Sherlock was feeling extremely fidgety. He never needed that smoke the day John called him. John's voice was enough to sate him for a few days. Hell, all the things John said aloud and the rest which he conveyed through his silence were enough to sate Sherlock for a month. But here he was, feeling restless and fidgety because it'd been almost three weeks, and still John's letter hadn't arrived yet. He had told John that he wouldn't take the phone call as the substitution of his due letter then why the delay? Sherlock wasn't a patient man, and if anyone told him before that one day he would wait for a mere letter this eagerly he would have deduced the life out of that baboon. But then again John was the exception of everything in Sherlock's life and that idiot worth it.
When Sherlock couldn't bear the tension anymore, couldn't find anything to distract his mind he got up to get ready for a three scorer case Lestrade sent him earlier. He would probably solve it on his way to the Yard without even checking the evidences. No not probably, surely. But it would at least divert him and he might be able to coax Lestrade to give him some decent cases at last. He took his phone from the table and left his room. As he reached the hallway he saw Nestor closing the main door. Instantly Sherlock reached him with his vampiric speed and almost snatched the battered envelop that was peeking out of his hand before the butler could even utter a sound.
John's letter.
~0~0~0~
Sherlock,
If you are ready to offer your olive branch then who am I to refuse it? I will 'try' not to mention your brother in future. But political career? I don't know; I was thinking maybe I'll be your biographer or something, you know. You'll solve cases and I'll write about them. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
How have you managed to bang your head this time? Can't you be a little more careful, you git? Do you have any idea how anxious I was? And please tell me you let the doctors treat it completely. Yes, I know you told me that you were alright but you can't blame me for not really believing you in matter of your health. Stop being so reckless, Sherlock. Try to live till I come home.
Okay, tell me what a Mind Palace is. I have never heard of it before. Is it your personal place or something? I used to build my pillow fort when I was little. So, is it like that? No, wait. Don't tell me now. I want to hear about it when we meet. When I get back home. And I will get back home, you'll see.
Now, who is fishing for compliments, hm? Nobody called you handsome before? Are you kidding me?! Don't burn this letter after reading what I am about to say but you are what they called 'drop dead gorgeous', Sherlock! If I didn't know any better I would have thought those cheekbones were probably photoshopped. You are an extremely handsome man and an amazing human being. Here, I should also inform you that John Watson doesn't need to fish for compliments, his charm is legendary. He only likes to hear pretty things from his mad genius, that's all.
There were some things you mentioned in your last letter which confused me and I'd like to address those. Firstly, you said you couldn't make me hate you. Why do you say something like that? Do you really mean it? Do you honestly try to make me hate you? But why?! Hate is a strong word, Sherlock, don't use it callously. And you have no idea, do you? You have no idea that the more you try to infuriate me the more I become fascinated with you. You have no idea that it is impossible for me to even dislike you. You are the hope of my life, Sherlock, you are my home. Don't you know what that means?
Secondly, you are NOT a sociopath, no not even a high functioning one. I don't care whether you were diagnosed or being exorcised but you are not a sociopath. How can you possibly believe that? If you have trusted those who called you sociopath, called you freak then you should trust me too when I say that you are the most human human being I have ever met. You can protest all you want but your every gesture toward me, every letter, every gift negates your self-proclamation. And don't you dare to say that exception only proves the rule. You use it as a foil, it is your defense mechanism but you don't have to pretend when you are with me. You don't have to try to make me believe that you don't care because we both know that's not true. It is not my intention to rip off your cocoon of safety but Sherlock, I want you to fly. Don't delude yourself; don't try to be something which you are not just because some morons failed to understand you. You give them importance by doing so. Ignore them by being your true self- the brilliant, caring, infuriating, oblivious, snarky, petulant five year old who thinks the Sun revolves around the Earth! Seriously, Sherlock? God, you are unbelievable. I wish I could have met you when I had the chance. Or maybe it was never meant to be.
So, you think I deserve someone like you? But it is not possible, is it? I mean where can I find someone like you? You are unique. I know it's probably not something you say in a letter or it is not the proper time but I like You, Sherlock. I like you so much. Not just the way a friend likes another but as a man, well gay man actually, likes another man. You deserve someone so much better, so much better than a common army doctor and it's all so sudden and abrupt but I can't help it. I have to say this now, I have to let you know that your thought is the only thing that keeps me right, Sherlock. You keep me right. I plan for a future because it includes meeting you, seeing you with my own eyes. I don't know if I ever get the chance or not but Sherlock if I come back home I will come back for you. To you. You think I have made you mundane? I sometimes sleep with your letters, now beat that.
