Prompting Part XXX

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Re: Fill: Dear Sherlock, if you're reading this... (3b/?)

[hunsher]

Their happiness ended quickly when one day Sherlock, after spending a girls’ afternoon out with Molly, opened the door of the flat to find John on the couch with his head buried in his hands. He hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and a piece of paper on the table in front of him.

Sherlock hurried to the kitchen, placed her bags on the dining table and went back to the living room to sit down next to John.
“What is it, John?” She put a hand on his back and drew tiny circles.

“I just got a letter from the Ministry of Defence. They send me back. They send me back to Afghanistan next week.” He looked up at her and she could see that he was tormented.

“You want to go. You know we’re having a baby in no more than 3 months and yet you want to fight in Afghanistan. Don’t, John, please, don’t.” One single tear rolled down her face as she clutched his hand in hers.

“Sherlock, you know that I can’t do anything against it. And you’re right; I wanted to go and fight for my country, but not anymore. I have you now and we start a family soon. I don’t want to risk my life. I want to be here to see the both of you. But I don’t have a choice.” He stroked her face, fondled her lower lip.

“I’m sure Mycroft can do something about it!” Sherlock was on her feet now, her hand resting on her belly. She started pacing the floor and was thinking of possible solution. “You were invalided. There must be other soldiers who aren’t injured and who don’t have a family, who are young.”

“Sherlock, love, I’m sure those guys are already called in, too.” He reached out to touch her leg as she passed him, but she was too lost in her thoughts to stop for it.

“Don’t just sit there, John. And do not act like it’s okay and there’s nothing to do. Do something!” She was yelling now, her tears painted long lines on her flushed cheeks.

John jumped up and caught her by the elbow to hold her against him. When her head touched his shoulder, she started sobbing, her back moving with her ragged gasps. He rubbed her back and buried his face in her jasmine smelling curls.

“It’ll be okay, Sherlock, I’ll come back. I’m sure I won’t be there for long. And you will wait at the airport with our daughter on your arm and she’ll be perfect just like you; smart, beautiful, sharp and sometimes a know-it-all, but perfect.” His voice trailed off at the end and nuzzled closer to her to breathe her scent in as if he wanted to remember it for the months he’s be away.

“I love you, John Watson, I hope you know that. You are the love of my life.” Sherlock held him tighter and rubbed closer to smear a teardrop on his shoulder.

“And I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I always will.” He kissed the top of her head and rocked the both of them gently.

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Re: Fill: Dear Sherlock, if you're reading this... (3b/?)

[hunsher]

The first month dragged on incredibly slowly. Sherlock couldn’t sleep in the first weeks, she had nightmares. She dreamt about John who was in a snow white desert. Everything was black and white and John played football with his mates but after a few minutes it always turned into horror. The black and white picture had a new colour - red. A few red stains on John’s torso, around his liver. It was barely visible at first but stated growing. His shirt was soaking in red after a few moments, and drops started falling from his nose and it also leaked through his mouth. He smiled at Sherlock but his teeth were red now, the blood colouring the front of his shirt.

Sherlock awoke every time in a pool of cold sweat, with the duvet tangled around her body and her belly. She threw it away and put one of her hands on her stomach, rubbing soothing circles on it, and scrubbed the sticky sweat form her face with her other hand.

She wrote a letter every day to John; some of them only a few lines long but she couldn’t help it, she needed to feel John there with her. On Friday she put these letters in an envelope and went to the post office and posted it.

She sent three letters and got response three times. John’s handwriting was calm and controlled but she could detect dried splashes of teardrops on the paper. It always made her heart clench; she knew John wanted to come home and hold her tight.

After sending another two letters and not receiving any answers, she started worrying. It wasn’t like John to forget to write. On a dark Tuesday afternoon she got her answer for her concerns.