Hello again. Unfortunately, I am seemingly incapable of regular updates. Apologies for this, but most of all, thank you all (hopefully, some of you are still interested?).

I know, I know, poor Sherlock. I hope I've mentioned it before - there'll be angst to come.

Enjoy (nonetheless).

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock III

He returned to 221B after his visit to New Scotland Yard and Lestrade's office. Mrs Hudson's flat was still silent as Sherlock stood in front of her door and just listened and breathed, and although the fresh odour of expensive perfume indicated that she had been here at some point while he had been out, everything was empty again, empty and void.

His very bones seemed to weigh him down by the time he had made it up the stairs, to his living room, and his tiredness, his exhaustion had settled heavily on his mind and body equally. Sherlock sank into his armchair, opposite of John's, and even allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment when the familiar smooth surface enfolded him. His head had started pounding viciously during the cab ride back to Baker Street, and the utter silence around him wasn't helping, inviting darkness and echoes of his time in Eastern Europe to flood his mind.

No, Sherlock thought and jerked his eyes back open. No. Not now. Not ever.

The fingers of both his hands, he noticed with something akin to surprise, had dug deeply into the armrests of his chair while his heart was racing in his chest and his lungs heaving with fast, shallow breaths that jarred his sore ribs.

Forcing his breathing back under control, he shook his head, once, twice, to clear away the memories that wanted to rise up all of a sudden, encouraged by the lack of sound, of movement around him as well as his weariness, lowering his guard and weakening his self-control. "No," he repeated, out loud this time.

No, because he was being ridiculous, and he had work to do.

Consciously forcing himself to relax his fingers, Sherlock pulled his mobile phone out of his coat pocket. Files, Lestrade would email the case files to him, and he was supposed to take a look at them, find some clues, solve the case. Solve the case. Solve the case, he could do that, Sherlock repeated to himself as he logged into his mail account, feeling his heart clench unexpectedly when he entered his old password, saved somewhere in the back of his brain, and it still worked.

Fifty-seven new emails, the programme told him, but nothing from Lestrade, no case files, he realised as soon as he started skimming through the mails.

Appointment with the new chief superintendent, Sherlock recalled Lestrade's words. Of course, Lestrade would be busy, hadn't found the time to send the files yet. Of course.

His fingers tightened their grip on his mobile reflexively when he felt his throat constrict and his heart speed up ever so slightly. No files meant no distraction, no distraction meant nothing to concentrate on, to focus his restless mind on, and nothing to focus on meant memories of Eastern Europe, meant a return into the abyss that he had left behind and that nonetheless was preserved in his brain, resurfacing as dark images of blood and violence and a gun against his head and finally a dark, cold, racing river whose waters pulled at him, tore at him, threatened to swallow him and drown him and never let him go.

No. Not now. No. Sherlock shook his head and blinked once, twice to clear away the images that were flooding him, and then forced his eyes to focus on his phone. John, maybe John had texted him, or had called him, or he could text John.

He was busy, John had said, didn't have time, was at work and couldn't just leave, but a text wouldn't disturb him, wouldn't keep him from more important things. Text, a text was fine, Sherlock told himself. No calling; he couldn't bother John, not when he was at work, but a text would be fine. Fine.

His hands were, to his annoyance, trembling when he started typing something about Lestrade's case because John expected him to have a case, because the case would surely interest John, and for a moment Sherlock allowed the question of how long it had been since he had last texted someone to rise in him. A text to John, probably, one exile ago. A lifetime ago.

Sherlock had to close his eyes against the sudden onslaught of pain and memories and weariness, and hot, biting nausea climbed up in his throat. He could still see the face of the man that had been shot while Sherlock had been talking to him one misty night in some back alley in some town somewhere in Croatia, could still see the surprise conserved on his features even in death, could still feel the spray of warm blood on his own skin and his momentary panic, his need to get away, away, away, because if they got him, too, there was worse, so much worse, in store for him than a bullet clean through the throat. They hadn't got him then, and he had lived to see another day, another day to work on uncovering the depths of a network of human trafficking and prostitution and remnants of Moriarty's web, another day closer to the end of his exile. Closer to his death. The memory of the heavy weight of the knife in his hand when two of the thugs had finally confronted him was still fresh in his mind, as well as the sound of steel hitting flesh and flesh hitting flesh, and the blood, and the pain. It should have ended in Serbia, he realised in a split-second of absolute clarity, because he should never have brought all this bloody baggage home to John. Had no right to, in fact. It should have ended in Serbia.

And then the moment was over, and he was back in his living room, in 221B Baker Street, London, clinging to his mobile and familiar leather and forcing his eyes to focus on John's armchair opposite of his because it hadn't ended, because he had managed to hang on, to not give up, because he had made it back, to John, to his friends, because he wasn't on his own any longer. He was back, and finally, finally, he might be able to find some rest, some peace, distraction. To leave it all behind, forget it all.

Sherlock swallowed drily, took a deep breath and turned back to his phone to check his inbox again.

