His answer came four days later with another letter, this time from New York.

Did you miss me?

Sensing John's obvious curiosity, Sherlock was careful to keep his expression as blank and unreadable as usual, though he caught himself smiling for no discernable reason several times throughout the day, which both puzzled and annoyed him. Absurd.

Almost a month passed before the next letter arrived; by then the smiles had gone and Sherlock had once more descended into his usual destructive bouts of boredom. After getting kicked out of Scotland Yard by an irritated Greg, Sherlock had quickly torn the flat apart in search of some cigarettes, before conducting several noxious smelling experiments in the kitchen. He was desperate to find something, ANYTHING to take his mind off his endless waiting, and even briefly considered his secret stash, but things weren't quite that desperate yet.

He tried telling himself that it wasn't even certain that she would write again, but that made things worse if anything, and resulted in several new burn holes in Mrs Hudson's curtains. It wasn't only inanimate objects who felt the full force of Sherlock's frustration, as Mycroft discovered when he'd paid the inhabitants of 221B a visit and had had the contents of his brother's current experiment (the effect of common household detergents on blood coagulation) thrown over his rather expensive tailored suit. The act itself he could probably have accepted, given time, but Sherlock's dogged insistence of photographing the stains the congealed blood had left (in the name of science, naturally) he definitely couldn't, and John wouldn't have been surprised if Mycroft never spoke to them again.

The phone call from Greg was, therefore, a welcome distraction for all concerned.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't know who the bloody hell you're talking to in America, but can you tell them we're not a bloody post office?" Greg's irate tone washed over Sherlock, cutting through the fug of boredom and impatience as he focused on the one important word Lestrade had said.

"America?"

"Yeah. Arizona or something. But that's not the point! Sherlock, you can't-"

"Thank you, Lestrade," he interrupted smoothly. "I'll be right there." Hanging up, he'd grabbed his coat and was out of the door before John had had a chance to do more than open his mouth to ask what Greg had wanted.

"Sherlock?" Cursing softly under his breath, John had quickly followed his friend, only just managing to reach the taxi Sherlock had flagged down as he pulled the door shut. Slipping inside too, he glanced at Sherlock before looking away again as they drove off. "You want to tell me why we're going to Scotland Yard?"

"I'm going to see Lestrade. What you do with your time is entirely up to you."

"Is this about a case?"

"No."

John nodded slowly, trying to stay calm as he felt anger and irritation flare up in him at Sherlock's manner.

"We going to talk about this?"

"Talk about what, exactly?"

"You. The way you've been acting. Ever since that bloody letter from America which you won't talk about."

"Nothing to discuss."

"Nothing to- Sherlock, you almost burnt the bloody flat down! And Mycroft is either going to ignore us or make our lives a misery now! And don't," he added angrily as a faint smirk flitted across Sherlock's face. "Don't treat it like a bloody joke. Why won't you talk about this stuff? What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on, and that is precisely why Mrs Hudson's curtains suffered."

"And Mycroft?"

Sherlock smirked, a very faint grin playing about his lips. "Oh, Mycroft was asking for it. I should have done it years ago." His grin faded and he glanced out of the window, tone disinterested once more. "I was simply bored, John; I didn't have anything to do. I'd have thought you'd be used to it by now."

They spent the rest of the ride in silence, and arriving at Scotland Yard, Sherlock thrust some money at the driver as he sprang from the taxi without bothering to wait for John. Arriving at Lestrade's office, he breezed in, not troubling himself to knock, startling the Detective Inspector who had just been about to start eating his usual mid-morning snack; a doughnut.

"Letter," Sherlock demanded.

"Bloody hell that was quick…" Lestrade gazed at Sherlock in surprise as he burst into the room. "Where's John?"

"Letter."

"Ok, ok. Keep your hair on." Licking the sugar from his fingers, Greg pulled open a drawer and handed Sherlock the envelope just as John appeared, breathing hard, face full of thunder. "Talk of the devil… Morning, John. Wondered where he left you. You ok…?" Nodding even though his expression was murderous, John collapsed onto a chair as he attempted to get his breath back.

Sherlock meanwhile, had wasted no time in tearing open the envelope. Quickly reading the note, which was slightly longer than usual, he felt himself still, heart thumping painfully as he read and re-read her words.

