Since the last chapter took so long (much longer than I'd ever intended), here's another one - to make up for the delay.

I've said it before, but still: Thank you all for your interest and your patience.

Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock II

When Sherlock woke, slowly, he didn't, at first, know where he was. He didn't know what had woken him, nor why he had fallen asleep in the first place. The pounding of his head matched the fast beating of his heart in rhythm, and his heavy body seemed to consist of nothing else but aches and pain and irrational, illogical weariness. He could feel the remainder of cold sweat on his forehead, on the skin of his face, and blurred, distorted images of Serbia and a river and the muzzle of a gun pointed at his head lingered in his mind, close to the surface but still sufficiently far away so that he could push them back and force his brain to concentrate on his surroundings.

It was bright around him, even despite his closed eyes, far too bright to be the basement in Serbia, and he was lying, slumped over uncomfortably, on a soft surface. Leather, his fingers were able to gauge eventually, worn, soft, warm leather. His lids were leaden weights over his eyeballs, and a part of him was certain that, if he managed to open his eyes, they would show him only concrete and shackles and the walls of his prison cell, and the leather he could feel beneath him and the fabric against his throat and arms that felt so much like his coat, so much, would turn out to be nothing more but an illusion, created by his own mind to torture him and lure him into tentative but false hopefulness.

He inhaled, a shaky breath, and straightened, still with his eyes shut tightly. His ribs protested even at the slow movement, and, along with the air that rushed into his lungs, stabbing pain surged up in his chest and through his ribcage. He froze, instinctively, one hand digging into the fabric that was resting along the skin of his arms, the other clutching the worn leather beneath his palm, and waited for the hot wave of pain to pass, to fade away and be overlayered by adrenaline and the need to keep going, to push his body further because if he didn't, he wouldn't even make it to six months, let alone back home again.

The stabbing sensation did fade, but not completely, blended in with the throbbing, burning sensations all over the rest of his body and formed a cacophony of aching limbs and heavy, heavy weariness. He took another breath, braced his forearms on his thighs and finally opened his eyes.

It was still the living room of 221B Baker Street, London, that surrounded him, his living room, and everything still looked exactly as it had done in the evening, only hours before. The sofa – worn leather beneath his hands – did not dissipate in daylight, nor did his coat that he was indeed wearing dissolve into thin air or turn into ragged, dirt-stained clothes.

Of course not.

"Stupid," he told himself, he was being stupid. The memories of John yesterday were perfectly clear in his brain, conserved forever, and an immeasurably more accurate impression of John than anything he had or would ever be able to come up with on his own.

He was back home; there was absolutely no reason at all to doubt that fact or harbour memories of his exile, his second stay in Eastern Europe, no reason for his transport's stupid, annoying shakiness or the doubts in his mind. He inhaled deeply again, focussed on the pain that flared up in his ribcage this time and forced himself to keep it together. Because everything was fine and he was being absolutely ridiculous.

His hands were still shaking when he got to his feet, refused to obey logic, so he clenched them into fists and shoved them into his coat pockets. His throat had narrowed, irrationally, and the silence around him suddenly made it hard to breathe. The absence of sound, the absence of others, of John, threatened to crush him, uproot him because for a moment, only the empty living room around him, nothing but furniture and wood and dust, wasn't enough to keep him grounded, to convince him that everything was real and not a figment of his brain.

Then his eyes fell on his mobile phone, discarded on the sofa; he snatched it, pocketed it, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and finally straightened and made his way downstairs.

~(o)~

He was back in front of the clinic where John worked not even one hour later.

He had left 221B, empty, completely empty, with not even Mrs Hudson there, after he had woken, had hailed a cab and had, as if out of reflex, choked out John's address before he had remembered that John would be at work and not at home.

And now here he was, standing in the carpark again while John's words, telling him that it was good that he was back, were running through his head in a loop. Plans, a different version of John's voice kept saying, he had plans, other plans, was in a hurry and certainly didn't have time for Sherlock and his antics right now, but Sherlock ignored it, concentrated on John from yesterday instead, on John who hadn't punched him, but had welcomed him back, seemed happy, and happy to see him. And although John was at work now, couldn't leave, probably, wasn't supposed to, because John had a normal job, Sherlock didn't need much time, just a few minutes , to say hello, to get out everything he had forgotten to say yesterday, to ask after Mary and their health and their lives, and...

