Branching off into writing for the show as well.

I do not own BBC Sherlock. If I did, Season 3 would be out already.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the consulting detective said.

Despite what John Watson said about his lack of caring, there were still some things about the consulting detective that a person might call human. One of them was what he chose to keep in his memory.

"Which was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" he murmured to himself as he lay on the sofa in his new flat in Paris. He could see John in his head, completely baffled, and imagined his reply. "Afghanistan… how did you…?"

Here was when Molly entered. She'd offered to fetch him coffee for some reason; he still couldn't quite fathom why. "Ah, Molly, coffee," he said to himself. She'd wiped off her lipstick. He commented on it. She said it wasn't working for her. He said that statement was null. Standard exchange. He mentally fast-forwarded through that bit to where he was standing across the room from John. "How do you feel about the violin?"

In his mind's eye, he watched his friend look to Stamford before shifting uncomfortably. "Sorry what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end…" His imagined self paused to think of more negative attributes and, finding none, continued. He would later learn that those traits were on the lighter side of his negative attributes, largely from John. "Would that bother you? Potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other." He smiled much the same smile he had in the lab, a bit overdone. He really had needed a flat-mate. He certainly wasn't going to go to Mycroft for the rent, a fact he noted with irony as he was now lying on a couch in a room fully paid for by his brother. His old flat had been in Greenwich at an uncomfortably close proximity to his former dealer, or so Lestrade asserted. For a moment, he remembered the heated conversation he'd had with the police inspector over his lodgings and the older man's declaration that he wouldn't be allowed within twenty kilometers of any police investigations if he didn't move. Sherlock had pointed out that he'd have to move to Dartford in order to even make that possible, at which point he'd been asked to leave.

But that wasn't the memory he wanted. He brushed aside the memory of his walk home from Scotland Yard and returned to the lab. John glanced from Stamford to Sherlock then back to Stamford, clearly trying to work out how he'd figured out the flat-mate bit. Even now, he could barely suppress a pleased smile. "You told him about me?" John said, a bit of edge to his voice.

"Not a word," Stamford replied truthfully.

"Then who said anything about flat-mates?" John said, turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"I did," Sherlock said as he reached for his coat. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat-mate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly home from military service in Afghanistan." He turned to John as he put on his scarf. "Was no difficult leap."

John looked down at his shoes. He seemed to do a lot of that. "How did you know about Afghanistan?" he asked. He didn't look at people when he talked either, or rather, not at Sherlock.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London," he replied, not willing to give up the game so quickly. He picked up his cell phone and began to cross the room. "Together we ought to be able to afford it." He stopped in front of John, picking up a few last details. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o' clock. Sorry. Gotta dash. I think I've left my riding crop in the mortuary."

He remembered how he'd been fully prepared to leave, content that this soldier would do as told. He remembered the surprise he felt when John had said those three words: "Is that it?"

He'd turned. It wasn't like him to misjudge a man. "Is that what?" he asked, trying to get his bearings.

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

He looked to Stamford with barely concealed approval. This one was interesting. Most people would just do as he said, too afraid of him to do otherwise. He'd have to meet more of Stamford's friends if this was the sort of people he regularly engaged himself with.

Rather than voicing all this, though, he merely turned to John. "Problem?"

He remembered John's smile. It wasn't his actual smile, the one he used when Sherlock did something clever or something was funny. It was a militant smile, one of absolute disbelief.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan," he said, laying all the cards he'd accumulated from studying the former soldier on the table. "I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife—and I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid."

Even now, he could just barely conceal a smile.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

He got up from off the couch and crossed over to the window. Heavy curtains had been put in place in order to keep snipers from being able to murder him at will. He'd been told not to open them by Mycroft.

Well, they both knew how long that was going to last.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," he said to himself. He pushed aside the curtain about an inch and a half and looked down at the Paris street. It was raining. For a second, it almost looked like home. "And the address is 221B Baker Street."

With that, the memory ended. He dropped the bit of curtain he'd pulled back and walked over to the table. There was a letter from Mycroft. He wouldn't have even opened it, but for the letter that had been mailed along with it. On the envelope was written "Sherlock" in black ink in the same curvy handwriting he'd seen so many times before. John's.

"I've convinced him," read the letter from Mycroft. "That he might soothe some of his pain by writing letters to you. I agreed to be part of the process as well, so you will have regular mail from me. Email was out of the question for obvious reasons."

John's letter was longer, but only by a bit.

Sherlock,

Can't go back to the flat. Mrs. Hudson says it's alright. That it's natural. I don't know why you should ruin that for me too, but you did—well done. I can't sleep at nights. Don't know why you should care, but there you go. Probably still on your bloody schedule: 2am to 6am. Don't know how you did it. It's enough to drive a man mad. Maybe that explains you. You're an idiot from lack of sleep. God knows I am.

I miss you, you bastard.

John H. Watson

P.S. Do you remember when we first met?

"Yes, John," he whispered to himself, collapsing back down on the couch with the letter still in hand. "I do remember."

A bit sad. I just love the idea of Sherlock reliving his experiences with John as he whiles away the time 'til he can come back to life; and of John writing him letters.

Reviews appreciated as always!