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When Sherlock brought Batjohn to a crime scene for the first time, it turned out to have been one of his worst - or maybe best - ideas he ever had.

It weren’t the weird looks the little bat got, and it weren’t the insults directed towards Sherlock that made Batjohn cry. It was something even worse than that.

Batjohn had been injured during the time he spent in the forest and that had resulted in a nasty hole in his left wing. He had grown used to it but it still hurt when other people or animals said something bad about it.

“Look at how useless he is,” a police woman called Sally sneered. “Such an ugly wing. I know you’re a freak, Sherlock, but I wouldn’t have thought you’d keep such a… a thing.”

Sherlock growled. Batjohn’s lower lip started to tremble. He felt useless already, and his little heart ached even more now.

“Seriously, Holmes,” a man called Anderson said. “He’s not worth it.”

That was enough for the little bat. One tear rolled down his cheek, then another one. He couldn’t stand it anymore although he tried to be strong and brave, but he was broken as it was and then decided to leave the scene. He hopped of Sherlock’s shoulder, flapping helplessly with his wings to fly away which proved to be difficult with the hole in them.

Sherlock shouted at both Anderson and Donovan, and not nice things at all. Then he ran after Batjohn, cupping the little and slow bat gently in his hands and pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“You’re beautiful, John. And you are worth everything.”

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