Hello again! I'm afraid I'll have to settle for a monthly rate of publishing new chapters - one chapter per month, that's not too bad. Is it?

Thank you all very much for your encouragement and reviews and interest. Really, I can't thank you enough.

Enjoy!

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

John II

A knock sounded on the door to John's office. He looked up from the screen of his computer, straightened and prepared to greet his final patient for today. One more cold, migraine, case of flu or maybe a sprained limb, and then he would head home to Mary and Amanda, grab a bite to eat and spend the rest of the evening at Mark and Gemma's, listening to Gemma and Mary giggle and chat and to Mark droning on about his car and his new flat screen. And then the same routine the next day, with the exception that he had agreed to meet up for a beer or two with Greg, Greg who would probably talk about nothing but Molly. John's professional smile deepened into an amused grin for a moment when he thought about Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard and father of two, behaving like a school boy with his first crush when it came to Molly Hooper.

The door opened, but it wasn't Mrs Walters, his final patient for the day. Instead, Lucy, his receptionist and Mary's replacement, poked her head through the door. "Your wife called earlier, Dr Watson," she said. "She says to call her back."

John nodded, already moving to pick up the phone. "Thank you, Lucy." If Mary called him during work – which she often did – it was usually either about Amanda or their plans for the day, the weekend, the month. Gemma and Mark maybe, or the real estate agent and Mary's dream of moving into a large house with a larger garden.

"Lucy?" he called the receptionist back while he was waiting for Mary to answer the phone. "Is Mrs Walters here yet?"

Lucy shook her head. "No, Dr Watson," she replied. "Do you need me to ask her to wait a few more minutes?"

John furrowed his brow and tapped his fingers on his desk. "No, it's fine," he said. "Just send her in when she's here."

"Yes?"

John leaned back in his chair and stopped his agitated tapping. The door to his office closed behind Lucy. "Mary, hey," he said. "What's going on? Everything alright?"

"Oh, John!" He could practically picture the expression of absolute glee on Mary's face, just by the tone of her voice. "Listen, I talked to the real estate agent again, and he..." She sounded breathless, and Amanda's not-so-quiet babbling could be heard in the background. "Oh, it's alright, sweetie," Mary told Amanda. "It's all fine. Where was I?"

"The real estate agent," John supplied while his mind tried to imagine Amanda in Mary's arms, face scrunched up because she dropped Bee, her favourite soft toy, or because Mary was trying to comb her soft baby hair.

"Ah, yes. So, I talked to him again, and he said that he'd be willing to add the shed next to the house to his offer and set up a swing set," she went on, clearly excited, "and everything for the same monthly rent. Or we could buy it, and even then the price would remain the same."

John pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger of his right hand. The house again. When Mary had first mentioned that it might be necessary to move, at least once Amanda started crawling and talking and then running, he had thought she was talking about a larger flat, somewhere in town, not too far away from the surgery. But the house she had fallen in love with... "And?" he wanted to know.

"And," Mary repeated and took a deep breath that was audible over the phone, "I might have said yes."

John didn't know whether to drop the phone in surprise or whether to sigh in acceptance of the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, Mary acted before she gave herself time to think.

"John?" she asked, and he could hear the nervousness in her voice. "Say something, John, please. It's not final, we can still take it back. John?"

He could only sigh. "Can we talk about that once I'm home? Or tomorrow?"

"Of course," Mary replied, and the elation was gone from her voice. "I'm sorry. It's just... I've always wanted a house with a garden. And since Amanda..."

John swallowed and closed his eyes for a second. "I know," he said quietly. "We'll talk about it, alright? See if we can make it work."

Mary was quiet for a moment; John could almost see her biting her lower lip. "Okay?" he asked again.

"Okay," she repeated. "John?"

"Hm?" Amanda was giggling to herself in the background, and suddenly John wanted this day to be over, to be at home, with his wife and his little daughter and just enjoy the evening with his family.

"I love you."

Despite himself, he had to smile. Me too, he wanted to reply, but Mary had already ended the call. John pursed his lips and stared at the phone in his hand before putting it down and running a hand over his face. Right, he reminded himself. Mrs Walters. One more patient.

At the sound of another knock on his door, he squared his shoulders and mentally readied himself for his final patient today.

