The letter came when John was out patrolling.

It had been three months since John had returned to Afghanistan; three months since Christmas; three months since he last heard of Sherlock. John left his base's postal address to Sherlock's website 'The Science of Deduction' as requested and dared to hope that Sherlock would write to him. But as the days passed by the whirlwind of that 24 hours seemed to look like a scene from a Romantic movie- scripted, not real. The more John thought about it the more he was convinced about his stupidity for hoping. Of course Sherlock was not going to write, why should he? Who would take the trouble to send words to the other end of the world to a faceless entity? Sherlock was talented, interesting and probably rich too where as John was just an Army doctor with a death ticket sticking to his forehead. Even if Sherlock didn't lie while promising to keep in touch he surely changed his mind after that. John didn't blame him, he couldn't. The entire thing was too strange and good to be true.

The first month was the toughest. John used to wake up every day hoping that the letter would come. When John first got deployed two years ago Harry wrote to him a couple of times and that was that. He didn't get to receive any letter anymore. Most of his army mates used to get them pretty regularly. They had families, friends, partners to worry about them. It was a damn good sight to watch their faces lit up with the happiness their loved ones had sent them through their letters. So, when Sherlock asked him to leave his postal address John was not only excited about keeping in touch with Sherlock but he loved the idea that he would get to receive letters, too. But John should have known better than to hope.

~0~0~0~

"Hey Watson, you've got a mail!"

John was just about to enter his tent and stopped short. He had received a letter. Instantly his mind raced back to Sherlock; a long suppressed hope peeped up its head but he rejected the thought immediately. It must be Harry, it must be and that thought made him nervous. His sister was reckless to say the least and with her alcoholism her life was spiraling down every moment. John entered and stood before his bed; a slightly crumpled envelope was lying on his neatly made bed. His heart was pounding. John stared at it for a long moment and then turned away from it to remove his head gear and protection vests. Sand was glued to his sweaty body, he felt dirty, tired but above all he felt scared.

~0~0~0~

Dear John,

I won't ask you if you remember me because I know you do. What I would do is to apologize to you for not writing to you any sooner. I will not give you any excuses because only lies require details, in my defense I can only state that I was straightening out my life. You see John, I never do anything half heartedly and if I am going to keep my promise then I'm going to keep it till the end which requires me to be strong enough to reclaim the responsibilities of my own life from my brother. It took me three months to ensure it. Will you accept my apology? I hope you do.

Now, tell me about yourself. How are you, physically as well as mentally? How was your Christmas? Did you find your friend, that Mike fellow? How is the situation around your base? Tell me anything and everything. In one of your texts you said that you wanted to know me better. Do you still wish to do so or have you change your mind? Because I want know about you as much as I can, John.

I have returned to London, at last. My brother was reluctant but my grandmother insisted him to take me back. I threatened to poison her cats, you see; I wouldn't though. I don't hurt animals, well, at least not when they are alive. She got so scared that even Mycroft couldn't convince her to keep me any longer; she's a bit dramatic but the plan worked anyway. I missed London so much, this city keeps me alive. I missed you too, John. I didn't even know it was possible to miss someone whom you didn't even 'know' in a conventional way. And once again this only proves that normal is overrated.

I have news for you, good or bad that will depend on how you perceive it. I have started to work with the Yard. The Detective Inspector, who is the least stupid one of the bunch, has let me look into some cold cases, at last. Most of the cases are dull which again put the efficiency of our Police department on question, some of them are really interesting though. The best thing is that I get to use my brain in the process. I would like to know your opinion regarding this matter when you write to me. You will write to me, aren't you, John? I hope three months are not too late to keep a promise. Am I wrong? I don't want to be but if I am then I just want you to know that you are now a part of one of few happy moments of my life.

I look forward to seeing your hand writing.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes.

~0~0~0~

John's eyes burned while reading the letter. He wouldn't cry though, he wouldn't. He was a fucking soldier for God's sake. He couldn't cry. Three months of waiting, three months of hoping against hope that Sherlock would keep his promise and now he was holding the reward in his hand. He didn't have to pretend that it didn't matter to him, didn't have to try to forget that 24 hours, not anymore. A new hope was born today.

~0~0~0~

A/N: Hey Guys, so here is the SEQUEL of 'I'll Find You Again'. If you have a minute to spare then please let me know your thoughts. I hope you enjoy the read :D

A very special thanks to my best friend Magda The Magpie without whom this series wouldn't have been possible. She is my constant inspiration; my Muse! 3

John didn't open the letter till he went to bed that night. He wasn't even sure he was ready to read it after seeing the sender's name. He was so excited that he felt numb. During the whole time after getting the letter his played a guessing game with his mind about the content of the letter but nothing could have prepared him for what Sherlock had written. The letter was abrupt and out of the ordinary to say the least but then again John really didn't expect anything common from that mad genius. John guessed that Sherlock didn't socialize much but now John wouldn't be surprised if he came to know that this was the first informal letter Sherlock had ever written. And he liked it so much, he loved it. It had a certain raw flavor about it- bare of any formal niceties, intense, precise and honest. It was so much like Sherlock and John absolutely loved it.

John fell asleep that night trying to compose his reply. He had a letter to answer, after all.

~0~0~0~