A/N: I know close to nothing about the army (as it's fairly obvious). As always, all the mistakes are on me, and come with no bad intentions. -csf

. Part Two of Two .

Another night with casualties flooding the compound. I haste to triage them, and make sure I can fight for each and everyone of them. Our stronghold is getting stronger, that's the word on the ground. One more small pocket of resistance and we'll have the area secured again. That means opening the gates, resuming dialogue with the locals, bringing in fresh supplies of medicines and ammunition, allowing some of us to be dismissed back home.

That's the hope we hang on to.

The new confrontation has put on hold the visit of the Politicians - as we call any non-military guest that wanders off to this territory. They weren't even heading this way, but to a neighbouring base further down south, so it hardly matters, other than for the hope of some guys in here that postal service may get tossed overboard the aircraft. That is to say: delivered.

I look over at the Nurse, a nice fellow that has just collapsed on a nearby spring bed. Sure it's against the regulations to take a nap on an empty patient's bed. But I can tell by the strain on his face, the exhaustion on every line, that it's best to let him be a fake patient resting for the time being, before he becomes a real one. It's also against the regulations but I'm handling the last routine checks on my own. Mostly it's about keeping a close check on the work already performed, and signaling the unstable cases, where surprises might turn up.

I'm walking about, checking and registering vitals and other data when I first start hearing the distinct sound of heavy blades crossing the air. A helicopter? No, too much noise. Other blades, synchronised with the first. A cargo aircraft, then.

The politicians.

The mail delivery.

As soon as it comes and strengthens, the sound then diverts and dies off in the end.

.

Another night in the desert. It's finally colder now the sun isn't reflecting it's powerful glow in every direction on the overheated sand all around.

I find myself musing on how different this sand smells from the one I saw at the beach as a kid.

No salt water here either.

I turn away from the entrance of the medics tent where I had come to lose myself in my thoughts. I rather go and turn the radio on. There are news reports on rotation, sad romantic songs and plenty of Christmas jingles to chose from.

I'll take my chance with the army news.

A stronghold of insurgent activity has been dismantled from the inside as a talented expert - not yet named by the intel reports - has been brought in to assess the situation. The detection of minute leads and the fast interpretation of overheard conversations while undercover has enabled this expert to - almost single-handedly - remove the seclusion status of the province-

Uproar and cheering loudly prevents me to hear anymore. There's hardly any need. I can tell by my mates that we are now free again.

Some lone hero has come to rescue us.

I wonder what took him so long...

'Did you hear that, Doc?'

I shush Chandler's juvenile enthusiasm. There are patients on recovery here. He quiets down with a guilty look, but he never loses his faithful smile of his. 'That means you'll be going home, Doc!'

'I wan the lottery?' The realisation is dawning on me.

It's been so long it doesn't feel true. As if it couldn't ever be possible.

I'll only believe it when I'm back in London.

'Then I'm not sure you'll be needing this!' Chandler waves a little package in the air. Even from far I recognise the characteristic handwriting of Sherlock Holmes.

It's the first time in weeks he's contacted me.

Not even after my success in Mycroft's mission. Or after I got stranded in this place.

I take the package in my hands, I realise they are shaking minutely in emotion. It's like I don't want to open it, tear it, taint it, to get to the inside. It's far too precious as it is.

Somewhere in London, in what feels like a whole different world, Sherlock has remembered his old sidekick.

It's always the little things that get to you, I realise, as I sniff back unwanted emotionalism.

I'm an army Captain, for crying out loud!

'Aren't you going to open it, sir?'

I frown to let Chandler know to mind his business. He's far too young and none too wise so he insists: 'You don't have much time to open it, Doc. I heard you are on the list home tomorrow!'

I shiver, maybe because I'm so tired. I still need to ask:

'Are they sending someone to replace me?'

'Already have. He's been in the neighbouring camp for the last month, waiting to be transferred. Doctor Chandler, he's called, just like me. I mean, I'm no doctor, but I'm Chandler. Still, I don't think he'll be as nice as you... Or as good in poker. Maybe I'll start winning something for a change.'

I smile like him, letting a small sigh of relief escape me.

London, here I come.

I need to pack my stuff.

.

I'm already on a convoy of trucks, heading to the nearest safe airbase, when I take out Sherlock's package again, still sealed and mysterious. I marvel at the name there: John H. Watson. As an afterthought he's added Captain and Doctor after it.

And "blogger" if he'll let me.

I finally open the package. Only two items inside. A notebook (unused) and a pen.

I smile to myself. I guess that settles it. He needs a blogger after all.

I may prefer the computer. Typing my texts after writing them by hand takes forever.

.

Sherlock surprises me at the airport, on a cab he either rented or borrowed.

Three months, eleven days I spent there, waiting to return.

As he drives us home through the Christmas lit streets I marvel at it's freshness as I take it in through the windows. Sherlock won't disturb my abstraction. He seems to know instinctively that it's natural. Part of me stayed behind in the desert once again.

'Not many stars in the sky here', Sherlock tells me. He has no idea.

'Plenty of lights from the shops, and streetlamps and cars. All full of lights during in the day just the same. Sun's not so bright. You really don't get the same tan around here.' I smile, to remind him of his first deductions of me in St Bart's. Afghanistan or Iraq? Afghanistan, yet again.

'True', he smirks. I lower my gaze to Sherlock's hand as he shifts gears in the cab. Oddly enough I find a tan mark in his wrist.

'Have you been sunbathing?'

'Just drop it, John', he turns sensitive all of a sudden. I chuckle. Sherlock likes to keep himself mysterious. Maybe one day he'll tell me where he's been that got him tanned and sporting a mark of sunscreen and sand in his neck. Or even how he managed to post a package to me to Afghanistan without it being stamped by any service. It's almost as if he's been to-

I shiver, staring hard at my friend. He wouldn't, would he? Be the unknown hero we're all thankful for?

No, of course not. That's just silly. Sherlock Holmes is a hero, sure, but I'm just his blogger.

He's offering me stay at Baker Street, that's enough for me to be thankful for at this time of the year. It's a full return home.

.