Sherlock swallowed, hands still clenched to fists inside of his coat pockets. It was stupid; he was being stupid, he told himself, because he had come and disturbed John at work so many times before, and John had always rolled his eyes and maybe laughed at Sherlock's excitement over one case or another, but then had always accompanied Sherlock anyway. Apart from the time after Mary, after Magnussen's office, a traitorous part of Sherlock's brain kept whispering, but then, John hadn't shown much interest in anything back then. Not now, though, because now John had looked happy and hadn't thrown punches in Sherlock's direction, had told him that it was good to have him back.

Before his brain could come up with more ridiculous doubts and before his heart could double its already frantic pace, Sherlock forced his legs to move, to step towards the entrance to the clinic.

The receptionist – blonde, but dyed, obviously, and that not even very well, darker roots showing, in a relationship, judging by her expensive necklace and the matching earrings, but not married – looked up and put on a clearly practised smile. "Hello," she said. "What can I do for you?"

It was a simple question, and yet Sherlock found himself faltering. "Doctor Watson," he croaked, had to swallow and did his best to control his breathing. "Is he... in?"

The receptionist – Lucy, her name tag read – returned her gaze to the screen of her computer. "Do you have an appointment?" she wanted to know.

Appointment. Of course. Appointment. Mycroft – respectively his ever faithful PA in his place – had insisted that Sherlock get checked out before leaving Serbia and heading back to London, to make sure that his ribs were only badly bruised and not broken, that his knee was only sprained and bruised, without any torn ligaments, that nothing was infected, that his collision with a rock in a raging river had led to a concussion at most and not a fracture or a haemorrhage. The doctor there – English, too, one of Mycroft's staff – had kept frowning and groping and putting pressure on bruises and cuts, and it had taken Sherlock every inch of self-control he still possessed to keep from flinching or throwing up at every touch. For a second, only a second, he had allowed himself to indulge in the image of John doing all the probing and checking, but had then managed to get a grip on himself. Because if John had been the one to examine him, that would have meant that John was in Serbia, wasn't safe, and that wasn't ever supposed to happen. Not on his watch. Not again.

When the receptionist repeated her question, Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts. Right. Appointment. "No," he managed to reply, "I'm not here for... I'm fine. I just need to talk to him. Just a few minutes."

A frown had settled on her forehead. "I'm afraid he's busy, and if you don't have an appointment... You could wait and I could try to squeeze you in..."

Sherlock swallowed dryly. It was difficult with how tight his throat suddenly felt. "Yes, that... that's...," he stammered. Pathetic, a voice inside his head told him, pathetic, while he tried, desperately, to wrestle back control over his body, his rebellious transport. He needed to pull himself together. "That would be good."

The receptionist – Lucy – narrowed her eyes at him. "If you'd take a seat in the waiting room," she told him and pointed towards a half open door.

The room had started spinning around Sherlock, a whirl of colours and light, and something was pressing down on his chest. "Yes," he choked out. Waiting room, good, that was good. Waiting room.

He didn't wait if the receptionist had anything else to say, made his way over to the door leading to the waiting room instead. His left knee was throbbing with each step, and his chest was so tight that it hurt to breathe, and it didn't disappear, no matter how often he told himself that this was stupid, ridiculous, that there wasn't any reason why something should still be wrong with him, should be wrong with him now that he was back home, after his exile was over, after John had looked so happy yesterday.

His legs were shaking, barely able to hold up his weight, when he allowed himself sag into one of the empty chairs in the waiting room. He took a breath, as deep as possible, regardless of his sore and bruised ribs, and did his best to regain control over his transport. Because he was fine, back in London, with John, absolutely fine, and yet his body seemed to think otherwise. Stupid, Sherlock told himself, because it was over. Over.

By the time Lucy, the receptionist, came back in to address him, Sherlock had his jaw clenched tightly, but when she informed that Doctor Watson would see him now, he got to his feet without stumbling, and managed to almost stop his knees from shaking, although his heart was still hammering and his head kept pounding heavilly.

