Chapter Text
The day John made his most egregious error began like any other. Or, rather, like any other since his life with Sherlock had begun, which in this case was a frantic visit from the Yard at an ungodly hour, followed by turning one wall of 221B into a yarn and newspaper cut-out collage, followed by John and Sherlock splitting up to investigate separate leads.
After his interview with his assigned witness was cut short, John had come home, exhausted and taskless, to an empty flat. John presumed that Sherlock was still following his lead uptown, until he spotted the small, black bat hanging in the corner of the kitchen, giving John a bit of a start.
“You could have told me you were done early,” John said, while popping his head into the fridge. He was more than used to Sherlock doing the bat routine at this point. “We might have met up somewhere for me to grab a bite. Now it’s old Chinese for me, which should probably be binned rather than eaten.”
Sherlock relaxing around the flat as a bat had become a regular occurrence at Baker Street. John couldn’t tell if it was for Sherlock’s own amusement or for John’s, but regardless, it was part of their domestic routine.
Sherlock claimed that John’s ease and comfort with him as a bat could come in handy for a case. They practised having John conceal Sherlock on his person, meaning Sherlock spent a great deal of time in his pockets to find out what worked best, and how he might stay hidden there for as long as possible. Sherlock also claimed that John was a terrible liar, and that becoming used to the feeling of a bat shifting around would help them from blowing their cover.
John thought this was all a load of shit, but if Sherlock wasn’t able to admit he just liked sitting in his pocket, John didn’t feel the need to call him out on it.
However Sherlock still did not want anyone other than John to see him in bat form, so when John heard Mrs Hudson letting in and greeting someone downstairs, he took his usual cue to hide Sherlock. Standing on tiptoes, John reached for the bat hanging above the shelf, though Sherlock flapped his wings at him.
“We agreed,” John reminded him, putting one knee up on the counter to grab him. “No more terrifying the landlady. One more shock and she’ll have a heart attack I guarantee.”
After some more wrangling, John succeeded in getting Sherlock into his front pocket, though it was the most reluctant Sherlock had ever been about the exercise.
“Do you want to make a scene?” John whispered, just as Greg walked in through the door to the kitchen.
And behind him was—Sherlock.
John stared at them both, unblinking.
“Hullo John,” Greg said. “I hope you had better luck than us with your interview.”
“Uh, not so much,” John replied, somewhat distracted by the wiggling in his pocket.
Sherlock’s eyes were on the front of John’s shirt in an instant. Then, ridiculously, his bottom lip jutted out like it’d been stung.
“John,” Sherlock said—and God it was his ‘ I’m about to be a prick to you and sulk for at least three days’ voice. “I believe you have something in your pocket.”
At that moment, the bat who was not Sherlock broke free from its pocket prison, climbed half an inch further up John’s shirt, and then flew towards the sitting room.
“Jesus Christ!” was Greg’s contribution, while Sherlock’s glaring at John continued without interruption. John crossed the length of their living room to open a window, and after a few minutes more of Greg covering his head and John waving his arms, the impersonator was out of their flat.
“Well, now that that’s been dealt with.” Closing the window once more, John turned to find Greg wearing a look of total perplexion.
“Right,” Greg said. “But—sorry—what was it doing in your shirt?”
Sherlock cut in, still standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “Lestrade, as John was as unsuccessful as you and I were, feel free to head back to the Yard.”
John shot Sherlock a look, though he also wanted Greg out of the flat so he wouldn’t have to explain that encounter.
“You’re welcome to stay for a bit if you like, obviously,” John clarified but Greg waved him off, heading out shortly after, muttering about bats.
Sherlock, at last, moved from the door. He hung up his coat and unwound his scarf with jerky movements, and John knew petulance when he saw it.
“Carry around many bats do you?” Sherlock asked, as if indifferent.
John had been waiting for it, ready with a groan. “I thought that bat was you, obviously.”
Sherlock sputtered. “I don’t look anything like that!”
“Well, I wasn’t looking too closely!” Unbelievable, he was being forced onto the defensive. “I heard voices downstairs, I saw a bat, I grabbed it.”
Sherlock threw himself down into his grey armchair and pulled out his phone, signalling the conversation was now over. John knew better.
He sat down across, and leaned forward on his knees, waiting. Sherlock scrolled, one leg crossed over the other.
Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock said, “He didn’t have my neck fur,” and John burst into a fit of laughter.
When Sherlock’s look back was pure ice, John laughed even harder. A soft “hmph” but no further comment, and John thought maybe that would be the end of it.
He was wrong.
The next time Greg came by their flat, John was at the living room desk eating an egg on toast, and had not expected the visit.
“Has something come up?” John asked, mid-chew.
“Ah, no, no,” Greg said, looking toward the armchairs. “Is Sherlock not around? He texted me to come.”
John followed Greg’s line of sight, then immediately returned to focusing on his fork. He did not spare a second glance for the bat—who was Sherlock—lying on top of the Union Jack pillow, which Greg couldn’t see over the arm of the chair.
“He must have forgotten and gone right back to sleep,” John said, wondering if he would need to sneak Sherlock out of the living room.
When Greg passed the threshold of the door, John stood from his seat, contemplating how he might scoop Sherlock up with his hands behind his back.
That intent was, however, all dashed to pieces when Sherlock flung himself off the chair and into the air. Greg took an alarmed step back, but was far too slow to outmaneuver a bat flying towards his torso.
Greg’s shoulder crashed into the doorframe behind him as Sherlock hit him square in the chest, and with tiny determined fingers, snuck into his inner coat pocket.
“What the bleeding Christ —”
“Here, I’ll—”
John rushed over, and with a gentleness he didn’t entirely feel at the moment, extracted a squirming Sherlock from Greg’s person. Sherlock took off not a moment later, flying around the corner to the kitchen, and presumably heading down the hall.
“Are you—are you going to go after it?” Greg asked, a bit winded.
“Uh, no, that’s all right,” John said, looking down the hallway. “I’ll deal with it later.”
“What’s with you and bats?” Greg sounded concerned, as if asking after an eccentric hobby. “Are they just always in this flat? Or was that the same bat as before? It looked a bit different.”
John rubbed at his forehead, resisting the temptation to look down the hallway after Sherlock. “Uh, yeah, yeah. Awful problem keeping them out. Must be a hole in the attic or something.”
Greg’s forehead was lined with confusion. “Does this place even have an attic?”
“Anyway, Greg,” John said, one hand on Greg’s shoulder, pushing him out. “Thanks for stopping by. I can’t imagine why Sherlock said for you to come over—”
Greg took the hint, likely wanting to avoid another bat encounter, and left in a hurry.
Sherlock appeared two minutes later in a dressing gown and pajama pants, yawning, as if he had just woken up. He walked over to the table John had been eating at, and pushed away the plate to start reading the paper.
“What was that about?” John wanted to be annoyed, but instead found himself repressing an oncoming fit of giggles.
“What was what about?” Sherlock refused to look at him, standing while flipping through the pages. Far too fast to be reading anything.
“Oh my God,” John said, speaking to Sherlock’s back. “Is this really because I picked up a bat and put it in my pocket? You called Greg over here for that?”
“I don’t even know who that is.” The next section of the paper was flipped to. Sports, John could see from the side, which Sherlock definitely had no interest in.
John smiled, helpless with it. Sherlock was truly hilarious sometimes, without meaning to be. John walked up behind him, proceeding with caution, till he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s middle.
Sherlock turned the next page of the paper with particular aggression, but did after a moment, relax back into John’s hold. John nosed the curl at Sherlock’s nape, and pressed a kiss to the skin beneath.
“Even Lestrade noticed the other bat didn’t look like me,” Sherlock muttered.
“I’m sorry for being so unobservant,” John said, giving Sherlock a squeeze. “But I didn’t sing This Charming Bat for the other one.”
Sherlock turned within the circle of his arms. “I didn’t think you had.”
“It was a bat, Sherlock,” John thought he might point out. “You are very much a person.”
Sherlock’s eyes slid to the left. “I know that.”
“Good.” And with a smile, John started to sing, “ This cha-aa-arming bat …”
Sherlock scowled, but when John snuck a kiss, the pout kissed back.
Only something nagged at the back of John’s mind, something about Sherlock’s look when John had said the bat was a bat. It hadn’t had the blue neck fur. It had been larger—
“Oh, Jesus.” That stopped the kissing. Sherlock raised a ‘ this better be good’ brow.
