Hello, my dear Sherlock fans! I was listening to 'Letters from Home', and got this idea. People in the military-any branch, any country-love getting letters from home. It's like a little piece of love folded up on paper that you can carry with you anywhere. So…here goes. Hope that you all enjoy!


London is very foggy this time of year. I hate it. I've got a new case-a man on the South End was found dead in a locked room, no entries or exits. I strongly suspect the involvement of a well-concealed trap door. Did I mention that Lestrade won't let me anywhere near the crime scene? Allowing Anderson inside and not me. Outrageous. The man has the IQ of a mentally challenged baboon.


Captain John Watson ran his fingers over the slightly crumpled edges of the paper. Clearly written with great haste, ink slightly blurred, dark coffee stain from a mug staining the corner. It was very Sherlock.

"Whose that from, Cap?" Lieutenant Tommy Briggs peered over John's shoulder, obviously attempting to read the letter. "Your girlfriend?"

John snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, right."

He would have gone on, told Briggs about Sherlock, his dear old friend in London, but at that moment the sharp pepper of sniper fire split the clear Afghanistan morning. Someone shouted something and a young American soldier rushed past, rifle held aloft. John folded the letter, slipped it in his shirt pocket and headed for the relative safety of the field hospital tent and his next patient, already mentally composing his next letter to Sherlock.


It's been very hot over here. It's too bad, actually, after London fog. Clears your senses. Nice to get the city out of your lungs. Isn't that what we said on the Baskervilles case? Ha, remember the H.O.U.? Or the hounds, as I thought they were. My God, man, I'd never been so scared. And you, letting me believe I was about to get ripped apart by some great beast. Bloody hell, Sherlock. Anyway, it's been busy lately. One day we're treating local kids with viruses, the next we're patching up American marines. One of the men in my brigade, Halman, got shot in the leg. He's being airlifted to a real hospital in the city tonight. Interesting to hear about your new case…that damn Anderson. I'm sure that Lestrade will let you in soon if you behave yourself. Keep me updated!

-Captain John Watson, 20th Armoured Squadron and 260th Field Hospital.

Sherlock Holmes ran his fingers over the neat creases in the paper. Watson's unmistakable penmanship-the small loops in the d's and the p's-, the slightly faded ink-pen going dry-it was all very John. Then again, Sherlock was like that. He could have picked his best friend-his only friend's-letters from a bundle of a hundred. Luckily, he only had to fish the one out of 221b Baker Street's mailbox. It wasn't exactly Mycroft's style to write.

"What's that, dear?" Ms. Hudson appeared behind Sherlock, standing on tiptoe in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the paper. "Has John written you?"

Sherlock folded the letter and slid it into his coat pocket.

"Yes, Ms. Hudson. He's written me."

Okay, so I probably COMPLETELY SCREWED UP everything about the British Army, and if I did I'm so so so sorry. I respect the Hell out of anyone over there fighting and I honestly don't want to offend anyone with my stupidity regarding the UK armed forces. Please tell me if you see an error. Love to all of you!