I want to see you, so desperately. I want to see you deducing, want to see you chasing criminals or scaring clients or playing your violin. I want to see you at your best, at your worst. I'm sure I'll one day, won't I? You have taught me how to hope and now I hope for all these things. I crave a life beyond this desert, beyond blood and bullets. I want to go back home. And you have to receive me on the airport like a bloody parcel, you nutter. That plan still stands.
Now, I have to tell you something important. Remember the day I called you I told you I was at our main base? There was a meeting regarding an operation. I will be in the team and away from my base for a while. In fact we may have to relocate the base elsewhere but that's not final yet. It's just a routine procedure, nothing special or dangerous, so don't worry. But it may take some more time than usual for me to send my letter. I may not even receive your next letter for a while. But nothing to worry about. It's all well and thoroughly planned. Just a routine. Everything will be fine and I'll be home in Christmas. This is not a goodbye letter, alright? It's just I needed to tell you these sappy things. You can't expect me to go and invade some foreign lands with this much sap in me now, do you? But if anything goes pear shaped (which it won't) I want you to remember that you are an exceptional, marvelous and brilliant man who doesn't need to prove himself to anyone. Don't let anyone, no matter how important that person is, to convince you otherwise. People don't understand you because not everyone is worthy of knowing the real you. It's their loss, not yours. Geniuses don't need to be normal. Normal is boring. You are Sherlock Homes, the only one in the world.
I cherish every moment I've spent with you. Those moments are like treasures to me. I won't trade them off for the world, you know. I hope I have been able to give you some good moments too. Did you really miss me? Will you miss me if you don't get my letters for a while? I will miss you, dearly. But I'll be home before you know it, so be prepared for that. You can keep writing to me all the while, the main base will keep the letters for me. And yes, I haven't forgotten about brining a toe if I lose one.
Be safe, Sherlock. Take your life seriously. Please eat more often and look after yourself. You are too precious, too valuable to take your life for granted. I want to keep writing more and more but I should stop for now as my duty hour is approaching. I will write to you soon, don't worry. Keep yourself healthy and safe. I will miss you.
Yours,
John.
~0~0~0~
Emptiness. That's what Sherlock felt.
Darkness. That's what Sherlock saw.
He couldn't think. Couldn't think. Couldn't think. His head felt blank. His brain was shutting down. This blankness was not blissful. It was not the kind of blankness he felt after reading John's previous letter, not the kind of blankness he used to feel after pushing the cocaine into his vein those many months ago. It was the blankness of fear. Of loss. Sherlock Holmes was afraid. The possibility of losing John made him cold.
Sherlock knew a goodbye letter when he saw one and this letter was one. He had no information to know when this bloody secret military op was taking place, whether it was already over or not. All he knew that it was extremely dangerous and John might….. What if this was already over and John was already dead? What if John died while Sherlock was still waiting for his letter? What if he would never have the chance to see John? No no no. That couldn't be. He should not conclude without proper data. There was no data. Sherlock wrecked his mind for any and every news regarding British Army deployed in Afghanistan. Any failed operation, any casualty. Anything. Anything would do. All Sherlock needed was a shard of hope that John was alright.
Pulling himself out of the initial shock Sherlock dialed Mycroft's number with a nervous hand. He didn't pick up. That bastard was never there when Sherlock needed him. He was out of the country at the moment, frolicking with some megalomaniac politicians. Sherlock wanted to scream. He knew Mycroft would call him as soon as he could but each moment was valuable now. Should he call the number from which John called him? Would that complicate John's situation in any way? John had already taken a great risk telling this much about the op. But would they tell Sherlock if anything happened? He hated not knowing. He needed to know. He needed assurance.
May be he was panicking for nothing. May be John was well and good and waiting for his letter. May be the operation went well or hadn't even started yet. John did tell him not to worry. He told him about his future plan, his desire to see Sherlock. He told him that he would be home for Christmas. John told him that he liked him, liked him more than as a friend. There were promises for future. John wouldn't lie to him, would he? No, John would never lie to him. He would keep his promises. Sherlock would give John whatever he wanted and John wanted Sherlock's letter. He asked him to keep writing. No, he would not sit tight and wait for things to happen. He would do everything to get information of John's safety but he couldn't do that without Mycroft's help. So, in the meantime Sherlock would do what John wanted him to do. He would write to John. He would remind him again about the life they would have.
~0~0~0~