~(o)~

Mrs Walters had a persistent head cold, nothing more severe, and so John was on his way out of his office and to his car half an hour later. Lucy and Melissa, the second receptionist, waved at him, and Richard, his colleague, gave him a brief nod, which filled John with relief. Richard had the tendency to greet people with a lax and damp handshake, and that was definitely a habit John could do without, especially since Richard then proceeded to swing his own arm and therefore John's up and down, threatening to dislocate a shoulder.

By the time he got home, Mary would be ready to go, he knew, with Amanda already tucked into her portable baby seat and Mary all but bouncing on her heels in excitement. Even though she made fun of Gemma and Mark and their perfect life sometimes, there was no denying that she enjoyed exchanging gossip with Gemma immensely.

It had started to rain, a soft, but constant drizzle that seemed appropriate for autumn and foggy November days rather than the end of July. John ducked his head in an attempt to shield himself from the misty rain behind his put-up coat collar and fumbled for his car keys in the pocket of his jacket. When a quiet voice addressed him, he still hadn't found the damn things, and the medical journal he had grabbed to read in a calm moment this evening was slowly getting wet.

"John?"

Ah, there. Grabbing the key ring, he removed his hand from his pocket and finally looked up. "Yes?" he had wanted to ask, maybe explain that he was in a hurry, had a family to get home to and that he would be in again tomorrow and they should just consult the receptionists to receive an appointment. The words froze on his tongue when he realised who exactly was standing next to his car, leaning with his back against the passenger door and looking for all intents like he had just climbed out of a cab. Looking as if this was completely expected, nothing out of the ordinary, not surprising at all.

Which maybe, considering that John really should have known better, should have known that next to nothing was impossible with this man, it wasn't.

"Sherlock?" he asked. Standing there, in the rain, car keys in one hand, journal in the other, gaping with his mouth open and absolutely dumb-founded, he suddenly felt like an idiot.

Sherlock actually gave him a smile. "Hello, John."

John's brain, even though it ought to have realised by now that really, with Sherlock Holmes nothing should ever come unexpectedly, not even a not-at-all funny return from the dead in a bloody restaurant and least of all a return from something mundane as casework somewhere in Eastern Europe, felt like it had short-circuited itself. "Sherlock?" he repeated dumbly.

Sherlock – same old coat, complete with the ridiculous collar, same old everything, right down to the scarf and the elegant dress shoes – nodded. He didn't, however, say anything else.

John cleared his throat. The key ring, he noticed, was digging into his palm. His best friend was standing in front of him, the best friend he hadn't seen in half a year, the best friend a part of him, the stupid, pessimistic part, had not believed he would see again, and yet he couldn't think of anything to say. "So," he settled on eventually, "you're back then."

Sherlock's gaze flickered towards John. "Yes," he said, quietly, and blinked into the falling rain for a moment. "I'm back."

Of course he was. Of course he was, John had to remind himself. It wasn't like the last time, he forced himself to remember as he swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. Last time, Sherlock had let him believe he was dead, had let John believe that and grieve for his friend for two years, only to then show up again and almost unhinge the life John had managed to build for himself in the meantime. It was different this time, he told himself again, because he'd always known that Sherlock would be back, sooner or later. Once his work in Eastern Europe got too boring and he remembered John again, his former flatmate whom he'd left behind in London.

No, John corrected himself and pushed his simmering anger back down. Sherlock had been sent into exile this time, he hadn't wanted to leave. Hadn't chosen to disappear from John's life.

And now he was back.

Almost despite himself, John felt a smile spread on his face. Laughter bubbled up in him, because, really, Sherlock Holmes. Back in England, back in London. The game was on, probably, and Mrs Hudson was already busy cleaning the flat upstairs, any plans she might have harboured about finding a new tenant forgotten, and soon she would be climbing the walls again because late-night experiments and daily explosions had moved back into 221B Baker Street. Jesus Christ. Just... Sherlock Holmes.

"You seem... well," the same Sherlock Holmes was saying now.

Before John could think and before Sherlock could escape and do more than yelp in surprise and possibly exasperation, John had pulled him into a quick hug, complete with car keys and medical journal. He didn't give Sherlock the chance to squirm away or reprimand John for giving in to sentiment of all things or to start deducing him and telling him about his latest nightmare or eating habits or God knew what, but drew back instead, after two quick claps on the back and with a grin that, idiotically, did not want to leave his face.

"So," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. Sherlock's eyes were glued to his face, scanning him, studying, and John had to glance away. The next comment about how he had gained weight or how his hair had gone even more grey certainly wasn't too far off. "How was Eastern Europe?," he asked and studied his car rather than meet Sherlock's scrutinising glare again. "Any interesting cases? Or... confrontational?"