“The other bat,” John said, with absolute, horrified confidence, “was Mycroft.”
Sherlock nodded once, slowly. “I was waiting for you to catch on. How many bats do you think get in here?”
John wasn’t listening. “I put Mycroft. In my pocket.”
“Yep.” Sherlock popped the ‘p’, as he always did when he was annoying. “To his horror, of course. He might just rethink spying on us, or at least like that.”
“Well.” John attempted to keep a straight face. He failed. “It’s now a very good thing I didn’t sing This Charming Bat. ”
A playful look of disgust, and John was back into Sherlock’s good graces again.
He was an idiot for not thinking of it sooner, but it did follow that if Sherlock could turn into a bat, then his entire family was able to as well. John had never really considered it before. Sherlock was so extraordinary in every regard that despite knowledge to the contrary, a part of John believed he had sprung up from the ground one day, fully formed. In his defence, John felt this was just as plausible as the mythical creature thing, and he had never met Sherlock’s parents. But now, John’s curiosity had been piqued. Sherlock had a living family that John knew nothing about, besides that they had obviously spoiled their youngest, and drank blood from each other.
What were his mum and dad like, exactly? Since John had first discovered his condition, Sherlock had never discussed his family. Even after his interrogation in the days after, John had only scratched the surface of all there was to know about Sherlock. Which didn’t sit quite right. Even before they were together, Sherlock had plumbed the depths of all there was to know about John Watson. John was at a distinct disadvantage. He’d have to do something to rectify that.
“So, your parents. Where do they live?”
Sherlock looked at him askance. “John,” he whispered, “we’re crouched behind a crate at a dockyard, waiting for our marks to make a move, and you want to ask about my parents?”
John pulled the zipper up on his jacket. It was a bit chilly, and they’d been stuck there for about fifteen minutes. “Yep.” When the furrow in Sherlock’s brow only deepened, “Well, when else? Look, there’s not much else going on at the moment.”
Though still appearing puzzled, Sherlock said, “They live outside the city.”
“Ah, right. Country types. Easier to fly around?”
“What? Oh, you mean—yes, I suppose.” Sherlock had shifted his entire focus from over the top of the crate to John. In a rather icy voice, “If you have more questions about my background, John, do just ask directly.”
“Okay. All right. I was just wondering. About them.” He cleared his throat. Was it strange that Sherlock never mentioned them, or suggested going for a visit? Did Sherlock think it was still too soon for him to be meeting the parents? John had thought it would be natural at this point.
And now he was over-analysing.
Though it was too dark for John to see Sherlock’s expression, he could see Sherlock was staring at him, and knew with a degree of confidence that Sherlock was deducing him within an inch of his life. Sherlock would somehow read in his jawline that he was after an introduction, and was now nervous about Sherlock thinking they weren’t serious enough.
John hadn’t even known that was his own angle before initiating the conversation.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted from doing so by a clang in the distance. With a nod between them, they were both on their feet and racing across the dock, the conversation over.
Later, when they each had an assailant behind them holding a crowbar across their jugulars, John supposed they should have been more focused on their stakeout. Allowing them to get snuck up behind might have been a little bit on him. As his windpipe was further constricted, John released his grip on the crowbar to flap his hands in their secret signal (two hands pressed together at the wrist with waving fingers) as a suggestion.
Sherlock, however, did not take it.
“What the hell is he doing with his hands?” was the last thing John heard before his airway was effectively closed off.
When John returned to consciousness, he was half-crumpled onto the dock. The man who had been choking him had also dropped him, and the man who had been choking Sherlock was screaming while a bat flapped its wings in his face.
Sherlock must have waited for the opportune time to change as John’s assailant attempted to ask, “Where the hell did that come from?” over his partner’s yelling.
John wondered how his attacker had missed it, and what it must have seemed like to the other one who had been holding onto Sherlock. Still woozy from his fall, John’s mind conjured the image of a criminal shrieking as he realized he was holding onto a Belstaff full of bats.
But that wasn’t right. Sherlock transformed clothes and all, and only into the one bat.
Focussing, John wrapped his hands around the ankle of the man who had choked him, and pulled. After a brief tussle, John knocked the screaming man out with the other one’s crowbar. Praying for a convenient concussion to explain the bat-to-man thing, John proceeded to make a run for it. The sound of beating wings followed after him.
