Apparently, I've done some writing. I think I finally need to get this story (and a few others...) off my chest. So, well. How long can it possibly take to finish this?

Your feedback, of course, helps immensely; you have no idea how much I look forward to hearing my mail alert... Thank you!

Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock IV

Sherlock did his best to even out his breathing as he sat on John's sofa. His heart was fluttering in his chest, and the sudden certainty that this was real, probably, that he was in John's flat, in John's living room, was overwhelming. John was encompassing him; memories of John, from happier times, were floating around him as he took in and breathed in John's flat, and the darkness that had been pressing down on his chest became lighter, nearly translucent.

He wasn't supposed to be here, he thought. It was blood and shadows and death he was going to bring to John's home, and John deserved better. But he had been drowning, drowning in the silence and emptiness of 221B, his flat that felt cold and unfamiliar; he had been drowning like he had been drowning in the river, and the only light had been John, a lighthouse of warmth and kindness and brilliance in a raging torrent of cold and blood and the mistakes he had made, and so he had turned to John.

John hadn't been at home when he'd arrived, and he had known then, as he knew now, that he should have left, should have gone back to 221B. But instead, he had waited, on the doorsteps, and John had appeared before Sherlock had been able to force himself to get up, call a cab, get back to 221B and stay there, stay there because he was not supposed to taint John's life any more than he already had. And then John had invited him in, and Sherlock had followed John, as he would always follow John.

Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes drifted closed. He swallowed, and breathed. Breathed John in. Because everything around him smelled of John, felt like John, John's living room, John's sofa, the noises – kettle, John's kettle – from the kitchen, John's, everything. He exhaled and pictured John's face from yesterday, John's face immediately before he had seen Sherlock, the obvious happiness in his face, the lines that had softened on his forehead, lines that Sherlock had helped create with his faked death and subsequent reappearance and his failure which had almost destroyed John's life, and that had deepened around his eyes and mouth, testifying to good months, happy months, without the constant danger Sherlock represented, without fear, without worry. The memory of John's face, yesterday, was another reminder that Sherlock was not supposed to be here, that Sherlock had no right, not any more, to impose himself on the life John had built.

"Here," John's voice reappeared, and Sherlock's eyes shot open. John placed a mug on the table in front of Sherlock, then settled down in an armchair opposite of him, a second mug in his own hands. He quirked a quick smile. "Tea. Thought we might as well get comfortable."

Sherlock's throat closed. The smell of John's tea was interwoven with memories of days long past, of exhausting, exhilarating cases, of quiet afternoons at 221B. He didn't remember how long it had been since he had last had a cup of tea; there had neither been time nor opportunity for tea in Croatia, and it would not have been John's tea.

John took a sip from his own mug. "So," he said, leaning back in his armchair and crossing his legs with a yawn. "How have you been?"

The question was the key to opening the abyss. For a moment, a moment only, Sherlock allowed himself to dwell on the possibility of telling John, of sharing the memories of the past seven months that he fought to keep hidden, to keep contained, without letting himself be overtaken by them. Then the moment passed, and he remembered why he could not, could never. He would not allow his darkness to taint John's life, and he could not bear the thought of John turning away from him in disgust. "It's been...," he began hoarsely, couldn't look at John. "You know."

John huffed a smile at that. "Boring?" he supplied, and Sherlock managed a nod. Boring. Boring would do.

"I wasn't sure you were going to be back," John said next, and Sherlock's blood froze in his veins. No, it couldn't be, it wasn't...

"I mean, you did shoot a man in the head in front of a dozen witnesses," John went on. "And I know you said six months, but... well, I wondered if your exile was going to be permanent."

Permanent. It was supposed to be, a voice taunted inside his head. It was supposed to end with you, dead. It was Moriarty's voice, but Sherlock ignored it. He swallowed, pressed his hands against his thighs to stop their sudden trembling, to conceal it. Stupid, so stupid. "You know me," he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears, breathless and brittle. "I always come back."