The receptionist showed him to a closed office door, then knocked once and even opened the door for him. Sherlock stepped in, slowly, and felt the air rush out of his lungs in one great exhale. Which was stupid, again, because it was only John, sitting behind a desk, focussed on the screen of a computer, only John, John he had seen not even twenty-four hours ago, and it was ridiculous to feel so relieved, so light-headed for a moment, like he was able to breathe again, just because he was standing in front of John's office. It was only John, but at the same time it wasn't, could never be, because nothing about John was simple, or mundane, or deserved the attribute of 'only'.

John looked up, a frown forming on his face, followed by a quick half-grin. "I thought it was you," he said.

Only then did Sherlock manage to suck in a sharp gasp of air, and the lightheadedness, dizziness receeded again. "John," he croaked.

John's eyes returned to his computer for a moment, before he pushed his chair back a little and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't have much time," he said. "So, what is it?"

Sherlock could only blink at him.

"The case," John elaborated after a few seconds. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Case, Sherlock's brain echoed while the word alone, the memories it held of his time away, his exile, was enough to let nausea rise in the pit of his stomach. Case, why would John think of a case now, why a case? Was there something he needed to solve, something he was supposed to work on; was he supposed to have a case? "Case?" he finally managed to ask hoarsely.

John's eyebrows rose and he uncrossed his arms. "You don't have a case," he concluded, pursing his lips. It took a few moments – moments Sherlock used to study John, the lines on his face that had deepened in contrast to yesterday, the bags under his eyes that hadn't been that noticeable yesterday, the way he held his head stiffly, a telltale sign of a night on the sofa, too short even for John and uncomfortable – until John sighed, leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Sherlock," he said, and Sherlock's attention snapped to whatever John was about to say while his heart kept racing, stupidly. "I know you're bored," John said, "but…"

Bored. Sherlock almost wanted to protest, wanted to tell him that no, he wasn't bored, that he had only wanted to see John and talk to him, but before he could, before he had the chance to, John already went on: "But I'm at work. We've talked about this, remember? You can't just... barge in here and expect me to get up and leave and entertain you."

Busy, the receptionist's words flashed through Sherlock's brain all of a sudden, she had told him that John was busy. And yet Sherlock hadn't listened, hadn't cared, hadn't paid attention that John was at work, had a job to do, and had insisted on seeing him nonetheless. He swallowed dryly and didn't, for a moment, know where to look. Because John had confirmed it, had told Sherlock that he didn't have much time because John was at work, was busy, and absolutely didn't need Sherlock to barge in for no reason at all, and now Sherlock was standing here, his heart hammering and his throat narrowing, and couldn't even offer an appropriate explanation for why exactly he was here.

He needed to pull himself together, now. "John," he said, then had to clear his throat.

John gave him a quick glance, and the lump in Sherlock's stomach loosened ever so slightly when the corners of John's mouth pulled up in a weak grin. "Jesus, you really haven't changed," John muttered, then heaved another sigh. "I'll call you, alright? Just... not right now."

Sherlock managed a nod and kept staring at John for a few more seconds, while John had already turned back to his computer screen. "Today?" he finally asked and ignored the part of his mind that told him that he should leave already, that John didn't have time now, that John was busy and that he shouldn't bother John.

John's gaze flickered back to him. "Hm?" he made and picked up the receiver of his phone.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied and took a step backwards. "Just..."

"Yes, Lucy," John was saying now, "you can send in Mr Hastings." John ended the call and frowned at his computer. "You were saying?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock swallowed, tightening his fists inside of his coat pockets. "You'll call me?"

John nodded once. "Yes, I'll call you," he muttered and looked up when a knock sounded on the closed door. "Sorry," he added and gave Sherlock another smile. "But you've got to go now."

Sherlock had to blink to keep his vision from blurring too badly. Of course, John had work to do, was busy. Of course. "Of course," he croaked and almost stumbled into Lucy, the receptionist, and an elderly man. Patient, John's patient. "Sorry," he managed to mutter, made another step backwards, and then the door closed in front of him, leaving John with his work and his patient, and Sherlock wanted to curse himself.

~(o)~

He didn't, once he had left John's clinic, know where to go. Something in him told him to turn around, walk back into John's office and just stay there, where he could see John, hear his voice and just be in John's presence, but that was stupid, of course. Because John was busy, didn't have time for Sherlock, didn't need Sherlock to bother him, and there really wasn't any solid reason for Sherlock to be with John right now. No case, no reason, nothing, just the irrational need to not be alone, to be close to John, his best friend, because somehow, his brain didn't quite manage to grasp the concept that he was back home, that he was not drifting in an icy current, lungs filled with water, or lying on the rocky shore of the same river, as he, by all rights, ought to be.

