...hello? Anyone still there? (Anyone still reading?)

It's been ages, I know, and the pace at which I'm updating this story is simply awful. But maybe, maybe... someone's still reading? If you are, and have been, then please know that it's because of you readers that this chapter is here now (as will any future chapters be - if someone's interested) - so thank you all, so much (for the reviews I haven't replied to...).

Anyway. Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock V

He slept for three hours. His dreams were filled with dark shapes and water and the need to escape, and when he jerked awake, he could taste the tang of blood and stale river water in his mouth. After, he sat in the dark of 221B, his head in his hands, and waited for his breathing to slow and his racing heart to calm while cold sweat was drying on his skin.

It was night still, the dark and dreary hours before dawn, and for moments in time, as he sat there, he wasn't sure if everything that had happened in the past two days had been real, had actually happened, or if everything, if London, if John, had merely been a figment of his feverish mind that had convinced him that he was back in London while, in reality, he was slowly drowning somewhere in Eastern Europe. The urge to call John became almost overwhelming in its intensity then; he had his mobile in his hand, his thumb hovering over John's name in his contact list, before he could think better of it.

He got to his feet instead, stumbled into the bathroom and shed his clothes, the clothes Mycroft had provided him with. The cold splash of the shower rattled down on him, cooled his throbbing head and plastered his hair to his skull, and when he started shivering, it served as proof that this, 221B, London, was real. He avoided looking at the bruises that mottled his torso when he got out of the shower on unsteady legs and with muscles twitching from the cold, avoided looking at the bruise on his cheek. He slipped on a dressing gown instead of his suit jacket; his hands, he observed, were shaking.

When he returned to the living room, it was as empty as it had been before, as empty, as dark. John's armchair stood, lost and abandoned, in front of the mantle. Sherlock kept his gaze on it for a few minutes, then turned away. It didn't matter, he tried to tell himself, that his heart clenched painfully at the sight of John's empty armchair, not when he had work to do.

~(o)~

The case didn't make sense.

He went over the files Lestrade had mailed to him, went over the photographs of the crime scenes. He went over them again, and again, and again; tried to find a connection between the suicides, between the victims, between their lives, families, relations.

Deductions sprang at him, but they were all useless, pointless, and there had to be a connection, there had to be, but the case didn't make sense.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and sank into his armchair, one palm pressed against his throbbing ribs. Mind palace, he told himself, he needed to access his mind palace. Needed to sort through the facts again, come up with something useful, finally. He took a deep breath, ignored the stab of pain, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, focussing. Only to find his gaze straying to John's empty armchair opposite of his and his thoughts wandering to John two days ago, in front of the surgery, happy and carefree. To John telling him it was good to have him back, John, John, John, and then to his exile, his time undercover, undercover as a rogue intelligence agent, blood, blood, blood, shackles around his wrists, kicks and punches to his head and torso, and finally a gun to his head, followed by tearing water that compressed his lungs and filled his throat.

Sherlock pressed the fingerstips of his right hand to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Focus, he needed to focus. The room swayed around him when he got to his feet again, eyes wide open now, and his head was throbbing, throbbing like he was still back there, like someone was using a crowbar to try and smash his head in, to try and keep him from the case he was supposed to solve.

It's this case, or none at all, Lestrade's voice repeated in his head, in tact with the pounding, as he made his way over to the kitchen and started fumbling for a glass and another one of those pain pills that at least granted momentary relief. This case, or none at all, those were Lestrade's words, Sherlock remembered and swallowed the pill, and that wasn't possibly allowed to happen. Lestrade expected him to solve the case, and John, John wanted a case, wanted to talk about a case, so he had to have one. Had to work on it, had to solve it. Simple, really.

Another wave of dizziness rolled over him, and he had to clench his shaking hands around the counter for a moment. Fine, he was fine, simply transport. And he had gone longer, much longer with less sleep than the odd nap here and there he had managed to catch, or that had caught up with him, so he should be fine, so there wasn't any reason why he felt so shaky, so light-headed. Absolutely not enough reason to call John, not after his pathetic display of a combination of being an annoyance, of neediness and completely illogical weakness last night.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tore his gaze away from his mobile that was lying, tauntingly, on the table, a mere two feet away from him, all but inviting him to text John, call John. Clenching his jaw, he closed his eyes again, for a few seconds, not long enough for dark images of Eastern Europe to attack him, and shook his head, as if to get rid of his transport's weakness.

Any second now, he told himself as he all but stumbled to the nearest chair, slumped into it, his legs, knees buckling, any second now he would get up again, would stop just doing nothing and trying to breathe, would get back to Lestrade's case. Any second now.

He tensed when the sound of steps reached his ears, steps on the stairs to the flat, light steps, slow, careful, almost feathery, followed by a cheery "hu-hu" as Mrs Hudson peeked her head into the kitchen.

