"You're going to get us caught."
My frustrated tone sent the small animal further beneath my bed despite my low volume. That confounded rabbit had been avoiding my grasp for hours, and with Holmes' canceled plans, I could not give chase like I normally would.
"You know he is downstairs today," I whispered furiously. "I cannot chase you as if we were alone."
My only answer was a faint raspberry. I wished I had never taught the creatures how to do that.
"Holmes is not Mrs. Hudson," I tried again. "If he sees you, or sees me talking to you, he will send me to the mental hospital at best. Do you know how many rabbits infiltrate the mental hospital?"
A beady eye peered from the back corner, silently indulging its curiosity.
"None," I answered seriously. "You will be stuck outside the fence, dodging feet until you starve. They have no carrots, no nesting places, and no paper. I would not be able to feed you, and I could certainly never release you. Don't you want released?"
The creature hesitated, then resumed its place in the far corner beneath my bed. While all rabbits wanted the release of a completed manuscript—publishing was a bonus—this one had apparently decided it could wait until I caught it the hard way. I gave up with a sigh. I would have to try again later.
I had another manuscript that needed editing anyway, but the corresponding rabbit had just settled on my desk when a voice carried from the sitting room.
"Watson? You said you wanted to watch this reaction."
I paused, glancing between the manuscript and the door. I had wanted to watch this reaction, but I also wanted to edit. Which was more important?
"Watson?"
Editing could wait, I decided. The story had only a few more modifications before I could put it away, and I would not lose anything by doing it later.
"Coming, Holmes."
The larger rabbit willingly went back to sleep in a drawer as I set the manuscript in its place, and a pink nose nudged the bed skirt aside when I stood. I ignored it. Maybe leaving it alone for a day or two would change its stubbornness. The creatures hated being snubbed.
"I just started," he said when I reached the sitting room. A puff of smoke lifted in front of him. "Did you finish the writing you wanted to do?"
"No." I could not hide a half-hearted scowl. "I'm having trouble finding the words to start."
He did not answer immediately, dripping something into his solution. "My monograph is coming equally slowly."
"Frustrating, is it not? To know what you want to write but not have the words to begin?"
He made a noise of agreement. Holmes' monographs required no inspiration of the sort delivered by a rabbit, but he knew the battle on a somewhat lesser level. Sometimes, the words simply refused to come.
I pulled a chair to where I could see both him and his beaker. His gaze never moved, apparently focused on the chemistry set, but the line between his eyes announced something bothered him. Silence fell as he sought the words.
"Would it help to write down here? The light is better."
I quickly shook my head. I would rather work in dim light than risk him seeing a "plot bunny," as my brother had always called them. I had no wish to lose our friendship—or my freedom.
"It will come eventually."
"But—" He broke off, frowning into his beaker.
"What is it?"
"Why—" The question halted again, but this time he restarted after a moment. "Why do you always write upstairs?"
"More comfortable," I answered simply, "and I work better in the quiet—usually. Right now, noise level doesn't seem to matter." As if noise would ever convince that confounded creature to let me touch it. My words certainly had not.
His silence indicated something else still nagged him. The solution changed to a brilliant blue before he tried again.
"You write in the sitting room when Mrs. Hudson is cleaning."
"Mrs. Hudson is not loud. How many times have you commented on her ability to fade into the background?"
He harrumphed at me. "That is not the point. If you truly found your room more comfortable, you would do so all the time." Not just when I was home.
Sorrow bloomed at the silent addition. I had only intended to protect myself, not hurt him, but I could not give him the answer he wanted. My friend had no use for the illogical, and trying to explain that a rabbit brought me stories would end worse than the Irregulars' insistence that Father Christmas delivered presents and the tooth faery bought their teeth. If Father Christmas was "a load of poppycock" requiring a bribe to prevent him from ruining a child's holiday, then a story-bringing rabbit could only be worse, for most authors were adults rather than children.
"You are not the reason I write upstairs, Holmes."
He abruptly spun away, hiding his expression in reaching for another reactant.
"I never said I was."
"No," I agreed, "but you seem to think it. I have many reasons for preferring my room, and even the largest one is not because of anything you have done. Some writers simply do not like to be watched. You do not always tell me your deductions."
I could tell he did not agree with my analogy, but he used his experiment to avoid having to say it.
"I write upstairs because it is quieter," I said firmly, "with fewer distractions like the explosions you cause occasionally. It is not because of you, and I did not start doing so when I moved here." That had started many years ago, when I first realized the possible consequences of discovery.
"You are sure?" he asked quietly, inexplicably worried about this. I had not expected him to care so much about my actions.
"Of course."
He relaxed only slightly, but a cloud of sparks exploded from his beaker, temporarily distracting him. We spent the next hour bickering over whose fault it was that the curtains were singed, and he dropped the topic for another time.
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