And you thought I'd forgotten about you, Mr Holmes, didn't you? No such luck, I'm afraid; you're a difficult man to forget. Unfortunately. I simply ran into some trouble with some charming men who were quite adamant I should go with them. It took a little longer than expected to shake them off. Sending this one via your Inspector; even letters can be traced and I wouldn't want to draw attention to myself now, would I?
Have you ever visited Arizona? You should; the Grand Canyon is exquisite. Nothing like the power of nature to put things into perspective.
Bored in a hotel. Hop on a plane and join me. Let's have dinner.

"Sherlock?" Noticing the paper still clutched in his hand for the first time, John groaned. "It is, isn't it? It's another bloody letter from your mystery friend! Only you know I've been getting suspicious about it, so you asked them to send the letters to Greg!"

"I didn't tell them to write here," Sherlock murmured distractedly, moving to the window to inspect the paper the letter had been written on more carefully.

Cheap paper, the same found in budget hotels the world over. Biro used instead of fountain pen this time; she didn't have the time to write this one as carefully as the others. Slight smudges on some words. Even the handwriting wasn't as calm or confident as before; whatever had happened had shaken her…

Coming to this realisation, Sherlock had to fight a sudden, irrational desire to catch the next flight to the States and find Irene, to make sure she was safe. The strength of this impulse shocked him, but try as he might he couldn't shake it; he didn't really want to consider what could have happened to affect The Woman this much, and the mere suggestion that she could have been hurt shook him more deeply than he would have cared to admit. It took all of his self-control to remain outwardly calm and unconcerned as usual as he carefully folded up the letter and stowed it in his coat pocket. His hands were shaking, a small, detached part of his mind noted, and he quickly shoved them into his pockets too. Turning back to John and Lestrade, it became clear they'd continued talking during his re-examination of the letter and were waiting for some sort of response; shrugging slightly, he arched an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them.

"You… Haven't been listening to a bloody word we've been saying, have you?"

"I was thinking."

" You were-!"

"Bad news?" Greg asked, interrupting the near apoplectic John and nodding in the direction of the pocket which contained the letter. He started to nod, but after a slight pause, Sherlock slowly shook his head, the tremor in his hands fading as the logical part of his brain reasserted itself, overriding the emotion which had flooded his body just moments before.

She still wrote the letter, she still posted it. If she had time to post the letter, she must be fine; Irene wasn't an idiot. That would account for the delay between letters. She would put her own safety before some note to him…

Wouldn't she?

God, he hoped she would…

Shaking off the doubts, he glanced at Greg, who was now looking thoroughly confused.

"No. Not bad news." He turned to leave, clearly not intending to elaborate any further, before he paused. "Thank you," Sherlock said quickly, before clearing his throat and nodding once. "For letting me know about the letter."

A look of utter shock flashed across Greg's face, leaving him staring open-mouthed at Sherlock.

"You're… You're welcome," he stammered eventually, still gob-smacked. "Though, itwas addressed to you, so we couldn't actually-"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock interrupted as he waved Greg's words away, his usual demeanour resurfacing once more. "Oh, and there might be some more letters arriving-"

"What?!"

"So pass those onto me the minute you receive them as well."

"Now, Sherlock," Lestrade began, frowning.

"Let me know if there are any developments."

With that, he swept from the room, leaving an annoyed Greg and a resigned John, whose earlier anger had slowly seeped away; the usual brusque Sherlock was clearly back, and John was just grateful for that. That Sherlock he could deal with. Moping Sherlock, he definitely couldn't. He just wished he knew why those damn letters had such an effect on his friend…

"You know… I almost think he's gotten worse," Greg groaned, chuckling weakly, torn between exasperation and bemusement. "I didn't think that was possible…"

"Yeah, tell me about it," John agreed, laughing a little. "Thanks Greg."

"Oh, don't mention it. I mean, it's all part of the service, isn't it? 'The Metropolitan Police; Fighting Crime and Delivering Post Since 1829."

Laughing, John raised his hand in farewell as he followed Sherlock out of the office.

Second chapter finished! Woo ^-^ Now I just need to work on actually finishing the story xD At the moment it's looking to be about 4 chapters long (but as this started out as a one shot, I wouldn't hold too much store with that xD), so we'll see how we get on :) Not 100% sure when the next chapter will be up, but it hopefully won't be too long :) Hope you enjoyed it :)