John gave a brief chuckle, and Sherlock relaxed fractionally. "Right," John said. "Good."

The room fell silent. Sherlock breathed, breathed John in to disperse the images that were spinning through his brain with dizzying speed and in blood-red technicolour; it was John who broke the silence. "So," he said again. "Tell me about your case then."

Focus, Sherlock told himself. Focus.

The case, yes. Lestrade's case. Lestrade had, in fact, sent some files to Sherlock, but he had barely glanced at them. He had taken one look at the pictures Lestrade had included and had, although it was stupid, so stupid, almost thrown up, had then discarded the files. Sherlock leaned forwards and clenched his fingers around the steaming mug, as if to hold on to it. "Do you...," he began, then had to clear his throat. "Do you want to talk about the case?"

It had been the wrong thing to say, apparently, because John's brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. "I thought you did," he said. "Why else would you show up here in the middle of the night?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. Because it was true, wasn't it? Because solving cases was what he thrived for; because solving cases was what he was good at; because solving cases was what John liked about him, what made John tolerate his presence in his life. John, soldier, army doctor, craved the rush of adrenaline, the high of the case, the thrill of the chase, almost as much as Sherlock had, before, and of course John expected him to deliver.

"Sherlock?" John was looking at him now, impatiently, waiting for him to say something, to talk about the case, to answer his question.

Sherlock blinked once, twice, his eyes glued to John, John in front of him, and tried to think of something to say. Case, John wanted to know about a case, wanted to work a case. "Where's Mary?" were the words that came out of his mouth instead, and Sherlock wanted to curse himself.

John, however, didn't look annoyed, or angry, just mildly surprised, and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock once more. "She's gone to bed already," he answered finally.

Sherlock's brain was racing. Bed, of course, yes, of course. Because it was late already, he realised, in the middle of the night. "She's... is she fine?" he forced out.

John's eyes narrowed even more, and Sherlock could feel himself losing control. "Yes," John said slowly. "Yes, she's fine. Sherlock..."

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted him. He didn't look at John, didn't dare to look at John. "The case," he went on. "Lestrade's case. Suicides, apparently, but linked." Lestrade's words, his evaluation of the case, words that Sherlock remembered, not something he had deduced, concluded. Of course not, because he hadn't even been able to look at photographs from the scenes without almost throwing up, retching up bile and Mrs Hudson's tea and nothing else. Pathetic, a pathetic version of the Consulting Detective that he was supposed to be.

He blinked again, took a deep breath, used the pain in his chest to try and focus. Control, control, control, control. "You...," he began, had to clear his throat almost immediately. "You are well, too?"

A frown appeared on John's face, and his lips pursed. "Sherlock," he said, his eyebrows drawing together. "What's going on?"

Sherlock didn't manage to produce a sound. Because John was right; John was right to ask. John expected him to have a case, expected him to be here because of a case, but he wasn't, didn't even want to think about Lestrade's case, no matter how stupid it was, and how irrational. "How," he began, then swallowed and mentally scolded himself for his pathetic failure to string even two words together, but he needed John to say something, needed to hear John's voice to remind himself that this was real, this and not the surging void in his mind, "how was your evening?"

John's lips remained pursed, and Sherlock had to lower his gaze to the coffee table in front of him. Didn't dare to look at John, John and at whose flat he had shown up in the middle of the night, for no reason apart from the desire to make the pain, the darkness on his mind go away, couldn't bring himself to look at John because he didn't want to see the disappointment in John's face, disappointment in his detective friend who couldn't even bring himself to look at some stupid case files and work.

"You're here to talk about my evening?" John finally wanted to know. Sherlock didn't look up, but he could picture the expression on John's face, could picture it almost perfectly: a frown, eyebrows slightly raised, a mixture of incredulity and resignation in his gaze, maybe even tinged with amusement.

When he didn't answer, John leaned forwards in his chair. "Sherlock," he said. "Look at me."

He did, finally, forced himself to keep it together, to stop behaving in such a ridiculous and completely inappropriate way.