Sherlock blinked at him for a second, eyes almost comically wide, until John pointed to his face where a yellow-ish bruise covered his left cheekbone just below the eye. "Oh," he made then, as if that giant brain of his had already forgotten about whatever unimportant incident had caused the bruise. Just transport, John found himself remembering. His body was just transport for Sherlock.

"So?" John made again when Sherlock didn't say anything else, his eyes still fixated on John. "Where'd you get that?"

Sherlock twitched, as if startled out of some process of thinking. John had to fight the urge to shake his head and smile at the same time; the vacant expression that had settled on Sherlock's face was so achingly familiar, so typically Sherlock in a way John hadn't even been aware of missing during those past months. He waited for the near-orgasmic "oh" that always followed a major deduction of some kind, but it didn't come. Well. Who knew what was going on in that enormous brain of Sherlock's. He certainly didn't.

"That," Sherlock croaked instead and had to clear his throat immediately afterwards. He gestured with his right hand for a second, then shrugged and cleared his throat again. "It's...," he began. "...nothing. Had a... disagreement with someone, and he..."

"He punched you," John concluded. God. Unbelievable. He had missed Sherlock during his time away, he realised and tried to ignore the stale taste the realisation left in his mouth. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, Sherlock's voice from that devastating night at 221B echoed in his head, but John pushed the memory away.

Instead, he let out a chuckle. A client had punched Sherlock. It wasn't funny, not really. He was a doctor and shouldn't be laughing about people throwing punches, but... he could sympathise, he assumed.

Sherlock directed a curious and long glance at him, and then smiled softly, giving a short chuckle himself.

"God," John breathed and cleared his throat. "It's good to have you back." He frowned. It had been a little over seven months since Sherlock had left for undercover work in Eastern Europe, John recalled. Their goodbye on the tarmac of some airfield had almost felt like a goodbye forever back then, but as soon as he had mentioned his uneasiness about Sherlock's exile to Mary, she had nudged his shoulder almost playfully, for the first time since their sort-of-separation, and told him to stop being so morose. It was Sherlock they were talking about, after all, his usual antics included. And now Sherlock was back. "You're late, though," John added. "Didn't Mycroft say something about six months, not seven?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened at the mention of his older brother and something in his expression changed, but the scowl John was half-expecting failed to appear. Seconds later, his best friend had himself back under control and gave a minuscule shrug. "He was wrong," he replied roughly.

John chuckled again, and even Sherlock's lips curled into a faint smile after a moment's hesitation.

"So," Sherlock began slowly when John remembered the key in his hand all of a sudden, unlocked the car, walked around to the driver's seat and tossed the now soaked journal on the passenger seat. "How is your work going?"

John looked up, startled. Well, that was new. Pleasantries and small talk from Sherlock Holmes. Quite a change from his usual impatient demand for assistance because "there's a case, come on, John, hurry". Not unpleasant, though. "Fine," he replied and braced his forearms against the top of the car. Sherlock's eyes never left his face, scanned him, studied him, but he remained silent.

"A bit mundane sometimes," John added after a few seconds. Mundane, yes, particularly when compared to Sherlock's usual lifestyle. Criminals, murderers, chasing murderers, collecting clues, solving crimes, cases. John pursed his lips. A case. He hadn't had a case in ages, hadn't done anything exciting in ages. Besides becoming a father, of course. For a moment, he wondered what he would say if Sherlock asked him for help with a case right now – which, of course, provoked the question of how long exactly Sherlock had been back, if he had a case already – and even toyed with the thought of replying with "Oh God, yes!", before he remembered that he had agreed to accompany Mary to Gemma and Mark's later. And Amanda. John's heart warmed at the thought of his daughter. A case and a quick adrenaline rush – it was Sherlock, after all – versus time with his little daughter. The adrenaline rush lost to Amanda, of course.

"Mundane," he repeated and pursed his lips again. Too mundane sometimes, but still. "But fine. Really. It's good."

Sherlock nodded once. "Good," he echoed hoarsely and then returned to studying John. Deducing again, probably, mentally cataloguing what John had had for breakfast, when he had last shaved, how often Mary had kissed him today and how many hours he had slept last night, based on the depth of the shadows beneath his eyes or on the lines on his forehead, or that John actually needed to hurry right now if he wanted to be home in time for their meeting with Gemma and Mark. A thousand deductions, whirring through Sherlock's brain, waiting to spill from his mouth without filter.

