There is literally no excuse for how late this chapter is. I've received a few really motivating reviews lately (one of them from HikariNovva - thank you!), and they have sort of spurred me into trying to write again. I'll do my best... I've got basically thirty-something chapters of this story saved on my harddrive, but the more time passes, the less I like what I've written, and the more I want to twinge and tweak the story, and the less I get anything published. I also did something minor tweaking in earlier chapters, but nothing really important.

Those of you who are still reading: Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

John IV

John's day at work, after Sherlock's boredom-inspired visit, had been filled with sneezing and coughing cold patients, two cases of diarrhoea, four children with various childhood illnesses, three calls and four texts from Mary who reminded him twice that they still needed to talk about the house and even one call from Gemma who blabbered about Daniel's birthday and other unimportant things. The greatest excitement he had had all day, along with the disagreement with Mary the previous evening, had been a chubby toddler with bleeding lacerations on both elbows, so he wasn't surprised when he arrived at the pub before Greg. Greg's favourite pub, actually, and it was Greg who talked John into rather frequent pub evenings. Not that he minded, though. Greg tended to be far more interesting company than Gemma and Mark.

Greg showed up twenty minutes later, out of breath and with a sour expression on his face, and ordered a beer before he plopped down on the barstool next to John and all but slumped over the bar with a heavy sigh.

John pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows at this display of frustration. "So," he remarked eventually, "good day at work?"

A muffled groan came from Greg. "Don't remind me," he muttered lowly, but at least pushed himself upright again. "Appointment with the new Chief Superintendent," he explained while John took another sip from his already half-empty beer. "A bloody teenager in a suit and a tie who thinks he knows it all. Lectured us about 'proper conduct' today." He blew out another breath, and John had to bite back a smile. "I've been doing this job for years, and now a bloody paper-shuffler comes along to tell me how to do it properly. Bloody bureaucrats."

Greg's beer arrived. He took a large gulp, closed his eyes for a moment and then inhaled. "But," he added while a wide grin was spreading on his face, "I'm going out with Molly later."

This time, John had to smile. "That's... what, the fourth time in two weeks that you're acutally going out?"

Even in the dim light of the pub, the glee on Greg's face was unmistakable. John couldn't help a smirk – ever since Greg had finally had the courage to stop ogling Molly Hooper and actually ask her on a date, it had been painfully obvious that Greg had, without a doubt, completely and utterly fallen for her, and the same went, at least according to Mary, for Molly. Mary, John remembered while his grin deepened, loved to speculate about how soon they were going to move in together, when Greg was going to ask Molly to marry him, and, if Mary was in a particularly cheery mood, when the first baby was to be expected.

"Yep," Greg confirmed now and took another large sip. "Dinner in her favourite restaurant, and then we're going back to mine." Another enormous grin spread on his face before he took another swallow. "We've both got tomorrow off, so..."

John had to chuckle into his glass. Head over heels, definitely.

Greg looked up; his grin turned almost sheepish for a moment as he shrugged. "I mean, sometimes I wonder why she puts up with me of all people, but..." He shrugged again, picked at the label of his bottle and then turned back to John with a lopsided grin. "I'm not complaining."

John chuckled again. No, he hadn't thought so. Not when he remembered how long it had taken Greg to finally ask Molly out, and how elated he had been when she had said yes and, only two days later, when the date had gone well – more than well, actually – and they had ended up as a couple only two weeks later.

"You and Mary," Greg changed the topic after a few minutes, "any new plans on moving yet?"

John leaned back in his stool and pursed his lips. Mary's plans, yes. Plans they still had to talk about properly, and plans she had been nagging him about for what felt like ages. "Not really," he admitted. "Mary's in contact with some real estate agent who's got an offer for us, but we haven't talked about it yet."

Greg nodded thoughtfully and stared at his bottle. "If you need help – with moving, or Amanda, or anything – just let us know." Before John could reply something, Greg already went on: "How's my favourite goddaughter, anyway?"

