A/N: By popular demand, Sherlock's response. But because his letter is more a note than an actual letter, there is more to this chapter than the first chapter.

Thanks to my beta, she's awesome!

Mycroft thought about losing the letter, of course. It would be so easy. But there was one thing he learned over the years: no matter how hard you try, you can't keep Sherlock Holmes from John Watson; not if you valued your life.

That was what he had tried to tell Lady Smallwood and the others, but they were sure that Sherlock could be better manipulated without the good doctor by his side. He chuckled at the thought of them trying to outwit his brother. Silly little goldfish, swimming around their bowl, convinced they ruled the ocean.

His black company car pulled up to Baker Street and he oozed out and onto the pavement, graceful as a swan. He knocked on the black door and waited, inspecting his nails.

Mrs Hudson answered, her face flushed. "Oh, Mycroft," she cried. "It's so good you've come. He's in a dreadful sulk. Won't eat or sleep. And I can't get John on the phone. Just this strange text to take care of Sherlock."

I patted her gently on the arm. "Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I'll handle it."

"Oh, thank you, Mycroft. You are such a good brother."

Mycroft considered it an act of supreme will that he managed to wait to roll his eyes until her back was turned. He walked up to the first floor and merely strolled in as if he owned the place.

Sherlock started hurling abuses at him the minute the door opened. Mycroft just smiled. He sauntered up to the couch and pulled out the letter. He held it out to his brother.

Sherlock stared at it a moment before he took it and opened it. He scanned it first and then read it with deliberate care.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes wild, yet hopeful. "Is this true?"

"Every word."

"And the mission?" Sherlock asked.

"If you are half the master manipulator you claim to be, I have no doubt things will go your way. After all, you're holding all the cards."

Sherlock grinned. He dashed over to the table and pulled out a pen and piece of paper. He scribbled out a quick note and handed it to his brother. Mycroft read it and chuckled.

"To think, I've become a postman at my time of life."

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock growled.

"With pleasure, brother dear."

John stood outside a dusty tent trying not to wring his hands. Mail was due today and despite there having been nothing for him the past two weeks, he lived in hope that today would be different.

"Captain!" A voice called out. "Letter!"

John yanked it out of the young sergeant's hand and tore off to the tent to read it in private. It was short and very much like the man who wrote it.

"Dearest John,

You better come home alive, otherwise I will hunt you down to whatever afterlife you happen to prescribe to and drag you back myself.

Love,

Sherlock Holmes"

John pressed a hand to his lips as he fought back tears. "Oh, Sherlock." He stood up to try and find paper, but his tent was darkened by a tall figure. John gasped and ran to the figure.

Sherlock held his arms open to take in the flurry of a five-foot-six army doctor. "I've come to take you home," he murmured as he threw his arms around his love.

"Good." John lifted his head and kissed his detective.