The room swam around him once again. Dark spots were dancing in his line of vision, and for a moment, he couldn't hear anything else but the hammering of his heart in his throat. When his eyes cleared, Mrs Hudson was still there, Mrs Hudson, his landlady, in his kitchen, in his flat, at 221B Baker Street.

No dress today, his brain told him, no dress but trousers, suggesting housework, vacuum cleaning or dusting, or maybe the lino. New necklace, shiny, polished, expensive, by the looks of it, and she was wearing it despite her obvious lack of intention to go out any time soon, suggesting sentimental value, present, maybe, from someone she was close to. Tray in her hands, a tray, suggesting breakfast, but why here, why in his kitchen?

Sherlock remained where he was, completely still, as Mrs Hudson set the tray down on the table, carefully avoiding the sheets, the files, that lay scattered around everywhere, then put her arms in her hips and huffed in disapproval. "Sherlock," she exclaimed, "you've been back for barely two days, and already this place is a mess!"

Sherlock swallowed, didn't move. A mess. Of course he would have made a mess, had made a mess. Always did, it would seem. He swallowed again, tried to get the look on John's face on Magnussen's porch out of his mind, the look of disappointment, of frustration, of anger at the mess Sherlock had nearly made out of John's life.

Mrs Hudson huffed again and turned back to the tray. Grabbed the tea pot – a new one, new, not the one with the flowery decor – poured tea into a cup, placed it back on the table. "Your morning tea, dear," she informed him without looking up, "and breakfast. I haven't been to the shops, and I didn't have your favourite jam, but I've made do." She pushed the tray in his direction, towards where he was rigid in his chair, where he still hadn't said a single word, not even a thank you, nothing, and then lowered herself into the chair closest to her.

"Well?" she made and gestured at the tray, the plate on it, the cup of tea. "What are you waiting for? Eat, young man, before your tea gets cold."

Sherlock had to close his eyes for a moment. Had to close his eyes and simply breathe, and then open them again and convince himself that this was real, that Mrs Hudson was sitting in his kitchen, had not forgotten him, had made him breakfast; that he had made it out, against all balance of probability, that he was back, in London, with John, that it was over. Had to convince himself, convince his brain, that his kitchen would not suddenly morph into a damp, dark cell and Mrs Hudson would not abruptly turn into a Croatian thug whose one single purpose it was to squeeze names out of Sherlock, the names of people he worked for, he worked with, information about what he was doing, how much he knew, everything.

Of course she didn't. Of course not. Stupid. Stupid of him to think that, to give in to the delusions his brain kept throwing at him.

"...and then Mary phoned me," Mrs Hudson was saying now, her voice floating through the flat. Sherlock allowed himself to let Mrs Hudson's chatter wash over him – for a moment, just for a moment, he told himself – to let it bring back memories from other mornings when she had made him tea, too, and talked about something, anything at all, her voice a steady sound in the background, a constant he hadn't really paid attention to, focused on one case or another, or the news, or his website, or an experiment.

"She told me that you were back," Mrs Hudson went on. "Good thing, too. I might have just called the police when I heard your pacing. That nice Detective Inspector of yours. With all these break-ins lately... You never know, and in my age... Better safe than sorry, I say. And since you never bothered to tell me when you were going to be back..." She sighed, and Sherlock's heart gave a minuscule twinge. He swallowed, a futile attempt to dislodge the lump that had settled itself in his throat, and managed a hoarse "Mrs Hudson".

She looked up at him briefly, her hands fiddling with the necklace she was wearing. Expensive. Nothing Mrs Hudson would spend money on. A gift, definitely. "So is your other work finished now?" she asked.

Finished now. Finished. Sherlock resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, a vain attempt to block out memories of a lashing river that lunged at him, the lashing river that should have finished it. "Yes," he replied and clenched his hands into fists, hid them in his lap, beneath the table, invisible for Mrs Hudson's eyes. Couldn't let her see his trembling. If she saw, she would ask questions, and if she knew, knew about the full extent of what he had almost done to John, how he had almost ruined everything John held dear, if she knew about the enormous mistake he had made... She couldn't know. Not ever.

Mrs Hudson gave a small sigh, followed by a nod. "Good, that's good, isn't it?"

Good. Sherlock could feel his hands shake, could feel his heart race. Stupid, stupid. Only transport. Couldn't possible let his transport get the better of him when Mrs Hudson was here. Straightened his shoulders instead, grit his teeth. Kept his gaze focussed on Mrs Hudson opposite of him, in his kitchen, still fiddling with her necklace.

Sherlock had to force himself to inhale when Mrs Hudson gave another sigh. "You're a grown man," she began and finally looked at him, her lips pressed together, a frown on her forehead.

Frown. Anxious, maybe. Annoyed. Angry. Or was she? Sherlock didn't know.

"I know that," she went on, "but... I never understood why you had to leave in the first place. I mean..."

