With a broad smile on his face, 25-years-old doctor John H. Watson lay down in his tent and opened the laptop in front of him. He made connection to the internet with the code he had just been given and waited for the computer to make connection to Skype. In the background, shouts were heard, voices yelling commands, but John didn't listen. He was on break now, meaning he had 30 minutes to spend for his own leisure. He checked his watch, and smiled. He was right on time. He adjusted his beret, and stared at the screen. /Sherlock Holmes, online/. He impatiently clicked on the photo of Sherlock – in the hat. "Hi, gorgeous," he grinned as soon as Sherlock's face appeared on the screen.

"Good afternoon, John. Looking great as always. How are you?"

John smirked and leaned closer to the screen to see Sherlock better. "I'm knackered," he admitted truthfully. "I'm sure you heard about those attacks yesterday? Well, all the victims have been stored here."

"Mm," Sherlock answered, nodding his head, "I did, yes." He sighed a bit. Why wouldn't John just come home? "Are you alright? Apart from being tired, of course?"

John laughed softly, a clear happy sound. "Oh, yes, of course! I'm fine. I'm learning so much here, Sherlock, it's incredible. I even got a ward of my own now, so they are seeing my potential. At least, my superior said so." The blond doctor-to-be was grinning when he spoke about his job. It was dangerous, yes, but he loved it.

"As they should be, and I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Sherlock smiled, the laugh sending warm tingles throughout his heart. He was glad that John was happy. At least he was content and loving the job, even if Sherlock himself would have advised against the whole idea. "How are your friends?"

John smiled and tilted his head. "Since when do you care about my friends, Sherlock?" he teased. The skin around his eyes wrinkled as he laughed softly at Sherlock's face. "Oh, they're fine. At least they stopped teasing me about my height."

Sherlock sniffed, deeming the first question unworthy of an answer. "Just so you know, you're not that short. I think you're perfect," he replied with a smile. John was just gorgeous. Sherlock loved the way his eyes lit up with his smile.

John's eyes softened, but his smile stayed in place. "Thank you, Lockie." He winked at the man and ran a hand through his blonde hair. "So, how's Uni?"

Sherlock's smile strained a little, but he tried not to show it. "Great, just great. Final year exams soon, then I'm out," he responded, not wanting to talk too much about the shunning and the rather immature treatment.

John's grin turned proud. "That's really good, Sherlock, I'm really proud."

Some extra loud shout had him looking up, behind him. He frowned but when he glanced back at Sherlock his face was almost back to normal. "Read any good book for British Lit?" He asked.

"We're doing Carlyle at the moment, but nothing exemplary as yet," he admitted, "forensics is lots of fun, though. We get to look in at real crime scenes."

There was another shout, and again John looked behind him. "Sorry, Sherlock, one sec." He got up from the bed and left his tent to look around. There was nothing to see yet, but the faces of their superiors were tense. Something was coming, then.

Sherlock grew increasingly uncomfortable, wishing that he was there. He bit his lower lip. Just come back inside, John. Even better, come home. It'll be like the old times. You remember high school, don't you?

John soon did return inside, his face grave. "Sherlock, I'm really sorry, but we ha-" John's blue eyes grew wide when the internet connection fell away, and the call was disconnected.

Sherlock didn't attempt to make reconnection. He knew already what was happening. Sighing in frustration, he got up to make a call to his brother. Much as he despised the fact, Mycroft was the best way of keeping informed.

John, miles and miles away, growled in frustration, slamming the lid of his laptop closed. His call to Sherlock was the thing he most looked forward to, and to have it ended this soon... he got up and snatched his beret, stomping out of the tent to get his rifle.

Mycroft sighed and picked up the phone. "Yes, little brother?"

"Mycroft…" Sherlock said, sounding a little desperate, "can I please have an update on John's location in Afghanistan?"

Mycroft sighed deeply and turned to his computer. "Hang on, I'm updating now. Why are you asking? Did he miss your date again?"

"This isn't funny!" Sherlock seethed. "We lost connection while on Skype. I'm worried something's happened." It was bound to, though. Everything was so risky in his friend's job.

Mycroft hummed softly as he stared at the messages on his screen. Thank goodness he was a good liar. "There's nothing," he said, "Must have been the bad internet there."

"Nothing?" Sherlock cried incredulously, "Mycroft, when I said 'update', I meant whether there's been a bombing or an egg poached I /want to know/!"

"Honestly, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, exasperated. "Try and be an adult, will you? Nothing happened, at all. Only bad internet."

Frustrated, Sherlock hung up. Right then, he would have to hack into Mycroft's system and find out for himself. It would take an hour or so, but it would be worth it.

In Afghanistan, John's camp was indeed attacked, both by bombings and by freedom fighters. John was alright, if tired and dirty, but not wounded, unlike many of his friends. Communication was difficult though, because most of the lines had been cut, but they were able to get messages to the other camps, a cry for help.

Back in London, the brunette had just gotten into Mycroft's system. Sherlock being Sherlock, he indulged in the satisfaction of temporarily blocking Mycroft's access to the government files, just to revel in the vengeance. When he saw the Afghan updates, however, the smug smile was wiped right off his face. He went pale, paler than usual, and once again reached for his phone.

"Damnit, Sherlock!" Mycroft cursed as soon as he had picked up. "I need those files, right now!"

"No," Sherlock responded icily, "you lied to me, Mycroft."