Alright, so this is a bit of a different style for me, it's going to be formatted in a series of letters with a little blurb at top or bottom describing where John or Sherlock are when writing, their thoughts or something like that. I am not including dates, but figured that there's one to two letters a month so you have an idea of passage of time. :) I will be posting one letter every week. So I hope you enjoy!

I do not own the characters of Sherlock, I am just using them for my own amusement. :D

Reviews/Comments welcome!

Sherlock sighed as he sat down at his desk, pulling over his pad of lined paper, picking up his pen. His room is stark white, only a few posters on the walls, and no personal items. He's here to detox, afterall, why does he need anything personal? He does have a few books, but then, he's only been here a little over a week when this was forced on him. Outside his room he can hear other inhabitants of this facility, and the sounds of the fountain outside. Considering for a moment, he decides to relocated and after putting on some shoes he heads out into the cold, damp air, ignoring the temperature to find a dry spot under a tree on the grounds of the facility to sit down and finally put pen to paper. It's quieter out here and it allows him to think easier.

~oOo~

Dear Soldier,

I find it ridiculous to address this to anyone since it will be given to an anonymous soldier. However, it is a condition of my rehabilitation. I am not a criminal. I want to make that clear. I am, however, a recovering drug addict. That is what I am told to say at least. I am not sure if it should be defined as an addiction, but after nearly overdosing, my brother has committed me to what I will call a prison. Seeing as I am not allowed to leave until I finish the 'program' and follow the steps they wish me to go through.

The packet I was given regarding this program says that soldiers enjoy hearing news from home. However, seeing as I neither know if you are male or female, old or young, or anything about you, I see no way I could tell you anything that would be remotely interesting. I do not follow sports. I do not follow politics. The weather however, is the one solid thing that I believe I can tell you about. It is cold and raining. Likely very different than where you are.

Seeing as how most of the soldiers serving overseas are either in Afghanistan or Iraq, I imagine you are getting a dose of very warm, dry weather right about now. Understatement, actually, but I see no reason to go into detail about what I know about the weather conditions where you are. Obviously you are aware of them seeing as you are essentially living there.

There's little else that I can tell you besides this: I am a consulting detective. Or I will be as soon as I get out of this facility. Which means that when the police or others have problems solving cases, then they will come to me. There is a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard who has agreed to allow me to look at some cold cases until he is convinced of my usefulness. Provided I get clean. Motivation to not just escape this imbecilic facility, I suppose.

Convention says that I should ask you how you are holding up, but I hardly think you would tell a stranger the truth. Normal people would not want to burden others will their ills or somesuch nonsense. I would like to assure you that I would not be burdened. I am truly interested in your condition and the ones you are living under. I would prefer the truth, insomuch as you can provide it. If you wish to write back. I suppose there's no guarantee of that. Those that run this facility can hardly fault me for trying. If no one writes back to me, I cannot be punished. Likely they would tell me that I was too truthful, or not sympathetic enough. However, I see no reason to lie to you about who and what I am. If you prefer a fantasy, I suggest you choose a letter from a gender of your choice who will tell you all the lovely, pretty, flowery things you could hope for. All of which will be fake.

If you choose to continue to correspond with me, then I can promise you I will never lie. It does not benefit either of us for me to do so. You should also be aware that I am a high-functioning sociopath, so I will not display a high degree of sympathy or empathy. It is hard to imagine you were not aware of the possibility of deployment when you joined the armed forces. Therefore this was your choice. I am also very intelligent, and that is not an exaggeration or boasting, it is a quantifiable fact. I have been tested, I have a higher IQ than the average.

I could kill for a cigarette.

I also have no access to white out in order to erase my mistakes. Therefore, unless you wish me to scribble out anything that may not be intentional, I will leave whatever I write, whether or not it is unorganized or if some things may not make sense in the context they are written.

It may provide some distraction if you were to write back and perhaps give me something to look forward to, however, I will not be waiting with baited breath. It is likely that I will forget about this letter a few days after I have sent it. Reply if you wish. If you choose to, I will continue the corespondance. If not, I wish you good fortune and safety.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes

~oOo~

In the heat of the day, listening to the flapping of the tent, Dr. John H. Watson is taking a little bit of rest. He's finished his shift in the 'hospital', which is really just the medical tent that they have set up, the tent that he shares with some of the other doctors being blissfully empty at the moment. Sighing a little as he strips down to his t-shirt, John catches sight of something on his cot. Ah yes, it's one of the small packages from the programs people back home do for soldiers. The items are sent to random soldiers, and it seems that he's the one getting it this time. Since he's never gotten one before he's not sure what to expect. Sitting down on the cot he pulls the twine off the three or four letters that he has, reading a few over slowly and shaking his head at how fake and generic they seem to be. Then he comes across a different one. He can practically smell the London rain on it, and he takes a deep breath with his nose pressed against the paper before he opens it, looking at the small black scrawl. And the more he reads, the more he is intrigued, even finding himself chuckling at this odd addict – no, this odd man – who has written him. And for the first time in a long time, he feels like he has something to look forward to, to lighten his mood, thanks to this mysterious Sherlock Holmes.