And suddenly he was back in front of Magnussen's house, on his porch, together with John, and it was his fault that John's entire life was about to crumble around him, because he had made one mistake, because he hadn't thought it through properly, because he had failed, and John was there with him and about to pay the price, John, who had suffered so much already because of him, and Sherlock simply couldn't let that happen. Would do – had done – anything to stop that happening. His next inhale was little more than a shudder, a half-sob, but Mrs Hudson didn't notice.

"I know that your work is important to you, but...," Mrs Hudson went on, slowly now.

Sherlock's heart jittered in his chest, and the smell arising from the plate in front of him lost its appeal all of a sudden, its pleasantness, threatened to choke him instead, nausea overwhelming him.

Her hand ceased fumbling around with her necklace, was pressed against her chest now, over her heart. His fault, his alone.

She didn't know what he had done.

She didn't know what he had done, what had happened, because he hadn't told her, had chosen for her not to be told. John knew, of course, Mary, Mycroft, the other parts of the British government. They knew, because they had to, but not Mrs Hudson, or Lestrade, or Molly, or his parents.

Not them. They couldn't ever know, they didn't need to know, could not know that he had killed a man, in cold blood, that he had miscalculated in such a way that John's life, his and Mary's family, had been on the line.

They couldn't know, because if there was something they would not forgive him, something he would not forgive himself for, even though it had not come that far, not this time, then it was him destroying John's life.

Sherlock's fingers cramped into the fabric of his trousers.

"You know," Mrs Hudson said, her voice quiet, slowly folding her hands, unfolding them again, "with John and Mary and their baby, and everything... I think nobody of us could understand why you just..."

Her nexts words drowned in the sound of his blood rushing through his ears, through his head, of everything spinning. Left, he had left, again.

He hadn't decided to leave, another voice in his head was screaming. He had never wanted to leave, but there hadn't been any other way. He had failed John once, had hurt him, terribly, and John had let him into his life again, his new life with Mary, and then Sherlock had almost gone and destroyed that, too, had almost ruined it. There hadn't been any other way, but he was back now, back, and he wouldn't make the same mistake again, and everything would be fine. Had to be fine. Fine.

Mrs Hudson gave a quiet sob that cut straight through Sherlock's heart. "And then you didn't even say goodbye properly, you know, just a phone call... John explained it to me later, that there was some work for you somewhere in Europe, and your brother."

To the very best of times, John. The very best of times.

He wanted to say something, to make it better, wanted to apologise, but... but there wasn't anything. Nothing he could possibly say, nothing he could do. Not even his vocal chords would work, air wouldn't stream out, couldn't make it past the lump in his throat.

"We didn't even know when you were going to be back," she went on, then gave a short sigh and rested her hands on the table, folding them once more.

The blood continued rushing through Sherlock's veins, through his ears, smothering all the other noises, rendering him dizzy, making it impossible to concentrate, to say something that was appropriate, something that wouldn't sound pathetic, or weak, or stupid.

Over, it was over, he had paid, had atoned, it was over, he simply wanted it to be over.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock managed to croak before she could say anything else. His eyes fought to focus on a tiny spot of dried egg yolk on the back of her hand, on her skin, while his brain was struggling to find something to say, an explanation that wasn't the truth and that wouldn't shatter her life, too, that wouldn't destroy everything, something to say.

Her chair creaked against the linoleum of the kitchen floor as she pushed it back, got to her feet. "I know, dear," she muttered and shuffled towards his fridge. "Your work comes first, it was an interesting case, I know, I know. You take milk in your tea, don't you?" she wanted to know, closed the door of the fridge again. "Here," she said, placing the carton on the table.

Sherlock swallowed. Tried to relax his fingers, still clenching his trousers beneath the table. Tried to breathe more deeply, more calmly. Tried to concentrate on Mrs Hudson, and not on his time away.

Mrs Hudson didn't sit back down again. "Oh, it's so late already!" she exclaimed, and Sherlock did his best not to flinch. "I have a 'date', you know," she told him. Proud, sounded proud. Pride. "That's what they call it these days, isn't it?" Her hands were at her necklace once more. Date. Gift, then, definitely. "I'll be out for today," she added. "But you finish your breakfast, dear."

Sherlock's left thigh complained about his fingers' tight grip on his trousers, on his own skin, but he couldn't let go. "I...," he began, his voice hoarse, and cut himself off when Mrs Hudson took a step forwards from where she had moved towards the door, towards the stairs, her hands in her hips.

"I know, I know," she said, "you're busy, you're not hungry. But you rather look like you need to eat, dear."

And then she turned around, towards the stairs, light, feathery steps again – hip, her hip wasn't giving her trouble, seemed to be fine – and Sherlock was alone again, in his kitchen, and could do nothing but stare at the tray and plate in front of him, breakfast she had made for him, and the tea she had brewed for him, and had to concentrate on not letting his rebellious transport vomit.

Thank you for reading.

Okay, there's something else I've got to say: I promise this story is going somewhere, if it is to be continued. And I will try to continue, if someone wants me to. So... tell me yes or no?