~(o)~

Not even two hours later, Sherlock found himself inside of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, his body growing heavier with pain and exhaustion with each step he took. Pills, he should have swallowed another one of those pills that numbed the worst stabs and throbs his aching muscles and joints and bones sent through his transport, but the silence in his flat, his living room had made it almost impossible to think clearly. He had wanted to call John, text John again, had been itching to call John and reassure himself that everything was still fine, that it was still real, that he was still back and not in a dark cell in Eastern Europe any longer where his mind would be able to fool him into believing that he had managed to escape, but he couldn't. No matter how muched he longed to simply hear John's voice, to convince himself that this was real, not a figment of his feverish imagination, he knew he shouldn't, not when John was at work. Busy, John had said, appointment, Lestrade's words; Mrs Hudson's flat still empty, so Sherlock had gone to the one other place he could think of, to the one person who had always mattered, had always counted and who knew him, had always known him.

The morgue of Bart's was exactly as Sherlock remembered it when he entered, his hands, shaking again, tightened into fists inside of his coat pockets. Molly, Molly Hooper, still had exactly the same working place, and his weary, stiff legs carried him towards her own little lab, almost mechanically.

His eyes closed against his intention when he found her there, without her lab coat, singing quietly to herself, and for a moment he simply allowed himself to suck in the peacefulness of Molly Hooper, singing in her lab, next to a morgue.

A morgue.

By all rights, he should be one of the corpses on her slabs, Sherlock thought not for the first time; by all rights he should be dead, a cold corpse in a torrent, a decaying body on a riverbank, a bullet embedded in his skull. He had not expected to make it out, to survive his exile, and there it was again, the stupid but oh so persistent doubt whether he actually had, or whether he was dreaming, in a feverish daze, phantasising while his body was failing and his life was ending. Stupid, he wanted to tell himself, to force himself to become aware of how stupid, how ridiculous he was being, but not even that worked any longer.

And then Molly Hooper, who had mattered, always, turned around, dropped the test tube she had been holding in her right hand, and Sherlock froze.

"Sherlock!" she yelped. "God, you startled me!"

Sherlock took a breath. Pill, he thought when his ribs protested again, he should have taken another pill. "I'm sorry," he muttered. Sorry, that was appropriate, wasn't it? Appropriate. "Molly," he croaked then and studied her carefully, slowly. Molly Hooper, who had saved his life, more than once. You need to fall on your back, she repeated, her voice hazy and far away, but still recognisable. "How...," he began, had to clear his throat. Held his breath. Stupid, so stupid. "How are you?"

A smile appeared on her face – smile, good, good – and she gave a faint shrug. "I'm well," she answered, directing a glance at her watch. "And late," she added and gave another smile, flustered this time. "I need to finish this before I leave. I have a date later this evening, you know."

"Oh," Sherlock made. He swallowed, averted his gaze, suddenly didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry, then," he repeated.

Molly, about to stoop down and sweep up the broken pieces of the test tube, stopped in her movement and glanced up at him. "What about you," she asked quietly. "You look a bit... That must have hurt," she ended lamely, nodding towards his cheek.

Water splashed around him again for a moment, pulled at him, pulled him beneath the surface, but this time, his mind seemed to run out of energy to replicate what had happened only three, four days ago and suddenly came up with the urge to sit down, to close his eyes and sleep, with John there, John in his armchair, reading the paper and sipping tea, John.

"I'm fine," he said instead, force something akin to a smile on his face and swallowed.

"Good," Molly replied and got to her feet again, the shards a neat heap on the floor. "That's good."

There was a weight on his chest, pressing down, resting there heavily, while Sherlock could think of nothing else but his utter exhaustion for a moment as the world blurred around him. Molly's lab, fogging, obscuring. But real, real.

"Is there anything you need?" Molly asked then, and Sherlock's resolve to forget everything, not mention it, not to think of anything because he shouldn't, shouldn't bother his friends with his mistakes, his failure, almost crumbled. "I could give you toes," she added," or a tongue. Day after tomorrow, I've got tomorrow off."

Toes, or a tongue. Case files. Plans. Sherlock swallowed again and dug his fingernails into his palms. "No," he muttered. John, he needed John. He'd be fine with John.

"Okay," Molly said and gave him another smile. "Sorry, Sherlock, but I've got to finish this. Date later, you know. Just... call me if you need anything else, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock repeated, Molly giving him another smile, turning back to her microscope and another test tube. He stayed where he was for a few more seconds, blinked with burning eyes and tried to summon the energy to move, to return to his empty flat.

He inhaled, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then forced himself to straighten. Files, Lestrade could have sent the files to him by now, and he could focus on that, on the case, work, do something useful while he waited for John to call or text or visit.

~(o)~

The door to Mrs Hudson's flat was closed when he returned to 221B, with heavy, dragging steps; everything was eerily silent and yet Sherlock hesitated before turning towards the stairs. Hesitated, because it had been so long since he had seen Mrs Hudson, because England would fall if Mrs Hudson ever left Baker Street, and because of three gunmen, three bullets. Because he wanted to see her, wanted to convince himself, even after John, and Lestrade, and Molly, and John, that she was really here, that she was real, but couldn't, not if she wasn't home.

