He'd opened the mailbox with the gentle whispers of butterflies batting around in his stomach. It was the third Wednesday of the month. On this day, every month for the last eight months, he'd receive a letter from John. Even in the midst of a battle, even in the midst of a breakout, even when the mail carrier refused to carry mail, he'd receive a letter. John never told him how- Sherlock had never asked, though, for fear that as soon as the magic was revealed it would disappear- but it was unwavering. The letters were not always long. Sometimes they were as short as six words.

I miss you. I love you.

Regardless of length, though, they were a constant balm on the hole that John's absence left on Sherlock's heart.

Turning his thoughts from past letters, and concentrating on the one he was getting today, Sherlock flipped through their junk mail impatiently. A letter from Mommy, an invoice was Lestrade for his work on the last case, and three pieces of junk mail that he hardly glanced at before flipping to the next piece of mail.

He stopped short when he came back to Mommy's card. There was no letter from his soldier. Frantically- with worry now settling like needles in his stomach, piercing the butterflies- he tore through the five pieces of mail again. Nothing. No simple white envelope with their address scribbled on it with a dull pencil. No black smudged piece of paper folded twice and stuck shut with a bandage. Nothing.The entire time he'd been at war, Sherlock could look forward to a letter on the third Wednesday of every month. It was his reassurance that his doctor was alive.

A holed opened up in the dark haired detective's chest at all the thought of all the reasons why he wasn't receiving a letter, but one was the most prominent.

You can't send a letter from the grave.

The train was taking entirely too long. It was dark outside, the clouds an ominous wall blocking out the light of the stars and moon. The little overhead lights in the train cabin were dimmed so that people could rest. All around him, men of different ages, heights, weights, skin colors, and backgrounds were sitting, lying, curled up, or sprawled out. Most were sleeping, some were reading, all were quiet. When you spent so long surrounded by constant noise and commotion, the quiet of the train was a welcome reprieve.

He, personally, was sitting with his hands braced on his knees. His long fingers were tapping against his knees- there was still mud, dirt, blood, and sweat caked under his fingernails that he hadn't had time to clean. He thought, absently, that washing his hands was going to be the first thing he did when he got home. With warm water and real soap. That is, after he greeted his husband.

The thought of his dark haired love brought a smile to the doctor's tired face. He knew it had been a risk not sending a letter this month. He knew that Sherlock would over think it, agonize over it, and assume the worst, in the end. John knew, though, that if he sent a letter, he'd reveal his surprise. He'd reveal that he was finally, finally, on his way home.

The train chugged along dutifully, going as fast as it was able toward London. Glancing at his watch, he calculated that they were at most another half days train ride away. Entirely too long, the blonde doctor thought glumly. Resting his head back, he closed his eyes and attempted to sleep. It was the only way to pass the time that wouldn't drive him mad.

He awoke with a jump sometime later when the train screeched to a halt. Men were milling around him, grabbing bags and sacks, clapping each other on the shoulder, some were even hugging. He received slaps on the shoulder and hearty handshakes, with thank you's from men he'd saved and treated. He returned the gestures with an excited smile.

His mind was far away from the train right now. With an excitement that he could hardly contain, he grabbed his bags and hiked them over his shoulders and onto his back. They were releasing people by rank, and then alphabetically. It was fifteen minutes after waking up that he stepped off the train and onto the platform. There was a small crowd formed of the families that had been notified that they were returning tonight. There was only one face he was looking for though.

He saw the salt and pepper hair through the crowd immediately. Lestrade was striding toward him with a proud grimace on his face, the closest he seemed to get to a smile. John grinned easily at him and offered a hand. The detective took his hand proudly, and covered the back with his opposite hand.

"Welcome home, John. It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back. How is he?" John could feel the beginnings of nerves bounce around in his stomach. Lestrade rolled his eyes and signed dramatically.

"He's being a baby! Honestly, the minute he didn't get your monthly letter, he called him sulking and griping about what could possibly stop you from sending one. Don't worry, though, he has no idea."

John couldn't fight the bright smile the split his face.

"Perfect. Shall we go then?" He was anxious. Anxious to get home to his childish, impatient, brilliant, wonderful, perfect husband.

When the doorbell chimed, Sherlock leveled the door with a glare. He'd been in a foul mood all day. It was the third Thursday of the month, a day when he was usually renewed with a sense of life and purpose. Today was usually his most productive day of the month, the day when he was motivated to do the most. Without John's letter yesterday, though, he had no motivation to do anything.

He'd been curled up on the couch all day, still in his pajamas, sulking. Lestrade had stopped by in the morning and tried to pry him away, but the consulting detective had just glared and ignored him. He didn't want to go out and do anything. He wanted a letter from John.

The door bell rung loudly, obnoxiously, again. It elicited a growl from Sherlock.

"Go away, Lestrade!" he shouted.

It was silent again. Sherlock settled more deeply into the cushions to resume his pouting and worrying. He couldn't fathom why he hadn't received some sort of letter. If John had died, they would have sent notice. Unless he'd been killed in action and couldn't be identified. Unless he'd gone missing or been taken. The point was, he didn't know where his blonde doctor was now. And that bothered him more than he could process.

He was just about to roll off the couch to trudge to their bed when the creaky step on the stairs informed him that someone was coming up. Furious that Lestrade couldn't take the hint and leave him alone, he stomped to the door and threw it open.

"Lestra-" The name died in his throat.

There, on the stairs with a bag over his shoulder and a pack in his hand, was John. He was still in a dirty uniform and his hair was a tousled mess. His face was open, slightly grimy, and bright. He was staring, wide eyed at the door. A smile curved his lips.

"I'm home, Sherlock."

The words were barely out before the dark haired man collided with the light haired doctor. John dropped his bags immediately to wrap his arms around Sherlock and cling to him. They stood on the stairs, clinging to each other for several minutes. They drank in each other's presence and the comfort that the physical contact brought them.

All at once, they simultaneously let out a huge breath that neither knew they were holding.

"Oh Sherlock, love, how I missed you," John breathed against his neck, his breath tickling Sherlock's hairs. The consulting detective tightened his grip on the doctor.

"You didn't write," he mumbled.

John chuckled. "I thought that this was better."

Sherlock nodded against him. "It is. Having you here is always better."

John smiled gently. "I'm here, love. I'll always be here."