Sherlock took a quick breath, ignored the pain in his chest, and straightened his shoulders. He was fine, absolutely fine; his exile was in the past, done and over, and he was fine. Absolutely fine. He just needed something to distract him, to help him forget, leave everything behind. Needed John, a part of his mind insisted, and his heart clenched. John, his best friend.

But no. Of course not. John was at work, Sherlock forced himself to recakll silently, was therefore busy, and should not have to deal with Sherlock's unnecessary antics anyway. 221B, his flat, he should simply go back to his own flat, he told himself, one time, a second time, but his body did not move.

Friends, John's voice whispered in his head all of a sudden, friends protect people. Three gunmen. Three bullets. Three bullets.

Sherlock sucked in another sharp breath and, clenching his teeth, concentrated on the pain in his ribcage. Friends protect people, John's voice whispered again. Because he had friends, didn't he? Friends. John was busy right, had work to do, but Sherlock had other friends, too, maybe. Friends protect people.

With a final glance towards the clinic where John worked, towards where John was, Sherlock stepped away from the wall he had been leaning against, managed to flag down a passing cab and told the cabbie to take him to New Scotland Yard.

~(o)~

Detective Inspector Lestrade, it read on the name plate next to the door Sherlock was standing in front of and staring at. Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Lestrade who, in contrast to John, had not been present at Magnussen's house that day when Sherlock had almost managed to cost John everything, his life, his family, everything. Lestrade who did not know about Mary, or Magnussen, about the murder Sherlock had committed, who only knew of work, somewhere in Eastern Europe, and not of Sherlock being exiled.

Detective Inspector Lestrade.

With a shaky inhale, Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped into the office he had been to so many times before. Lestrade, Detective Inspector Lestrade, his friend, maybe, possibly, was sitting there, behind his desk, his hair longer than it used to be, had put on some weight, was looking up, his eyes widening a fraction, widening…

Observations jumped at Sherlock all of sudden, so many observations, useless ones, so different from what he had needed during his exile. It's a drugs bust, a younger version of Lestrade informed Sherlock while Sherlock's brain was doing its best to grasp the situation and found itself whirring and whizzing, uselessly.

"Ah," Lestrade said, and a grin spread on his face. Grin, way of expressing positve emotion, to… "I was wondering how long you'd take to show up here."

Show up here… Memories of his own empty, cold living room, drenched in silence, attacked Sherlock, stupidly, so he shoved them away, focussed on Lestrade, Lestrade's office, the cup of coffee on the desk.

"Mary called Molly and told her you were back, and Molly told me," Lestrade added, his voice floating around Sherlock.

He needed to say something, needed to answer, needed to react. Sherlock swallowed, willed his voice to work. "I…," he croaked, then cut himself off. First name, Lestrade had a first name, and he got it wrong, all the time, but not this time. Needed to remember. Needed to get it right this time. Gavin, George, Geoffrey, Gene, Grant…

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked and dropped the pen he had been playing with. "You know, I didn't think you'd hug me, or anything, but that you'd simply ignore me…"

No, no, no, wrong. Wrong, absolutely wrong.

"Gary," Sherlock managed and even succeeded in keeping a traitorous tremor out of his voice.

Lestrade's smile flickered, the tiniest bit. "Greg," he corrected. "Well, couldn't expect you to get that right, I guess."

Greg, of course, Greg, not Gary. Greg. "Greg," Sherlock repeated and clenched his trembling right hand around his mobile phone, hidden in his coat pocket. He was being ridiculous. Ridiculous to be stammering around in Lestrade's office, particularly when he was back and therefore supposed to be fine, just fine.

"Christ," Lestrade said and ran a hand through his hair. "I really didn't think you'd be back so soon. Got boring, Eastern Europe, eh? I bet you've missed the real cases."

Boring. Images of the barrel of a gun against his head flashed up unbidden, combined with memories of cold water, lashing around him, pulling him under the surface.

No. No, no, no. Not this, not now.