"Are you sure you're alright?" John was asking now, all but scanning him. "You didn't take anything, did you?"

Stupid, stupid, so, so stupid. Couldn't let John think that. Never that. Couldn't disappoint John. Not again.

Sherlock took quick breath, did his best to ignore the hammering of his heart and the rush of his blood in his ears, and put on a smile. "Oh please, John," he said and forced his hands, his fingers to stay still. Trembling, John couldn't see him trembling, wasn't allowed to, because if he did, he would assume withdrawal, drugs, cigarettes, and who needed a best friend who called himself a Consulting Detective, but who apparently couldn't stand to look at a simple case file and was a junkie on top of that? "Of course not," he added. "There's a case, after all."

This, it seemed, was the right thing to say, because John snorted a laugh and leaned back in his chair again. Sherlock's hands trembled against his cup of tea, and he could almost feel himself unravelling. He couldn't. Wasn't allowed to. Focus on John, he told himself. Focus on John.

"My evening was fine, by the way," John's voice reached him, finally, tinged with something Sherlock couldn't decipher, "Went to the pub with Greg. We had a few beers, talked about his work, Mary, Molly, and his new chief superindendent. You should try it sometime, you know. Socialising." John paused for a moment, before adding: "But somehow I doubt that's what you came here for."

John, he reminded himself again. He was with John, and John Watson kept him right. He needed to focus on that. Focus on John.

"You know," John was saying now, placing his own mug back on the table, "if there's something you want from me, you could just ask. Maybe skip the small-talk, hm?"

Sherlock exhaled, felt himself relax, slowly, fractionally. Safe now, he told himself, it was safe, could let his guard down. He was back, in London, with John. Was allowed to relax. Could relax now, finally.

"Sherlock," John said again.

He had tried, during his exile, to store away his memories of John. To save them, very carefully, very thoroughly, each and every single one of them. If there was anything Sherlock had not been able to bear being infected by thoughs of his own deeds, by his filthy memories of a two-year exile and another one, shorter this time, but doomed to end with his death, and with his death only, then it was John.

Because John deserved better, always had, deserved a life with his family, and did not deserve Sherlock's memories of him being tainted with blood and violence and torture.

John Hamish Watson, who kept him right.

It hadn't worked, of course. Not properly. Sherlock's hands trembled, and he spilled a few drops of John's tea. His fault, always his fault. It had not worked, because John's voice had broken free from the restraints his mind had attempetd to put on his memories, had told him to put pressure on that cut, or ice on that bruise, or reminded him that a bullet to the head was, in the end, a quick and merciful way to die. Memories of John's features had resurfaced, weak reproductions, and yet a silent reminder of why it had to be worth it, of why Sherlock had been doing all of it, of why he wasn't allowed to give up just yet.

"Sherlock," John repeated.

And now John had looked so happy. Happy because, for once, Sherlock hadn't been around to ruin everything.

"Sherlock," John said again, this time followed by a weary sigh. "If I'd known you' were just going to sit there and go through your bloody mind palace, I could've just let you do that outside and go to bed," he muttered under his breath, but Sherlock heard him. "John-," he began, then stopped before his voice could break. The case, of course John wanted to hear about the case, wanted to work on what Sherlock was supposed to have come for, and not just sit there and entertain Sherlock just because Sherlock felt like it.

"I know I'm your conductor of light...," John was saying now, lightly, and Sherlock wanted to interrupt him, wanted to say yes, of course, John Watson, always John, John who kept him right, but didn't. Didn't, because he was here, in the middle of the night, without a case, and the least he could do was not to interrupt John.

"...and that an outside eye is very helpful and very stimulating to your genius and so on," John went on, "but..."

Sherlock swallowed when the feeling of tight rope around his wrists reappeared all of a sudden, far too tight to escape, and the dampness of his face, dampness of the basement he had been locked in because he hadn't even lasted six months, hadn't made it as long as Mycroft had predicted without getting caught. His hands shook again, and more tea sloshed over his fingers. Over, he had to remind himself, it was over. Everything was fine, he was back, no reason to dwell on memories from his second exile. Fine, he was fine.