Amanda was Greg's only goddaughter, but that didn't stop him calling her his favourite. Somehow, both Greg and Molly had taken to Amanda immediately, and Greg even had a hand for babies, it seemed. John smiled into his glass, took a sip and allowed his thoughts to stray to his tiny little daughter for a moment. "She's good," he answered eventually. "Mary swears that she keeps trying to crawl, but it doesn't work out quite right yet." He smiled again. "No, really, she's good. And she's only woken us twice in the last two nights." Which didn't mean, of course, that John had slept all that well – he did spend the last night on the sofa, after all. Recalling the stupid disagreement with Mary made him want to clench his jaw in an echo of anger, so he opted to take another swig of his beer instead. "And how's Molly?" he added a question of his own. It had been a while since he had last seen her, he had to admit. Mary and Molly met up for lunch now and then, but since John's work didn't lead him to Bart's any longer and his evenings were usually absorbed by Mary and Amanda or the occasional pub visit with Greg or Mark or one of Mark's colleagues, he only saw Molly when Mary invited her and Greg over for dinner or tea.

Greg raised his bottle to take a sip and shrugged. "Her colleague's still on holiday, so she ends up with most of the work," he explained, "but otherwise... everything's good."

Obviously, John couldn't help but think when he noticed another wide grin on Greg's face. Detective Inspector Lestrade, one of Scotland Yard's finest and rather recently divorced, in love like a school boy. It was almost ridiculous, in a way, John thought, but who was he to judge?

"So," Greg began after a few minutes of silence, completely out of the blue, and stopped playing around with his half-empty beer bottle, "what'd he say to you?"

John didn't know whether to smile or to frown, so he took a gulp from his glass. No need to ask who Greg was referring to this time, of course not. Sherlock Holmes, best friend, Consulting Detective, the reason for his latest argument with Mary, back in London. "Ah," he made instead of an answer. The fingers of his right hand had started tingling; he flexed them, once, twice. "He's been to see you, too, then."

Greg gave a half-nod, half-grin. "Yep," he replied. "Came looking for a case."

A case. Of course. John didn't know whether to laugh or sigh – Sherlock had been bored this afternoon, and when John hadn't been able to distract him – by playing Cluedo or doing God knew what – he had gone looking for a case.

"That undercover work of his was boring, eh?" Greg added.

This time, John could only shrug. Sherlock hadn't said all that much, he realised now that he thought about it, but then, he had been back for about twenty-four hours and had already shown up at the surgery today because he was bored. "Seems like it," he answered, and did his best not think about what exactly it was that had forced Sherlock to agree to some kind of undercover work somewhere on the continent.

Greg remained silent for a few moments, checking his mobile. Waiting for a text from Molly, probably, or texting her himself. Obviously, a familiar voice echoed in John's head, and he frowned. "What was it he was doing, anyway?" Greg wanted to know and put his phone on the bar in front of him. "Never told me much."

The question brought back memories from last Christmas, Magnussen, Mary and a bloody goodbye on some airfield in the middle of nowhere, memories that came with the urge to tighten his left hand into a fist and maybe punch something, but John forced himself to push them away. "He worked some cases for his brother," he said, curtly, and left out on purpose that Sherlock's exile had been a sentence for murder. Greg was a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, after all, and even if he weren't, Mycroft had recommended, very strongly, and very convincingly, that John keep quiet about what Sherlock had done and about his subsequent punishment.

Greg let out a snort. "Mycroft, eh? Meddling bastard. No wonder Sherlock came looking for a case as soon as he was back. Bet he spent the last few months buried in files."

That would, as John had to concede, have been punishment for Sherlock indeed – actual, boring casework, without the eccentricity of his usual cases and the adrenaline high of chasing suspects that Sherlock craved so much.

"So," Greg wanted to know once he had downed the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "how long's he been back?"

John could only shrug. "A few days, I think."

Greg nodded once. "And... he's gonna stay?"

