Sherlock shuffles through the pictures before he starts the next letter, relaxing back on the couch. After he thinks he has sufficient information on those in the letters, he settles down to write. His side is still annoyingly sore and he debates for a moment before he starts to put pen to paper.
~oOo~
Dear John,
I am glad to hear you are well and that you have been able to be busy. I am sure that keeps you from thinking about darker matters. I have thought about our phone call a great deal, perhaps next time we will be able to have a lengthier conversation.
I have had a case recently with Scotland Yard, unfortunately it did not go quite a planned when I attempted to apprehend the criminal. I had the information, I saw no need to call in the Yard when I was there, and the criminal may not have been there by the time those incompetent fools were able to get their heads working well enough to follow simple orders.
On this case I was forced to work with two others, or at least I became acquainted with them. Anderson who is supposedly a forensic expert but ruins and overlooks more evidence than he collects. Honestly, the people that pass for intelligent are complete bloody morons. Needless to say, I do not get along with Anderson, nor do I wish to. He apparently is not a appreciative as you are of my deductive skills. A fraud is what he calls me, he thinks it's some sort of trick rather than recognizing my intelligence.
The other officer who I am obliged to start working with is Sally Donovan. She is as sour as Anderson and believes me to be some sort of freak, continues to call me that. I take delight in dissecting her and her personal relationships. It may cause her anger, but she sees no harm in causing others pain so I see no problem in causing her pain. It will not be a smooth working relationship, but Lestrade is the one that I am concerned about dealing with, not any of his minions.
The case. When I caught up with the criminal, I didn't anticipate him being as agile as he was, which means his knife made contact and cut me across my side. Nothing serious, or deep, but enough to make me sore and annoyed. Not even any stitches needed. Still, I had to go to the hospital which means dealing with incompetent people. I dislike doctors in general, I should note. Most of them seem to be rather incompetent. I'm glad to know they're not all like that.
As for your photos, it's easy to tell that you are the shorter blonde one. Interesting that I expected you to be more distinctive and not so ordinary looking. The way you keep yourself apart from the other slightly and the fact that your smile appears to be a little forced in some of the pictures you sent me, as well as the RAMC tattoo you appear to have led me to believe that person is you. You were careful to send me pictures in which no one had rank, name or any sort of insignia on them that would set them apart from others. Well done with that, it made it marginally more challenging, but not by much. I understand why you are a good doctor, between your voice and your general unassuming appearance would put people at ease.
Be careful of the black haired Asian man however. He has more sinister motives and I would guess that he has already done things that are not entirely ethical. The others are too boring for words, so I will not attempt to convey any information about them. They are loyal soldiers who live for nothing but to follow orders. Idiots that they are, they have completely given up any modicum of brain power they might have boasted to have.
It appears my brother has deigned to make an appearance, no doubt more like an inspection. I hope this letter finds you in good health.
Sincerely,
Sherlock
~oOo~
After receiving this particular letter, John takes it to the edge of the camp, leaning back against the tire of one of the vehicles in the small bit of shade it provides to read over the letter. Looking out over the sand and toward the mountains, he considers what Sherlock said about those pictures, and finds himself marveling at the mind of this amazing man. More and more he's starting to feel like a stray comet that got caught in the orbit of a bright star. It's pulled him in ad he knows now that there's no way he could break away. Which is terrifying and thrilling to think that he might bask in Sherlock's light for a while longer. After a few minute of contemplation on that, he opens his eyes, and looks at the top of the nearest dune where a caracal is sitting staring back at him with an almost knowing look before it turns and trots off.
Ok, some lame deduction stuff from Sherlock, I am horrible at that sort of stuff. Unless I somehow really get in the groove. Not completely happy with this chapter, but I hope you guys like it anyway!
Reviews/comments welcome!