John didn’t broach the subject again until the next time the bat made an appearance. There was an accident with a piece of toast, and as John was about to wash honey out of Sherlock’s fur, he saw his chance. Sherlock was always at his most acquiescent after John had coddled him a little.
“I know you can’t respond right now,” John began, lowering Sherlock into a teacup filled with warm, sudsy water, “but I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind meeting your parents sometime. Seeing as we’re, uh—together, and all that.”
Sherlock, who normally splashed all over the place, was still. John couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t want to get water in his ears this time, or if he had gone into shock.
“Anyway, it doesn’t need to be soon, or ever, even. You don’t even have to answer me. That’s why I asked now.”
John got down to business after that, rubbing at the sticky spot of the fur with a toothbrush, the only implement they had that was small enough to use as a scrubber. While John wasn’t an expert in bat expressions, he was an expert in Sherlock. This one-way conversation was not going well.
When Sherlock’s ears flicked whenever water got near them, John broke the silence.
“We should get you a shower cap.” He attempted to make it through the suggestion without giggling at the image. He was somewhat successful. “One of those pink ones with dots on it, you know? Like the ones Mrs Hudson wears when she doesn’t want her hair to frizz.”
Sherlock didn’t manage to bite him, but it was a close thing.
John assumed nothing would come of it, but by the next weekend, Sherlock had packed them both a bag and rented a car. Sherlock did have a way of always surprising him.
No explanation, of course, but John easily inferred where they were going. John would have been pleased as punch with this development, if not for the fact that Sherlock drummed his fingers against the wheel at least eighty times every five minutes, and looked at John and then looked away when caught at least three times an hour. John was counting.
So, Sherlock was nervous. (Great deduction, John). But why? Were his parents disapproving of their relationship? He wasn’t one of them, and this was about to play out like some inter-special version of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
That was John’s best guess, anyway, but it got crossed right out the moment the Holmes’ door swung open.
Life had led John to believe that visiting a commune of vampires would not involve opens arms, pecks on the cheek, the kettle already on, and “oh, please, John, call me Mummy,” but in a way it made sense that Sherlock’s family was so extraordinary that, of course, they were in fact ordinary. Sherlock’s parents were downright relentless in their pleasantness towards him, to a degree that John had never experienced directed at him before in his life.
As he was ushered down the front hallway into the kitchen, John kept sneaking backward glances at Sherlock. He seemed unsurprised by their welcome, but still as nervous as before, judging by his fingers tapping against his side within his coat pocket (a tell John knew how to spot).
Did his parents maybe not know they were together…? Or maybe they were faking their warm reception, and Sherlock could tell?
But when John spilled coffee beans two seconds after entering the kitchen by hitting the open bag on the counter with a clumsy elbow, there wasn’t even a twinge of annoyance in either of the either of their faces.
“Sorry,” John said, tipping the bag back over. It was a full bag, just opened, which must have been bought for his visit, though Mr Holmes was pouring boiling water into a teapot for him. Sherlock must have let them know that John sometimes liked coffee in the morning, and tea at every other time.
Before he could clean up the spill, Mrs Holmes rushed forward, waving her hand. “Oh, let me just get that.”
John stepped aside, about to offer to assist, but Mrs Holmes had no intention of scooping up the beans just yet. She stood over the counter, one finger extended, and roaming above each bean. Her mouth was moving, forming silent words.
John looked to Sherlock, and when he received a blank stare, to Mr Holmes, for cues on how to proceed. Mr Holmes walked over, now carrying a tray holding the teapot, a single tea cup, and a straw.
Leaning in towards him, Mr Holmes whispered, “Just leave her to it. She’ll have to count all of them, you know.”
Sherlock mumbled beneath of his breath, too low for John’s hearing to catch. Mr Holmes tsked at him.
“Don’t deny your mother her simple pleasures,” he said, before heading into the living room. “Gives her something to do.”
John followed after him, and was set up in a chair with the tea on the side table while Mr Holmes sat across. Sherlock hung about in the doorway, still brooding over something. John continued to try to catch his eye, and failed.
“Sherlock, why don’t you take your bags upstairs?” Mr Holmes suggested, perhaps also noticing Sherlock’s nervous energy. It was a kindness, as Sherlock certainly couldn’t seem to get away fast enough. John watched him leave in confusion, and with a bit of worry.