John had to smile again. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, was back. Really back. Sherlock Holmes, his bloody, mad, brilliant best friend. He gave another chuckle, while Sherlock simply kept watching him. "So you're back for good now?" he asked Sherlock and opened the car door. When Sherlock swallowed visibly and gave a curt nod, John slid down into the seat. "Good," he repeated Sherlock's words from earlier. "See you 'round, then."

Sherlock seemed to nod again. John was about to turn the key and start the car when his best friend's face suddenly appeared in front of the car window. Frowning, John rolled it down. "John," Sherlock said, then swallowed again. "Where are you going?"

John was actually speechless for a couple of seconds, couldn't quite decide whether to be irritated or amused by Sherlock's question. Because yes, of course, now that Sherlock had decided to grace London with his presence again, everyone had to drop everything because Sherlock Holmes was back. Well, John mused silently, he was a father now, and he had responsibilities, a normal, steady life. A visit to Gemma and Mark's today, the pub with Greg tomorrow; Daniel's birthday on Saturday and no work on Sunday, when he and Mary would maybe find the time to discuss the real estate agent's offer and the bloody house Mary wanted them to buy. All the while Sherlock had a case – probably – and craved his attention. The frailty of genius, John, his best friend's voice echoed inside his head. It needs an audience.

It was a grin that chose to appear on John's face eventually. "Jesus, Sherlock," he said. "If I didn't know better, I'd have thought you actually missed me," he added with another smile.

Sherlock seemed to freeze. "John-," he began, but John cut him off. "I'm going home, if that's alright with you," he told Sherlock in mock-exasperation.

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a reply. "But I'll see you?" he wanted to know.

John rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Unless you up and leave again, yes, you'll see me 'round," he reaffirmed. For tea, to talk, for a case. For a moment, memories of Sherlock and himself in 221B Baker Street, their old flat, where Mrs Hudson brought tea and biscuits and Sherlock drove both them up the wall with his violin, one experiment or another or his frantic search for cigarettes or distraction, flashed through John's mind, and he had to smile again, followed by a quick clench of his heart. Old times, times he had almost believed to be over, but now that Sherlock was back... No, John reminded himself. He had a family now. People who loved him, who needed him.

"Now?" Sherlock wanted to know suddenly.

The question startled John out of his thoughts. He frowned. "You've got a case already, don't you?" John didn't have to wait for the answer, because of course Sherlock would have a case. "No," he had to tell his best friend nonetheless; he chose to ignore the sting of disappointment he felt. "I've got plans."

Sherlock swallowed and gave a curt nod. "Of course," he said, and then repeated: "But I'll see you?"

John had to chuckle again. God, maybe Sherlock had missed him. A little. Maybe. That was, if Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, was even capable of missing someone. "Yes, yes," he agreed. "Say hello to Mrs H from me. And be nice to her!" he added. Before Sherlock had the chance to roll his eyes or reply something, John went on: "You've still got the same mobile phone number?"

At Sherlock's quick, stiff nod, John smiled. "Good," he said. "You know, it's really good to have you back. It's not the same without you."

Sherlock blinked, once, twice, raindrops splashing on his face while the yellow bruise stood out starkly against his skin.

John waited, five seconds, ten seconds, but nothing came from Sherlock. "Okay," he said, trying to brush off Sherlock's lack of reply. This time, he did start the car. "I've got to go. Mary's probably getting impatient."

"Oh," Sherlock made and stepped back. "Of course."

His hair was soaked by now, John realised, as was his coat. "Do you have money for a cab? Or do you need me to take you somewhere?"

A brief look of panic flashed across Sherlock's face. "No, no," he muttered hastily. "It's fine. Fine. It's... I don't want to keep you."

John narrowed his eyes at his best friend. That was a new one, too. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked.

Sherlock swallowed, straightened to his full height and nodded. "Of course, John."

Of course. Fine. Transport. Well. "Okay," John said. "See you, then."

"Give my love to Mary," was the last thing he heard before he rolled up the window and put the car into gear.

Sherlock Holmes, back in London. Sherlock meant danger and threats and chaos and had turned John's life upside down more times than anyone else, but he was John's best friend. John had to shake his head as he drove and left the surgery and Sherlock behind. Amanda would finally be able to meet the man who had been meant to be her godfather. And Mary... John had to grin. God, Mary was going to be over the moon.

So, Sherlock finally enters the stage.

Thank you for reading.