Her bottom hurt, but – oops, the One was lifting her. She nipped inside his elbow and got a mouthful of wool that, philosophically, she chewed.
“No. Don’t suggest that to Sherlock, not even to be vile.”
“She’s a pet.”
“An un-neutered rabbit makes a better pie than pet. Best tend to that and find her a companion.”
“How do you...never mind. She’s perfectly happy with us.”
“Prepare yourself for further joy.”
[The end, of this little look-in. One hopes for a brighter, chewy future for them all.]
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