And once again, this chapter took me a while. I'm so sorry for the delay, but real life has been stressful lately and didn't leave me much time for writing.

Thank you so much for your interest and your reviews - I'm afraid I haven't managed to reply to them this time around, but please know that I read and appreciate every single one of them. So, thank you!

Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

John III

He had been wrong. Mary wasn't over the moon. Mary didn't, in fact, say anything at first.

"Mary?" John had to ask after too many seconds of silence. He risked a glance at his wife in the passenger seat, but it was too dark to make out more than her shadowed profile. "You okay?"

They were on their way back from Gemma – who had fussed over Amanda as usual and had made plans for the house they weren't sure they were really going to buy – and Mark's. It was late, half past ten in the night; Amanda was deeply asleep in her baby seat in the back of the car, and even John was tired, as was Mary, judging by her frequent yawning back in Gemma and Mark's living room.

Between their hurry to make it to Gemma and Mark's in time, Gemma's chattering, Mark offering him a beer every five minutes and his awkward claps on his shoulder – the left one, of course, always the left one – every ten minutes, John had almost forgotten about the news he had and that would certainly come as a surprise for Mary, too.

"Mary?" he asked again when she still didn't say anything.

Mary's hand, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, had made its way to her head; she was rubbing her temple. "He's back?" she echoed his words from earlier. "What do you mean, he's back?"

John frowned. "He's back," he confirmed. "Waited in front of the clinic and wanted to work a case with me."

"A case?" Mary repeated. She still sounded utterly dumbfounded, John couldn't help but notice. But then, he assumed, he hadn't fared much better when his exiled – formerly exiled – best friend had suddenly stood leaning against his car, almost as if he had never been gone. Never been exiled for shooting a man in the head in front of a dozen MI5 witnesses, a nagging voice in John's head reminded him, for shooting a man that had intended to blackmail Mary, John's own wife.

John's frown deepened. "A case, yes," he said. "It's what he does, remember? Consulting Detective? Only one in the world? Helps the police when they're out of their debt, which is always?" The memory of his second meeting with Sherlock came to his mind unbidden and made his lips twitch in amusement. Consulting Detective, the only one in the world indeed.

Mary remained quiet. She didn't need to say anything, because John was sure that they were both thinking the same: how could she ever forget Sherlock, John's back-from-the-dead best friend, his best man at their wedding and the man she had shot and almost killed only weeks later?

The atmosphere in the car, so relaxed after their visit to Gemma and Mark, had suddenly grown tense. Eventually, John cleared his throat to disrupt the silence that had spread. "He sends his love, by the way," he said.

"Ah," Mary made and immediately fell silent again.

John cleared his throat again, risking another side-glance at Mary, but his wife kept staring straight ahead into the night, only illuminated by the headlights of their car. John had to supress the urge to sigh.

The next time, it was Mary who spoke up. "I'm sorry, John," she said, her voice soft. She rested a hand on his left thigh, very lightly. "I didn't mean to..." She trailed off.

John pursed his lips for a moment and then nodded. "I know," he said.

After that, Mary seemed to relax, and the tension in the car abated noticeably.

"So," Mary said and gave a giggle that sounded decidedly uneasy, almost nervous to John's ears, "he's back. For good?"

John shrugged and turned into their street. "Seems like it, yes." He had to chuckle. Undercover work somewhere in Eastern Europe – neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had ever specified where exactly – had probably been far too boring for Sherlock. In fact, now that John thought about it, the actual punishment might not even have been the fact that Sherlock had to work undercover cases, but complete and utter boredom in a remote location somewhere far, far away from London and the excitement and adrenaline rush that Sherlock craved so much.

He could sense Mary's headshake rather than see it. "But... how?" she said again. "I mean," she hastily went on, "his sentence, it... is it done?"

Good question, John had to admit as he pulled up in front of their flat. Sherlock hadn't actually said all that much – only that he was back, a little over six months after he had headed towards his exile, but nothing about the how or why or what had been up with the exile in general.