That was, John concluded, a very good question. He wanted to say yes, because Sherlock was his best friend, and it was good, it was bloody amazing to have him back, but who knew about Sherlock Holmes? He hadn't left willingly, not really, John had to remind himself, had been exiled, but there was a little nagging voice in his head that kept reminding him, just like Mary had the night before, that Sherlock had disappeared once before, without explanation, letting everyone believe that he was dead, had committed suicide, only to show up again two years later, with no explanation and a painted-on mustache. "Yes," John said nonetheless and did his best to push these thoughts to the back of his mind, "I think so."

Abruptly, Greg let out a chuckle. "Bloody bastard," he muttered and shook his head. "I never know whether to hug or to punch him."

John could feel his lips pull into a quick, taught smile. Yes. He understood the impulse. "Did you?" he wanted to know. "Punch him?" He still remembered, vividly, the three times he had taken a swing at Sherlock after his sudden reappearance two years ago. Not this time, though.

Greg shook his head. "Nah," he said. "He looked pretty terrible anyway."

John stifled a sigh and emptied his glass. Yes, he did. But then, if there were cases, Sherlock didn't sleep, didn't eat, and had a tendency to aggravate people he worked with, which explained the bruise on his cheek. "You know Sherlock," he told Greg. "I'm surprised he's even able to survive without Mrs Hudson to make him tea."

Greg chuckled, and John managed a smile. "Everything's just transport, right?" Greg asked, leaning back in his bar stool and smirking lopsidedly. "It's just not the same without him," he muttered, then grabbed his empty bottle and raised it. "To Sherlock, back in London."

John echoed his movement. The game was on again. Which meant, of course, that John would soon be fending off late night calls from his best friend because whatever he had found out about this case or that could not possibly wait until the next morning, and more bored visits like the one today, and which meant that John was probably expected to take off chasing criminals with Sherlock every second day of the week. Despite himself, he had to grin weakly. Just like it used to be, boffin Sherlock Holmes and bachelor John Watson. Well. Not quite, though, because now, he had a family, a tiny little daughter, and he couldn't simply spend all of his free time running around in London.

But still. Good to have his best friend back, indeed.

~(o)~

It was two hours later when John pulled up in front of his and Mary's flat and, with a yawn, got out of the car. He had headed home as soon as Greg had left for his date with Molly, and now he only wanted a shower to get rid of the stale smell of Greg's favourite pub, read today's paper as long as it was still today, peek in on Amanda and then fall into his bed – bed this time, not the sofa. He was already fumbling with his keys when he noticed the dark shape on the front stairs, a shape looking vaguely human, perched on the steps, apparently wearing a coat, and...

"John," Sherlock's quiet voice addressed him out of the dark, and despite himself, John almost jumped.

"Jesus," he exclaimed and took a deep breath. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" A question which was, as John realised as soon as he had uttered it, completely redundant. It really didn't take a genius to figure it out – Sherlock had been bored, had then gone looking for a case, had indeed got a case from Lestrade, and now he was here, sitting in front of the door to John's flat, for one simple reason.

John closed his eyes briefly and pursed his lips. Of course. What else could it be? Because that was what Sherlock did. Show up in the middle of the night to chase some suspect and expect John to follow. And John had followed him. Before.

Sherlock had got to his feet by now, the light from the street lamp in front of their neighbour's flat illuminating him sparsely. John took a good look at his best friend and allowed himself a sigh. "Greg's case, isn't it?" he wanted to know and finally found the right key.

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. "Case," he finally repeated, in a voice that didn't reflect his usual exultation about a gruesome murder or a nice, cleverly executed theft. "The case..." He cleared his throat while John unlocked the door. "Yes, of course, the case."

Greg's case, naturally. John sighed again, then pushed the door open. "Well, come on then," he said. Because Sherlock was back, and because Greg was right – he did look terrible – and because there probably wasn't a way out of that anyway. Because there was a case, and Sherlock didn't really do "no's" when there was a case.

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, oddly enough, before he finally followed John inside. Well then, John mentally steeled himself as he closed the door, so much for his plans for the remainder of the evening.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it.