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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.
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