"I think so, yes," he told Mary nonetheless. Sherlock had killed a man, in front of witnesses no less, but then, if anyone could pull some strings and shorten or end or whatever a sentence, it would be Mycroft Holmes, the one who had, according to Sherlock, initially estimated Sherlock's undercover assignment to last about six months. Even back then, on that bloody tarmac, no-one had mentioned what would happen after that first assignment, John realised belatedly. Well, Sherlock's sentence appeared to have been served.

Mary didn't seem inclined to get out of the car yet. "Hm," she made, staring straight ahead. "And he just stood in front of the clinic?"

Another chuckle rose in John's chest. Really, so very typical of Sherlock. At least he had had the decency to wait until the end of John's day at the surgery – it wouldn't have been the first time that Sherlock had stormed into John's office and demand his attention now because there was a case and John's work was boring anyway and John's current patient was a porn-addict with particular interest in bondage and all sorts of kinky role play. John could – unfortunately – still remember that day vividly, along with his own embarrassment at his flatmate's intrusion and deductions and his – former – boss's indignation. "Yes," he answered at last. "As I said, he was waiting for me because of a case."

Mary shook her head and finally looked at John. "I don't believe it."

John unfastened his seatbelt with another chuckle. "You know Sherlock," he said. "I don't think there's anything that's impossible with him."

Mary gave another headshake, clearly still fighting to overcome her surprise. "Oh yes," she muttered quietly, and then, after a few seconds of silence, opened the door and climbed out of the car.

~(o)~

John had assumed that the conversation was over with that, but once they had managed to get Amanda – who had woken up in a rather cranky mood after her extensive nap at Gemma and Mark's and on the way home – to sleep and had fallen into bed themselves, Mary brought Sherlock up again. "So what's he going to do now?"

John shifted and tried to make sense of Mary's question. "Hm?" he made. God, he needed sleep. Work tomorrow again, and then the pub with Greg, and he and Mary still had to talk about the house and the real estate agent's offer...

The lamp on Mary's bedside table was still on, and John squeezed his eyes shut. "What's he going to do now?" Mary asked again. Her mattress moved when she propped herself up on her right elbow; John did his best to stifle a groan and a yawn immediately afterwards.

"Mary," he muttered, still without opening his eyes, "it's in the middle of the night."

Mary didn't react. "Does he expect you to work with him again? I mean, does he think that everything's going to be the way it was before?"

John frowned and finally pushed himself up until he was leaning against the headboard of the bed. "What?" he asked.

Mary was biting her lower lip, a habit that only came through when she was nervous. Or worried. "You know, the way Sherlock does things. Sweep in, overturn the life you've built for yourself, and then disappear again when it gets too boring or when he's in danger of becoming too involved."

"That's not what he did," John protested. Because Sherlock didn't. Of course, he swept in and usually turned John's life upside down, but he didn't just disappear. John's throat closed for a moment when he thought back to the two years he had believed his best friend to be dead, the two years he had paid regular visits to an empty grave in a bloody cemetery. But no, he told himself. It wasn't like Mary said; he knew it wasn't like Mary said. Because even if Sherlock did vanish, he did it for a reason, not just because he didn't do people and friends and sentiment. He knew Sherlock, knew his best friend, John told himself, and despite what everyone else said, and in spite of Sherlock's actions, his behaviour, John didn't want to believe that his best friend could in fact be that callous. He shook his head in determination. "That's not how it was."

Mary kept biting her lip, and for a moment something like regret seemed to flash across her face. It was gone in an instant, and John wasn't sure if maybe he had only imagined it. "I'm sorry, John," she said then, her voice calm. "I know he's your best friend, but he's left you behind twice now and didn't even contact you both times. It's not..."

"It's not like he wanted to go to Eastern Europe," John interrupted her. A surge of anger was rising in him, anger he had worked so hard to contain somewhere deep within his chest after everything had initially gone to hell with Mary, after Sherlock had boarded that bloody plane and John was suddenly stuck with his wife, the woman he had fallen in love with and the woman who had lied to him for months and then had almost succeeded in killing his best friend. "He was exiled, remember? Because he shot the man who wanted to blackmail my wife. Because he shot a man to protect you, even though you did nothing but lie to him. To everyone!"

