Thank you all for your interest and your kind words. Really. It means so much.

Here's the next part for you (and of course, for you, dear Anagogia). Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock I

John had looked so happy.

It was the only thing Sherlock could focus on as he stood in the almost empty car park in front of the clinic where John worked, in London, England, back in London. The thought circulated in his brain, around and around, and wouldn't let go, not since the moment John had stepped out of the door and into the rain, the moment he had looked up, his eyes widening, had addressed Sherlock and had started to smile. A broad, open, wide smile that had crinkled the skin around his eyes and straightened the lines on his forehead. John had looked so happy.

Everything Sherlock might have prepared to say, might have considered telling John, asking John, had evaporated immediately when he had laid eyes on John, leaving only blankness and a moment of sudden vertigo as his brain had scrambled to catch up with the fact that John was here, he was where John was, he had seen John again.

And then John had pulled him into a hug, had not thrown a punch, not like the last time, even though Sherlock hadn't been able to pull himself together well enough to explain, to apologise, to explain to John why he hadn't been able to text, call, come back earlier; John had hugged him, not punched him, and Sherlock had felt something inside him loosen, or break, despite the pain that had lanced through his chest when John's arms had come in contact with his ribs and that had made it impossible to stifle the sharp yelp that escaped him.

And John had looked good. He had been smiling, and laughing, and although even more grey was in his hair now than there used to be, John had appeared like John was supposed to be, and not like some grief-ridden, pale shadow of the luminance that was John Watson. That John Watson was supposed to be.

That was good, Sherlock told himself as he blinked into the rain that was still falling softly, and the touch of the light drizzle suddenly seemed more tender than anything he had felt in a long time.

He still remembered John from before, before Magnussen, before Christmas, but after Magnussen's office, after the conversation in the empty house. The weariness that had been etched into John's face, the anger and worry and sorrow that had been so obvious in John's every expression were conserved perfectly in Sherlock's brain, a permanent reminder of what he had caused, of the destruction he had brought upon John.

But now, John had looked happy.

And John had smiled, and laughed, and told him "It's good to have you back".

The weight of this realisation threatened to bring Sherlock to his knees all of a sudden, stupidly; his throat closed up and everything blurred for a moment. Because he had made it back; he was back, and the past was done and over. He had made it back to John, and despite everything, despite what had happened, maybe everything could be alright again.

Sherlock's heart lurched inside of his chest, and for the first time in months he couldn't quite manage to extinguish the flicker of hope that rose in him, the hope that there might be a chance for him. Stupid, so, so stupid, because he was back now, and of course everything would be fine. He would be fine, because why shouldn't he? Stupid.

He swallowed heavily and shoved his unsteady hands into his coat pockets, determinedly, just like he tried to clamp down the darkness from Eastern Europe that had receeded with John's obvious happiness, with simply John, and the memories of John in the months after Sherlock had almost succeeded in destroying his marriage and his life. Focus, he needed to keep focus. Needed to keep it together.

Which should be easy, really, because John had looked well, seemed well, and because Sherlock was being ridiculous. He would be able to visit John, of course, just like before. Like always. Or John could visit him, and they would have tea and John would sit in his usual armchair and roll his eyes at Sherlock's behaviour or boredom or his search for cigarettes, but it wouldn't matter because John would be there, and he would be safe, and Sherlock would be able to see him again. And maybe John's presence, simply John, would manage to push away the dark spots, the stains on Sherlock's mind, allow him to forget the darkness, the blood, the dampness, pain, that had become so familiar to him.

He swallowed again, convulsively, and forced himself to take a deep breath, regardless of the stab of pain it caused in his chest. It was over. No reason to think of it any longer or to let it bother him. Fine, everything was fine. Time to pull himself together.

Mary, Sherlock forced himself to focus, John had mentioned Mary. Mary was getting impatient, he had said. That was good, too, Sherlock's brain told him while he deliberately ignored the minute twinge his heart gave in his chest. If Mary was waiting for John, it meant that they were still together, that they had sorted things out, that John had realised why he had fallen in love with Mary in the first place. Good, that had to be good, his brain concluded again. Because John had looked happy.

He didn't know how long he remained where he was, in the car park in front of John's clinic in a soft London drizzle, how long he kept trying to memorise, perfectly replicate, John's face as he had just seen it. He didn't, and only jerked back to reality at the sound of a car door slamming shut. Despite himself, Sherlock flinched and shivered involuntarily, huddling more deeply into his coat against the light rain and the cold that was seeping into his very bones.

Focus. He needed to focus.

Cab, John had said, as Sherlock managed to recall hazily, he was supposed to take a cab. John had even offered to drive him somewhere, Sherlock remembered vaguely as another shiver gripped him, but his words had barely registered with Sherlock, with his brain so busy to take in the fact that John Watson, the real John Watson, was standing in front of him. If they had, if Sherlock's mind had been able to pay attention to the content of John's words and not just his presence and the sound of his voice, he might even have said yes, thoughtlessly, pathetically, without remembering that John was in a hurry and should not feel obliged to play the role of Sherlock's chauffeur, not ever, not when Sherlock was perfectly capable of calling a cab himself and John was in a hurry and had plans.

He swallowed and straightened his shoulders, but kepts his hands in his coat pockets. Cab, yes, of course. Cab. He needed a cab.

~(o)~

Mycroft, Sherlock thought while the lump that had somehow lodged itself in his throat made swallowing almost impossible, had been very, very thorough. Thorough as usual.