"I…," he began again, but Lestrade interrupted him, getting up from his chair. "Well, I've got one," he announced, the grin still on his face, and grabbed his coat. "Officially, it's a suicide, the second one in the same family, but there's something fishy about it. I'll email you the details later, okay?"

Sherlock blinked. "One what?" he asked.

Lestrade froze, the coat he had been about to put on suspended in mid-air. "Well," he said. "A case. That's why you're here, isn't it? I mean, you wouldn't've bothered to come just to see me."

A case. John had assumed he had a case, and so did Lestrade now. Why was he supposed to have a case, to want a case? Sherlock swallowed and stared at the wall behind Lestrade's head instead of Lestrade. "I… I did, actually," he managed. Social calls, visiting each other, that was what friends did, wasn't it? Wasn't that what he was supposed to do, too? As a friend?

Lestrade chuckled and finally finished putting on his coat. "Good one, there," he said, and Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Thing is, though," Lestrade went on, "I've still only got one case I can let you in on, no matter how charming you're trying to be."

He picked up a package from his desk and stuffed it into his pocket. "Nicotine patches," he said, following Sherlock's gaze. "Trying to quit."

"Ah," Sherlock managed and followed Lestrade to the door of his office, stiffly, since his legs felt strangely numb.

"So," Lestrade spoke up again, running a hand through his hair, "I'll email you the files, just take a look at them. And don't complain that it's boring – it's that one, or no case at all."

"I didn't…," Sherlock began, frowning. He hadn't come for a case. Didn't even know even know whether he wanted one. Did not believe that he wanted to think about dead bodies, crimes, murder, violence, he wanted to… he didn't know. Stupid, he scolded himself for this repeated onset of sentimentality, and yet didn't quite manage to suppress the useless twinges his heart gave now and then. He blinked again, his eyes burning. Pathetic, a voice in his head told him, so pathetic. What a sorry sight, the great Consulting Detective so desperate for a bit of attention from his friends that he disturbed them both at work and then didn't even want to do what he was supposed to do. Pathetic.

"Still," Lestrade said and grinned again, "it's good to have you back."

The voice shut up, for a moment, and Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest again while his throat narrowed.

Lestrade's brown eyes scanned him quickly before he let the door to his office fall shut. "Maybe you should get a good night's sleep first before you start investigating," he muttered, a crooked smile on his face. "You look a bit worse for wear. A client got angry, eh?" he asked, gesturing towards the bruise.

Instictively, Sherlock pressed both of his arms closer to his torso, as if to hide the bruises that were covered by his clothes. The river was gushing again, the rock making contact with his face, drowning everything in blackness for a few heartbeats. "Yes," he croaked.

Putting his collar up, Lestrade nodded. "Right," he said, "gotta go. Appointment with the new Chief Superintendent. See you, then."

It would have been appropriate to reply something, to thank Lestrade – Greg, Greg, not Lestrade – for the case or wish him good luck, anything at all, Sherlock knew, but he couldn't force a single word past his lips, and by the time he had managed to clear his throat and ease the tightness in his windpipe a little, Lestrade was long gone.

He had been polite, or had tried to, hadn't he, Sherlock's brain reiterated while he remained standing in front of Lestrade's office and tried to do his best to ignore the way his heart kept clenching in his chest. He had been polite, and Lestrade... Lestrade... Sherlock cramped the fingers of his right hand around his mobile, hidden in his coat pocket. Lestrade had offered him a case. Which was good, of course, because cases meant normality, normal life, a proper case for Scotland Yard. Together with John, possibly, just like always. Just like... before everything.

Loud laughter from one of the desks a few feet away pulled him back to reality, to where he was standing in front of Lestrade's office. Sherlock flinched, despite himself, shot a hasty look at the group of people gathered there – Detective Sergeants, if at all, obviously, and most of them used to spending all their time inside of an office without ever seeing a criminal or any kind of action – then inhaled against the knot that had formed in his stomach and mentally scolded himself for his ridiculous jumpiness.

Because he was fine, absolutely fine. He had a case, Lestrade had not punched him either – still, his voice echoed in Sherlock's head, it's good to have you back – had given him a case. Expected him to solve the case because that was what he did. Because that was what he was good at.

Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock straightened as much as his sore ribs allowed and left New Scotland Yard. He had work to do.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought.