Fair warning: brief discussion of rape/murder. For a case. The section, which is in the letter, is marked with asterisks, and it's only the one paragraph. It's pretty clinical but I thought y'all would appreciate a warning.

"Lestrade," Sherlock barks, "Out of your depth once more?"

The officer in question nearly jumps a foot in the air, spinning around faster than Sherlock would have given him credit for, then groaning upon seeing who had spoken. "You're back. I thought I'd seen the last of you a few months ago!"

Sherlock ducks under the yellow crime scene tape, ignoring the protests of the sergeant, whose brown hair had more than a few new streaks of grey in it since the last time they met. Sherlock was a little surprised he could remember the last time they had met, considering he had been high out of his mind at the time. He had bought train tickets from Cambridge to London with Victor, then promptly was separated from Victor (or more accurately, separated Victor from his stash) and took off into the city. An hour later, he was cheerily deducing a murder in front of Sergeant Lestrade while bouncing up and down on his toes over and over again.

"Are you clean?" Lestrade finally demands, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders. Sherlock stops short, quicksilver eyes going wide at the unexpected contact.

"Yes, yes, I'm clean. I'll never recover from the indignity of being pulled out of Uni for a semester, but I'm clean," Sherlock growls. Quicker than he anticipated, Lestrade's hand is in his pocket, drawing out a carton of cigarettes. The older man levels a Look at the sullen recent graduate.

"Smoking is not equivalent to cocaine," the younger quietly grits out. Lestrade snorts, but hands back the carton. "Are you going to let me at the scene now?"

"Yes, fine," Lestrade says, rolling his eyes and stepping aside to let Sherlock through.

"Sir, what about Alistair?" the woman Sherlock knows as Donovan asks, grabbing Lestrade's arm with fuchsia-nailed hands. She eyes Sherlock mistrustfully, as though he'll stand up and go on an evidence-destroying rampage any second.

"DI Alistair is a fool, and your sergeant will most likely take his place within the year," Sherlock interjects, crouching next to the body without looking at either of them. His comment manages to shut Donovan up immediately, while Lestrade lets out a startled laugh. Sherlock stares at the bodies for a few seconds more, cataloguing the way they fell, the various fluids covering them- a young, reedy man and a heavyset, but still beautiful, woman- and suddenly, everything seems to click.

"Murder-suicide, but not for the reasons you're thinking. It's simple, really, once you get past your preconceived notions…"

"Lieutenant Watson!"

"Sir!" John snaps to attention, startled by the sudden appearance of his captain.

"At ease," William Greville replies, and the younger officer relaxes. "Congratulations, Watson," the captain continues.

"Ah, thank you, sir?" John responds, eyes shifting to the rest of the men in the barracks in his confusion.

"First unofficial mail of the company," he explains, handing John a dusty envelope. "Thought you broke up with your girl?"

The captain raises a dark eyebrow, and John flushes.

"No, Sherlock- Sherlock is just a friend," if that's even who this letter is from, John thinks.

Greville nods uncaringly, and walks out, leaving John standing alone with the letter.

"Johnny's got a giiiiiiiiirlfriend!" Bill Murray sing-songs, leaning over John's shoulder and making a grab for the letter.

"A girlfriend with very neat handwriting," Connor Jameson adds, peering at the perfectly-legible John Watson written on the envelope.

Seamus Morstan frowns slightly. "I didn't know Sherlock was a girl's name," he adds.

"It isn't," John finally gets a word in, "Sherlock is my friend, and he is most definitely male."

Everyone pauses for a moment, before Tom Robertson, one bunk over, calls, "Johnny's got a booooooooyfriend!" which sets the rest of the men off again.

Laughing, John finally yells for them to piss off, and stretches out on his cot, tearing open the envelope with a smile.

Dear John Watson,

You are an idiot if you thought I'd give up on correspondence so easily. Don't take it personally. Most people are idiots when compared to me. I'm not sure when your original letter arrived, as I only moved in to 221B yesterday, although your uncertainty about my response leads me to believe that I should not expect a response until mine reaches you. I'll be sending this via priority mail, but I don't think even Mycroft can guarantee two-day shipping in a war-zone.

Mycroft, you may want to note, is my elder brother. He's older than I am by seven years and is a "minor" government official. I would elaborate on that but wartime correspondence may not be the best place to do so. Perhaps when you're on leave, if you come to London.

(It is important to note that after this line Sherlock paused while writing the letter, and simply stared down at what he'd written. When John was home on leave? He was leaving an opening to continue their relationship, if it could even be called such, in person? Abruptly, the reminder of the kiss John had placed on his cheek came to mind. Yes. That line could stay.)

As for the rest of my family, my father is long dead, but my mother is alive and meddling. I have a few cousins, but they're not that important for you to know about.

What is important for you to know is my occupation. It should come as no surprise to you that I work as a detective. Consulting detective, in fact. I invented the job, consequently, I'm the only one in the world. As you are no doubt wondering where the "consulting" part comes in, I'll enlighten you. When the police are out of their depth- which is always- they consult me.

I got your letter about a day and a half ago, the day I arrived at 221B. It arrived two days before that, and my landlady, who has made a point of telling me that she is "just my landlady, not your houseeer, dear," held onto it for me. Now that I'm settled, you no longer need to add "C/o M. Hudson" to your letters.

That said, when I got your letter, I was on my way to a case. It's about 0300 right now, but I rarely sleep, and I have time to write back as I finished the case earlier tonight. It was supposed to be a murder-suicide, but there were certain aspects of it that made absolutely no sense, which is why I nipped over. Lestrade didn't call, but I put my number into his phone when he wasn't looking, so next time hopefully he will. Really, Lestrade doesn't have the authority to call me, but Detective Inspector Alistair is an idiot and pawns most of the work onto Lestrade so he might as well. I predict Lestrade will be in his place in under a year. If he doesn't usurp Alistair, then I'll just have to ensure it.

* But back to the case, it was really rather simple once I got to the scene. We had a skinny, reedy male, and a rather heavyset female in far too much makeup. Lestrade had assumed it was a case of sexual assault, in which the man raped the woman and then killed her as well as himself, seeing as they had intercourse beforehand. But when he died, he was as far from her as the alley would allow, there was no sign of semen on her corpse, and he slit his wrists as opposed to getting a gun, which he most likely would have needed in order to force the woman, who had the bodily advantage on him. I drew a few more conclusions, but I'm quite sure they'll go over your head, so I'll conclude by saying it seemed more like he was the one who was assaulted. Further inspection confirmed that her neck was snapped, and that he ran to the end of the alley to die in the dark. *

I put the case as I wrote it to you on my blog, with the extra details included, but I'm not sure how your internet connections are over there. Hopefully this case will be the first of many, especially if Lestrade is promoted. Why do I say "if?" He'll definitely be promoted. Like I said, I'll make sure of it.

Please tell this Seamus, if he really is as pale and Irish as he sounds, to put on some sunscreen. My father had the stereotypical Irish complexion; I sympathize. And for his sake, I hope he remembered to bring some ink cartridges for his pens.

(Sherlock hesitated before ending the letter, wondering whether or not to add a closing. He finally decided on one for politeness' sake.)

Despite the delay in my response, I hope you write back. Please include more detail about everything.

-SH

He signs his letters with his initials only, John thinks, his mind still processing through the fact that the attractive man he fortuitously met outside a bar in an unfamiliar city, the man who gave him the last cigarette he swore he would ever have, the man he tipsily kissed on the cheek ten minutes after meeting him: that man just described a murder-suicide stemming from sexual assault via a letter.

"Letter not what you were expecting, John?" Connor asks, grinning at him in a way that adds innuendo to the entire sentence. Murray snorts, looking over at the letter as though it contains pure, written smut.

John places the letter down on his lap, laughing slightly hysterically. "Definitely not what I was expecting."

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