It takes John longer than he would have liked to write back, but it was a bad, busy week, and he barely has time to think about writing a letter, between gunfire and the repercussions fro that, which mean long days in the medical tents. When he finally gets a chance to sit down and write, he's tired, but he wants to get things off his chest before he tries to get some sleep.

~oOo~

Dear Sherlock,

I apologize for not writing back any sooner. It's been a bad time. I feel like I haven't slept in two weeks. To answer your questions, yes, I am 30 years old, I don't think I want to do this for the rest of my life, but I've been doing it so long I almost can't imagine doing anything else. I have one older sister, who I don't get on with, and my parents are dead. I have no other relatives I am close to.

I had always planned on settling down and having a family, but again, I don't know if that will happen at my age. I never had any problems with attracting a partner for a night or a few dates, but that is different than a commitment. And that's not bragging on my part, just experience. My mates here nicknamed me 'Three Continents Watson', if that gives you sny clues.

You said something about deducing in your last letter. I am so tired that I can't seem to find it. Regardless, I was wondering what you meant? I'm not sure what you meant when you said you deduce people? I am interested in knowing more, even if I get the feeling that it's just going to give you an excuse to show off. I don't mind.

I need something to distract me on days like today. I have spent the last few days in scrubs. I can't give you many details, but it was bad. There were some that I knew I couldn't do anything for, I just had to make them comfortable and wait for death to claim them. I grabbex an hour or two sleep where I could, but I still feel worn out, worn thin. Like tissue paper pulled tight, anything could break me. But I keep up a brave front for the other doctors and nurses, thos in my unit. 'Don't ever let them see you cry', that is what my father used to tell me during my football days. He was the type who believed men should not cry in the first place. And no matter what I have learned, about how cathartic it can be, medically speaking, I still suffer alone.

I'm sorry, is that too much information? Too much emotion for you? I can't seem to help it. It's much easier to open up to someone thousands of miles away who you have never met than it would be to talk to anyone else. I have my bad days, when it seems hopeless, like we're fighting an uphill battle, and the nightmares come. But there are good days, too. Days when the heat breaks, the sun is out, and everyone comes home in one piece. Those are good days. We have to focus on the good days, you and I, or I get the feeling we will both spiral into the black depths.

I am willing to be your anchor if you would be willing to be mine. Tell me more about the weather in London, is summer in full swing yet? There is an outdoor area where you are, I swear I could smell London rain on your first letter. What does it look like?

Please do this for me. I look forward to your next letter. Write soon.

Sincerely,

John

~oOo~

Sherlock let out a breath as he leaned back against the headboard, running his fingers over the text of the letter, looking at the places where the ink smudged slightly under one or two tears that must have fallen. The strong soldier, the strong doctor, alone in his tent feeling so weak. Yes, Sherlock could and did sympathize to an extent. Not only that, but for the first time, he desperately wanted to help another person, this person. So he set to work, determined to give John what he needs.

Ahhh. Feels. Thank you everyone who has reviewed/favorited. This has got way more of a response than I was expecting. So thank you! Hope you enjoy this chapter, I will post another next week!

Reviews/Comments welcome!