Turning back, Mr Holmes was smiling at him, pleasantly. John took a sip of tea. That, at least, was normal. John didn’t question the bendy straw. Sherlock had to have picked up that habit somewhere, and clearly it had been at home.
“So, Sherlock says you might have a few questions for us,” Mr Holmes said.
“Did he?” John looked back at the doorway. Was that why he had wanted to leave them alone?
From the kitchen, John could hear Mrs Holmes murmuring, “Thirty-one, thirty—”
“We’re all a bit like that,” Mr Holmes said, as if they were two conspirators. “Some of us are more prone to arithmomania than others. My wife in particular. She was always keen on mathematics.”
“You mean,” John said, working through that bit of information, “all vampires have OCD?”
Mr Holmes laughed. “We’ve always been natural counters, and very particular about sorts of things. Those myths died out, I suppose.”
John thought he might have seen a children’s puppet show on a similar subject, but decided it would be best not to say so.
“Forty-nine!” was called from the kitchen, and then ‘Mummy’ appeared, bustling in to perch on the arm of her husband’s chair. “John, I hope we made the tea correctly. Sherlock said you’d like that.”
“Did he?” John couldn’t seem to stop being surprised by Sherlock discussing him with his parents, considering Sherlock hadn’t ever discussed his parents with John. After a moment, “Oh, yes. The tea is lovely. Thanks.”
Silence settled. Two parents smiled at him from their shared chair. John took another sip.
Jokingly, John asked, “Don’t suppose you have any baby photos to show me?”
Mr Holmes chuckled. “I wish! But we try not to keep too much evidence of our… nature.”
John had up until that moment assumed Sherlock had always looked human. He deposited his tea cup onto the side table without looking. “What do you mean?”
Mr and Mrs Holmes shared a glance. “Our first form isn’t quite developed. We need a bit of time after birth, John, to firm up.”
John couldn’t tell if his heart skipped a beat, or was now moving in double time. “What do you come out as, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Another look exchanged between them.
Bats, John thought. It’s going to be bats, isn’t it.
“All nose I’m afraid,” Mr Holmes at last replied, making an exaggerated motion in front of his own nose, which John supposed was meant to demonstrate the general shape. “Well, snout rather. A bag of blood with a nose to sip through.”
John had no visual. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this description. He didn’t realize they could sip through their nostrils, but supposed it made sense if he didn’t think about it for too long. Human babies were maybe a bit strange from a non-human perspective, he reminded himself, and if Sherlock had once looked like that, in a way, the idea of it was cute.
“After a month or so,” Mrs Holmes picked up, “that’s when the bones come in and we start looking a bit more cooked! And then we’re right as rain, toddlers in the way you’d think of them.”
“Still can’t show them off even then, though! The teeth come in immediately. And teeth in a newborn — ”
“ —are unsettling for humans, we gather.”
John looked back and forth as they lobbed the conversation about between them like a tennis ball. They were more than capable of finishing each other's thoughts and sentences. John was at once quite glad he had convinced Sherlock that they come.
“So, you’re saying,” John said, holding one finger aloft, “that Sherlock came out like one of those mini-bags he’s always sipping on.”
The Holmeses seemed to find this delightful. They laughed for some time, but didn’t answer his question. John changed the subject.
“Is it hard?” he asked, thinking of Sherlock’s life in London, and how they chose to live out a ways. “I mean, hiding yourselves.” Not that they were hidden, but they’d had to take care with the children.
“Not really. We live like you lot now, and it’s much easier this way. Don’t get blamed for things like in the old days.”
Both Sherlock’s parents at once mentioned something about the bubonic plague, but as they spoke at the same time, John couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
“Anything else, John?” Mrs Holmes prompted. “Sherlock told us you’d be curious, so just ask away. We won’t mind.”
John thought he had already covered every myth he knew of with Sherlock, but the Holmes’ living room faced the west, and the sun pouring in through uncurtained windows reminded him of one more.
“Sunlight,” John said. “Where did that come from? I mean, you don’t seem to mind.”
“Oh, that’s quite modern,” Mrs Holmes said. In a whisper, “A government conspiracy, that one.”
Both of them began speaking at once — more conspiracy theories, something about Americans? — and after that, John lost track of it. They continued bickering amongst each other, and after several minutes of it, John stood from his chair, unnoticed, and went to find Sherlock.