John's heart was pounding so heavily in his chest that it drowned out the shocked silence his words had plunged the room into for a few seconds. A few seconds, and then the icy quiet registered and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

But before he had the chance to say anything else, to think about taking back his words, Mary beat him to it. She sat up abruptly, her gaze unwavering. "Oh yes, because I'm the only one who's ever told a lie," she snapped. "But of course I'm only your wife and not your best friend. Because if I were you best friend, I'd be allowed lie to you for two bloody years and then force my way back into your life and everything would suddenly be fine again! Remember that time when he played dead and left you to grieve for him for two years?" She took a deep breath and pointed one finger at John. "And don't tell me he didn't have a choice back then either. He did, and he chose to lie to you and leave you behind while he went off to do God knows what."

John's jaw was clenched so tightly that it hurt. "That's not-," he began, but Mary didn't want to hear it. "Oh, save it," she cut him off and lay back down, her back towards him. "I'm tired, and I don't want to hear it."

The lamp next to Mary's side of the bed was switched off and John was left in the dark, still sitting up against the headboard. "Mary," he tried again. Why did she have to bring up the topic now? Why at all?

"No," came the muffled response from his left. "I don't want to hear it."

John pursed his lips and nodded once. "Fine," he replied tersely. "I'm sleeping on the sofa tonight."

~(o)~

John was already up and sitting on the sofa instead of lying on the bloody thing by the time Mary came downstairs the next morning, Amanda figetting with little coordination in her arms. "Morning," he mumbled and cocked his head to the left, trying in vain to get his neck muscles to relax after another night on the uncomfortable, short, bloody sofa.

Mary gave him a quick look, then renewed her hold on Amanda and told their daughter in a loud whisper: "We could have told Daddy that his neck would be stiff if he slept on the sofa again, couldn't we, darling?"

Amanda produced a blubbery giggle in response and kicked with her romper suit-clad feet.

John watched as Mary bobbed their daughter up and down and approached him. "Say hello to Daddy, darling," she mumbled into Amanda's soft blonde hair. "What do you think, is Daddy still mad at Mummy?"

When Amanda reached out for John with her chubby arms out of reflex, he took her from Mary and settled her on his lap. Amanda squirmed, of course, and grabbed a fistful of his tee. John couldn't contain a smile at his daughter's insistent tugging. "Daddy's not mad," he said finally and glanced up at Mary.

She seemed to study him and Amanda on his lap for a few seconds before yawning and turning to the kitchen. "God, I need coffee," she announced, already opening the cupboard in which they kept the coffee beans. "John?"

"Hm?" he made, bouncing Amanda up and down on his knee.

"Coffee?" Mary asked. She smiled at him from the kitchen, two mugs in her hand, and John nodded.

"Listen, Mary," he began a few minutes later, the coffee maker and Amanda blubbering in the back. "I-"

"I know," she cut him off. Leaving the coffee to itself, she came over to the sofa and sat down next to him. Her fingers were playing with a loose thread in his dressing gown, but her eyes were trained on him. "It's just... I thought we were over that," she added quietly. No need to explain what exactly 'that' was supposed to mean. 'That' was just... everything. The tension between them that had had time to build from the moment Sherlock had forced Mary into a confrontation with John up until Amanda's birth, the mistrust, the frequent arguments and, initially, occasional loud shouting matches. "I thought we were okay again, that we..." She trailed off and smiled briefly at John. "And now Sherlock's back, and that's great, really, but..."

John couldn't suppress a sigh. But Sherlock was Sherlock, and nothing with him was ever easy. Even though he still didn't agree with what Mary had said the previous night, even though he didn't want to agree with her, he had to admit that much.

Instead of an answer, he pulled her close and kissed her softly. "So we're good then?" he wanted to know while Amanda seemed to have had enough and had started keening quietly.

Mary nodded and relaxed against him. "We're good."

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