johnlocked-starkid:
prettyarbitrary:
STEP AWAY FROM THE BAT!JOHN, PA.
I KNOW. I’M TRYING. But wouldn’t it be cool?
I always liked those stories where two sentient species couldn’t really communicate and had to, like, resort to charades and stuff to talk. What if…
Oh. My. God. The feels. Now I want to write Bat!John where all of that happens, but Sherlock manages to get him back before anything bad happens. Either that or he’s able to nurse Bat!John back to health. And then they are crime fighting buddies again. Then, over time, Sherlock begins to understand Bat!John, translating different motions into language.
But just when they think that life is perfect for them, Moriarty happens. He lures Sherlock into a trap and kidnaps him. Through the process of transportation, Bat!John - in a rare moment of sleep - loses his grip on Sherlock’s hair. When he wakes, he panics because his human is lost, and all he can think to do is go to Lestrade and attempt communication.
And now I’ve taken over a reply that took over a text post. Sorry about that. It’s just, the feels were going to kill me if I didn’t write this out.
HOLY SNAP THAT’S PERFECT.
And Lestrade stands there, unable to understand why the little bat that follows Sherlock is bothering him (and without his detective) but then he finds out about Sherlock’s ‘suicide’ and he’s devestated. He tries to tell Bat-John but the little thing doesn’t seem to care. Only pulls and bites at Lestrade, as if by being human alone Lestrade has teh power to bring back the dead. But he can’t. Oh god, he can’t.
So the bat follows Lestrade (and sometimes he disappears for days, probably to find his human again, Lestrade assumes; but he never will—and Lestrade keeps teh window open wiht a little plate of fruit just in case.) He viciously attacks anyone who insults Sherlock (for this bat is creepily intelligent in understanding human speech.) And he’s always there but he doesn’t cling to anyone anymore. He jsut flaps alone, a little shadow, letting out high pitched sounds that no one can hear, sounds for Sherlock.
It gets the point where one day John doesn’t fly. He just lies prone aganist the window sill and Lestrade thinks that the bat mmight be dead (no, no, please, not the last of Sherlock Holmes’ legacy no—)
He takes the bat to a vet, waits. Stares at his phone, at the number of the dead man and types out in bitter anger—
“John is waiting for you. He’s dying now because he’s tired of waiting and he’s coming after you, you prick.”
And imagine his surprise, when hours later, Sherlock shows up (all muddles and dirty and scarred) with fear in his eyes for this tiny little creature…
And John isn’t moving.
He isn’t moving, heisn’tmovingandthen—-
There’s a tiny movement, a little hint of breath.
And Sherlock rushes to the table, despite protests from the vet and Lestrade, gently picks up the bat and cradles him in his hands.
“It’s fine, it’s all fine now, John,” he says.
GUYS DO YOU REALIZE THAT WE SORT OF WROTE A MINI-FIC OF SORTS IN SEVERAL POSTS? SOMEONE NEEDS TO WRITE THIS NOW.