And nearly ran smack into him outside in the hallway, where he had obviously been standing listening the entire time. Their bags sat a few feet behind him, unattended, still in the foyer.
“Sherlock.” John raised his brows at the bags. “Why didn’t you just come back in?”
Sherlock’s hands were clasped behind his back, and his coat was still on. “Just about to. Shall we?”
John gripped his forearm, and pulled him further into the house, away from the living room.
“You didn’t want to me to meet your parents, except then you brought me here and told them I would be asking questions. But now you’re acting like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. What the hell is going on?”
Sherlock was looking anywhere but at him, and John recalled the image of a little mini-bag with a nose for drinking. He reached out, and rubbed both of Sherlock’s Belstaff covered arms.
“So, you weren’t born the most human looking. You apparently firmed up quick enough.”
Sherlock still didn’t look convinced, but John at least now knew he’d been right. This was the source of Sherlock’s nerves: John’s sudden, renewed curiosity.
“Is that what you were all worried about? There’s going to be a point where this is all too weird for me?” John laughed. “Because we passed that point a long time ago.”
Sherlock’s frown was so deep, a dimple formed in his chin. “I wasn’t ‘all worried.’”
Right. So they wouldn’t dwell on that. Time to assuage those fears, though, all the same.
“Sherlock, I’m glad you brought me. I’ve learned lots of interesting things. Like your people’s insatiable love of counting. Though, of course, you don’t do that.”
Sherlock eyed him. “No, of course not .”
“Except,” John continued, “that would explain why you like touching our door knocker three times and turning it to the side — ”
“I do not — ”
“ And when you count the number of times I breathe, and blink — ”
“That’s just romantic.”
John blinked. Three times, to be exact, and breathed in five. “You know what, it is. For you.”
For the first time since the beginning of their trip, Sherlock offered a nervous smile. With a look towards the living room, John shifted onto his toes, and kissed it.
“One,” John counted, drawing back, and leaning in for another. “Two — ”
“John, really — ”
“Three!”
And on the count of three, Sherlock giggled, and the front door opened.
To reveal Mycroft Holmes. At the sight of them pressed chest to chest in his parents’ foyer, his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
“Sherlock, don’t you do enough of that at home?”
When John attempted to create distance between them, Sherlock’s hands clamped around his forearms. Scowling, he asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was invited .” Mycroft turned to John, as if only just seeing him standing next to Sherlock. “John,” he acknowledged, with a nod in his direction.
John nodded back. Awkward. “Mycroft. Uh. Sorry about putting you in my pocket the last time.”
Mycroft had obviously been hoping John would not address that situation. “No hard feelings,” he said, already looking away.
“Except maybe don’t spy on us,” John said, remembering that he was actually pissed off about that, “as a bat, or otherwise, and maybe that won’t happen again.”
Mycroft raised his brows, and continued into the living room where his parents were still speaking over each other.
“I make no promises,” he said, tossed over his shoulder.
John caught Sherlock’s eye. Can you believe him? was spoken between them in a single look.
Sherlock hummed. “Maybe my brother would like a taste of his own medicine,” he said, mouth turning up at the corners. John did love when he looked mischievous like that, assuming it wasn’t about to be directed at him.
“What are you going to do?” he asked, sounding too fond, as always.
Sherlock only winked, and strode into the living room.
John could gather from Mycroft’s, “Really, Sherlock,” exactly what he had done the moment he was in the room.
“You know two can play this game, brother mine,” followed by the sound of flapping wings.
“I wish you two wouldn’t be so childish,” Mrs Holmes said. “Don’t make us break this up like we used to.”
“Oh, dear, we haven’t done that in ages.” Mr Holmes laughed, delighted at the prospect. “Oh, this’ll be fun.”
By the time John found the strength to walk to the living room entrance, there was a brood of bats in the room, two of them flying after each other while another attempted to get in between. The fourth bat flew around carelessly, having a wonderful time as he clearly hadn’t indulged in ages.
John sighed. While four bats flew about overhead, he walked over to his chair from earlier. His tea on the side table had stopped steaming, and he slipped the kindly provided straw into the cup, giving it a bit of a stir.
This was his life now. And, on that note, he took a sip.