Ridiculous, he told himself, he was being ridiculous again, and completely irrational. Taking a shallow breath, he stepped forwards, to Mrs Hudson's door, pushed the handle, opened the door, not locked, not locked, entered Mrs Hudson's small corridor, but not without wiping his feet – still in the shoes Mycroft had provided for him only two days and yet worlds ago – on the doormat. The smell of perfume, more intense than it had been in his own living room, wavered through the air – different from the one he was used to, but probably expensive, judging by the rich flavour and the intensity of the smell, which meant that Mrs Hudson had plans, too, was going out, had gone out, was meeting someone, and not Mrs Turner from next door.

Sherlock swallowed, concentrated on the hallway in front of him and not on the countless deductions his brain was spiralling into, deductions that were nonetheless better than the images, memories his mind was leaking almost constantly now. "Hello?" he called out, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. "Mrs Hudson?"

He could almost picture her, appearing from somewhere, clad in the lilac dress he knew so well and a pink apron and wearing a new necklace, hands in her hips and an expression of familiar exasperation on her face. He could picture her, almost, but it didn't change the fact that her flat was empty, void of Mrs Hudson, cold and dark.

Sherlock didn't move for a few seconds, let the tiredness that had been hovering over him for hours, days, enfold him and didn't even try to fight the tremble that was taking hold of him once more. Heaviness had settled back on his chest, and with each shallow breath his ribs produced a sharp pain that lanced through this chest.

Mrs Hudson's flat brought back memories of mornings when she had brought him tea and talked about something, anything at all, her voice a steady sound in the background, a constant he hadn't really paid attention to, too focussed on one case or another, or the news, or his website, or an experiment. Stupid, so stupid.

He shook his head once, curtly, to chase away the memories, memories that made him slow and easy prey and that only caused his heart to clench and his throat to narrow. Stupid.

When he finally found the strength, the determination to turn around and mount the steps to his own flat, his gait was unsteady, his muscles sore and aching, and he had to reach for the wall with one hand to keep his balance. Tired, he was so tired. Tired, and cold, and he just wanted to forget, to not think for once.

His living room was as silent as it had been a day ago, when he had first come back, and it didn't feel like home, not now, not really. 221B had been home, always, but now... The armchair opposite of his was empty, and the smell of the cheap shaving cream John was so fond of was missing, Sherlock noticed all of a sudden. Instead, there was a tray on the small table next to John's armchair, a tray with a pot of tea and a plate with biscuits and a note, a note in Mrs Hudson's handwriting, telling him that the biscuits were his favourites, that she wouldn't have gone to the shops today otherwise, but since Mary had told her that he was back, she had gone anyway to get some.

Although the thought of food made his stomach churn and he had to breathe against the nausea rising in his throat once more, Sherlock felt his lips curl into a slow, tentative smile, despite himself. Tea and biscuits. Mrs Hudson's tea and biscuits, and a tiny note from her, telling him that she had not forgotten him, that she still cared, at least enough to try and feed him up a little, even though she wasn't even home.

Sherlock swallowed, tried to breathe, couldn't move for a few moments. Blinked his eyes open, pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket, checked his inbox and his texts. No unread emails, no text, no calls.

Busy, they were busy now, probably, plans, appointment, but they would call, and write, and everything would be fine. And Mrs Hudson would come home, and bring him more tea, and more biscuits, and he would go back to Bart's and pick up the tongue Molly had offered, or maybe the toes, and John would complain about the toes in the fridge next to the beer and the sausage and the left-over noodles from the day before yesterday that might as well be his new mould experiment and work cases with him nonetheless, and everything would be normal again, fine again.

Sherlock's breath hitched when memories of the shock of cold water closing above his head attacked him all of a sudden, and for the duration of a few eyeblinks he could feel the cuffs again, cuffs around his wrists, hard and solid and impossible to remove, the chafed skin on his wrists hidden beneath his coat, jacket and shirt. Just like the bruises mottling his skin and the cut behind his hairline and the countless faint scars covering his body, hidden beneath the protective layers of his clothing.

His eyes focused on the biscuits and the tea, and his stomach grumbled, despite the nausea that was still rolling around in his intestines. He couldn't remember the last time he had been hungry, really hungry, had allowed his transport to be distracted by the notion of something as unimportant as hunger, and even though he knew that he needed sustenance, that he was supposed to eat something because his last meal had been more than two days ago, and even then only because Mycroft had told him to, had all but made him ingest something that had, in fact, stayed down, he couldn't bring himself to pick up a biscuit.

Instead, he poured himself a cup of tea with shaking hands, took a sip, swallowed the lukewarm liquid, set the cup down again. Gazed around in his flat, his silent, empty flat. Got rid of his coat with unsteady movements, made his way over to the shelf near the window where his violin was resting in its case.

The instrument, smooth, polished wood, felt familiar beneath his fingertips, and maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, if he played long enough, it would manage to cover the silence, the memories, the dark images.

Sherlock took a slow, shallow breath, turned his gaze towards John's armchair and started playing.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it.