You don't have to read Gentlemen of Cambridge first, the basic idea is "younger!John meets younger!Sherlock before John ships out to Afghanistan, a clichéd exchange of letters follows," but if you're reading this I think you'd like it. Don't worry. This fic will will be here when you come back.
When Sherlock Holmes moves into 221B Baker Street approximately two and a half weeks after the wretched party he attended two nights before his graduation from Cambridge, there is a letter waiting for him.
Mrs. Hudson, the smiling older woman he was renting the flat from (at a truly exorbitant price, he'd never admit this aloud but thank God the Holmes family was rich), gave him the tour once more, explained to him that she was "Not your housekeeper, dearie, I may drop off biscuits now and then but that'll be it!" and went to rummage through her pile of mail.
"Biscuits?" Sherlock remains stuck on that fact, wondering why on earth his landlady would give him biscuits. Clean flat, no dust on the floor of 221B nor dust on anything in 221A, no teacups in the sink of 221A,but there's one open letter on her table out of an entire pile, sugar on the counter and flour under her fingers: possible stress-baker? Letter may have contained bad news…
"Yes, biscuits, when you least expect them! Oh, and before I forget, you got a letter," she says, drawing him out of his thoughts.
"From who?"
Mrs. Hudson smiles benignly, her brown eyes sparkling. "It's post-marked from Kabul," she says.
Kabul. Capital and largest city of Afghanistan, capital of Kabul Province, population of- John H. Watson!
Face betraying nothing at all, Sherlock takes the letter from her hands with a feigned if not polite smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I appreciate it."
He waited until the door of 221B had swung shut, then sat down in the midst of boxes and scattered packing papers to tear open the letter.
Dear Sherlock Holmes,
Please excuse any odd lines or scrawls, I'm writing this from the vehicle taking us from the airfield to the base and it's not the smoothest ride. Anyways. On with the content.
I've got a confession to make: I've never done this pen-pal thing before. Well, once, in Year 8, but that was for my German class and it was practicing stuff like "How old are you? Do you play football well?" And it was in German. ("Wie alt bist du? Spielen Sie fu ßball gut?") Big difference here. I feel as though I ought to ask after your family, but I don't exactly know if you've got any (if this is a sensitive topic, I apologize. Trust me, my family isn't the stuff to write home about either. Harry still hasn't spoken to me because she's furious about my enlistment, and Da is ridiculously proud of me. The difference is unnerving.)
Anyways. Don't know if you will, but no one back home seems to comprehend that the Army is what paid for med school. None of them want to listen when I say that I'm honestly a bit excited about it, either. Not that I'm anxious to see any of my company get injured, or worse, but there's going to be so much going on that I can't wait to get started.
We're on our way to the base now, and my impressions of Afghanistan are thus: It's bloody hot, it's bloody dry, and it's really, really bloody bright. I'm quite glad for both my sunglasses and the fact that it's a dry heat. There are a bunch of palm trees, at least where we touched down (We're driving through mostly desert now) and I must admit I was a bit surprised to see them. I probably shouldn't be, it's the right climate and latitude for them to grow in, but I suppose I associated them with the tropics and vacations and what not. The last time I saw palm trees, I was in Barcelona for the spring hols, so that's most likely where I got that impression from. I'm not all that good with words, but everything seems to be shaded in variations of the same reddish tan. Including our uniforms. And our faces. (though that's because of the sand blowing everywhere.) I suppose you could call it beautiful, but I'm too used to grey and green England.
You must think I'm a sap because of that last line, but I swear, I'm not the poetic type that sees beauty in everything. (That honor belongs to Seamus, the youngest of our regiment. He brought his own fountain pens. I don't even know how, but he has his own fountain pens and notebook, and keeps looking around and scribbling things down. I think he's 19. He's ginger, and I think he's going to fry like a lobster by the end of tomorrow.)
I think I just wasted a lot of paper, and now that I look at this, I think it's mostly filler. Still, it's day 1 of Afghanistan. Perhaps I'll have more interesting things to write about next time I hear from you- and about that! If you've changed your mind and would prefer not to be bothered by this drivel, I won't be offended. That said, I look forwards to hearing from you nonetheless.
Yours, John Watson
An unconscious smile steals over Sherlock's face before he smothers it. Not write back? Ridiculous, Sherlock thinks, before getting up and setting the letter down on the table.
Write back he would, but the case he would soon be on took precedence.
Cases always took precedence.
OK, you persuasive devils, you talked me into writing a sequel. I've got no set posting schedule, I only have a rough idea where I'm going with this, and I'm American so I know little about the RAMC (to Google I go), but here goes nothing. Chapters will be a little shorter, but I already have a good half of chapter 2 written, so this ought to tide you over until I type that up.
goodnight friends I am gone.