"...do we really have to do that now? It's in the middle of the night, I'm tired, and you look like you could use some sleep yourself," John finished.

Tired. Sherlock's attention snapped back to John immediately. "Yes," he managed while he could feel his heartrate accelerate once again. "Yes, of course." John needed sleep, of course. Stupid, stupid of him to have shown up late, so late, but then, John had been busy, had said he was busy, had been to the pub with Greg. Greg. Lestrade. Greg. Needed to remember his name.

Opposite of him, John yawned. "Good," he muttered and stood, cup of tea in one hand. "You want me to call a cab for you?"

For a moment, Sherlock didn't understand what John was saying. Cab? What would he need a cab for? Unless... Unless John wanted him to leave. Sherlock swallowed, tried to ignore the suddenly frantic thumping of his heart. "Cab?" he echoed.

"Yes, a cab," John repeated patiently. "I assume you don't want to walk back to Baker Street?"

No, no, no, Sherlock wanted to tell him. No cab, he didn't need a cab, he was perfectly fine where he was, right here, in John's living room. Would even talk about the case, if John wanted him to, or would shut up, wouldn't disturb John. There was a twinge in his chest, somewhere, and for a moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe, like he was underwater again, doing his best to fight the raging current of the river, to fight the lulling urge to simply close his eyes and let it happen. Stupid, of course, because he was in John's living room, and breathing should be perfectly easy. Should be.

"Sherlock," John said again, and this time, Sherlock could hear the resignation in his voice, the frustration. His fault, again, always his.

"I," he began, faltered – pathetic, so pathetic – and forced himself to go on. "I could just stay here." Stay here, on John's sofa, finish the tea John had made, and sleep. Maybe.

A laugh escaped John before he shook his head, eyebrows drawn together. "Absolutely not," he said. "You're not sleeping on that sofa."

Sherlock had to swallow. Of course John wanted him to leave, he told himself while his heart gave a twinge in his chest and black spots danced in front of his eyes for a moment. Of course. He had shot a man, in cold blood, and if John ever found out what else he had done, during his exile, it would be only natural if he never wanted anything to do with Sherlock ever again. Of course.

"Come on," John said, standing. "I know you have a case, but I think you need to get some sleep. You look like hell."

Sherlock let go of his still full mug, got to his feet. "Yes," he muttered and stuffed his hands – shaking, stupidly shaking again – into his coat pockets.

Mere minutes later, he found himself on the stairs outside of John's flat, John's "good night" and the sound of the door closing still ringing in his ears. He stayed where he was for a few seconds, tried to shake off the weight on his chest, pressing down on his lungs, tried to breathe evenly and get rid of the images – over, it was over, and his behaviour was simply ridiculous – of other dark nights, nights that ended with blood or with a gun pressed against his temple that assaulted him, once again, tried to focus. Case, John had asked about the case, repeatedly, and Sherlock had only stumbled over his words, hadn't even been able to give a summary of the case Lestrade expected him to solve. Because that was what he did, wasn't it? Consulting Detective, the one the police turned to when they were out of their depth.

John, Sherlock reminded himself, John wanted a case, too, wanted to work, and quite obviously didn't want to be bothered by Sherlock because of nothing, without a proper reason. Didn't deserve to be bothered by him, really. Deserved so much better.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. It was what he did, he repeated to himself. What good, after all, was a Consulting Detective who couldn't consult, couldn't deduce?

He swallowed again, then opened his eyes. Of course John expected him to have a case, to solve the case, because that was what he did, what he was there for.

He could do that. He could. Sherlock inhaled, clenched his hands to fists and straightened ever so slightly. Well. It seemed that he had work to do.

Thank you for reading. Reviews tend to be fuel for my inspiration, so... if you find the time, I'd be beyond grateful.