His fingers closed around the keys to his flat, keys Mycroft had ensured he received, as well as his coat, his scarf, clothes for the flight back to London, his old mobile phone, a new wallet and enough money to cover his expenses for months to come. His flat – still his flat, despite everything, still his, somehow – looked the same, even if a bit worse for wear, covered in dust that had had seven months and three weeks to accumulate on furniture and books and belongings.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and took a step into his living room. He wanted to scold himself, laugh at himself for his stupidity when he was surprised that it didn't vanish, that the floor didn't disappear beneath his feet, naturally not, but instead he reached out, rested a flat palm on the doorframe and took a deep, shaky, stabbing breath. Solid, solid wood and flaking paint beneath his skin, and the smell of laundry detergents and soap and flour waving up the stairs from Mrs Hudson's flat in his nose, and the frantic beating of his heart resounding in his ears.

His hand was shaking when he removed it from the doorframe, curled the trembling fingers of his other hand around the keys to his flat and put both of them along with their traitorous unsteadiness back in his coat pockets.

His feet seemed to move to the sofa, his sofa, on their own account. Newspapers, months old by now, were scattered on the table in front of the sofa, and boxes – boxes, flowery décor, Mrs Hudson's, not his – were piled up high next to it. His music stand was in front of one of the windows, exactly where he had left it, that fateful Christmas Day before he and John had headed for his parents' house and then, ultimately, Appledor, a decision which had almost ruined everything Sherlock held dear. Even his violin was resting where it belonged, in its case on the middle board of the shelf right beside the window.

Carefully, slowly, Sherlock sat down on the sofa and reached out with one hand, just to feel the worn leather beneath his fingertips. Everything looked as if he had just left, had left for a case, in a hurry, taking a cab to a crime scene or maybe Scotland Yard where John would be waiting for him already, together with Lestrade, and then they would head to the morgue at Bart's, Bart's where everything had begun, where he had met John, one January afternoon so many years ago. It looked as if he had just left, with every intention to come back, and not as if he had left everything behind to never come back.

Sherlock forced himself to take another deep breath. This time, the pain that shot through his ribs, through his chest, was almost welcome, a reminder that he wasn't dreaming, that this was real, that he was back in London, in his flat in Baker Street, and that he had seen John again. That John had been happy to see him, had not forgotten him, had welcomed him back. A reminder that he had made it out, and that everything was fine now.

Running the fingers of one hand over the familiar fabric of the sofa and clenching the fingers of the other one around his keys in his pockets, Sherlock raised his head to glance around the room, a vain attempt to calm his throbbing heart and pull himself together. Took in the two armchairs, facing each other; the mantlepiece; the skull. The bullet holes in the wall behind him, the yellow paint on the wallpaper that had annoyed Mrs Hudson almost more than the damage the bullets had done. His right shoulder protested at his position, with his head turned to the wall behind him, and the constant dull ache in his ribcage intensified to a hot pulsating.

Despite himself, his mind started replaying images, situations of the past day, the past two days. Blurry impressions of a river and water surrounding him, closing over him; pebbles on a riverbank pressing into his cheek; blood painting the same pebbles red. Then a quick flash of images, slipping through his mind with dizzying speed because he didn't want to remember, didn't need to remember, not now that he was home again; then Mycroft's voice, Mycroft's voice telling him that he was allowed to go home, back to London; a car, one of Mycroft's faceless assistants, his clothes, an airport, a plane, London. One of Mycroft's cars, the need to see John, the only thought on his mind, the clinic where John worked, waiting outside, his heart pounding in his throat, and finally, finally, John, laughing, smiling, happy, telling him that it was good to have him back. Standing in the drizzle for a time while his brain was trying to catch up with everything that had happened, trying to understand that he was no longer in Eastern Europe, that his exile lay in the past. Another car then, a cab this time, someone asking him for directions, John's address being the first thing that had come to his mind before he managed to croak out his own address, 221B Baker Street, so achingly familiar and so close to home. And then Baker Street, the front door, the knocker, not crooked because John hadn't been here in a long time; the door locked, which meant that Mrs Hudson wasn't home; the hallway, empty, but filled with the smell of Mrs Hudson's perfume – the expensive one, the one she only put on when she went out, he had remembered all of a sudden; the staircase, holding memories of a case years ago, of John with a limp, of John leaning against the wall and doubling over with laughter.

For a moment, everything came rushing back with an intensity that drove the breath out of Sherlock's lungs and forced its way past the iron self-composure that had kept him alive: the Magnussen case, the moments on Magnussen's porch, the only way out, his looming exile and subsequent death, the months he had spent awaiting his ultimate execution.

And John.

John.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open after they had closed on their own, without his command. John. His left hand broke contact with the old, familiar, soft leather of the sofa, returned to his coat pocket instead and fumbled for his phone, his old phone Mycroft had made sure that he received. John might text him, and then he needed to hear his phone, needed to be able to reply quickly.

His head was throbbing with a by now familiar rhythmic, pulsating pain, and his eyelids wanted to droop yet again, but he jerked them open. Sleep could wait; the dark could wait. Sherlock took two more deep breaths, inhaled the stale, but familiar smells around him. When John texted, or when Mrs Hudson came home, he needed to be awake to hear it.

He didn't know how long he remained seated on the sofa, simply breathing deeply. Even the stabs of pain each breath shot through his chest, the throbbing of the bruise on his cheek, all the aches his body had accumulated over the course of seven months and three weeks faded in contrast to the realisation that he was back home, back with people he loved, people who in turn seemed to care about him. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, John. John. His fingers closed around the mobile that was lying at his side, and he blinked against the tiredness that threatened to envelop him. John. Sherlock blinked again. John. John was happy. With John, even Sherlock might be alright again. His eyes kept falling closed, and there was nothing he could do against it, no matter how hard he tried. But then, he was back home; it might be fine to go to be fine.

He tried to open his heavy lids again, but they wouldn't move, and Sherlock, for the first time in three days, succumbed to sleep.

Thank you for reading. If you want to make me a very very happy person, then please let me know what you thought.