You know, I didn't think I'd be able to post another chapter. Want to know why? Well - because the response to the last one literally BLEW me AWAY, and by all rights, I should still be spinning around somewhere in the sky. Because, holy hell, you're amazing. All of you. So here's another chapter - for all of you.

Also, I'm really, really rubbish at updating at regular intervals - so while I promise that this story will be continued, I'm afraid new chapters will continue to arrive rather infrequently (the next chapter is already half-way written, but God knows when I'll actually find the time to finish it).

Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock VI

He took a cab to John's house in the afternoon, but John wasn't at home.

He had spent the morning brooding over Lestrade's case, in his empty living room in 221B, fuelled by the knowledge that John wanted to work a case, but as the day had progressed, it had become increasingly difficult to focus on the files and reports and photographs. Pictures of the victims had mingled with memories, and the walls of 221B had come closer and closer until they threatened to cave in on him and bury him. His stomach was churning with the few bites of Mrs Hudson's breaktfast he had forced himself to chew and swallow; his eyes were burning with lack of sleep, but if he closed them, if he slept, he knew he would be back and this time, there would be no escape.

For a while, he tried to lose himself in memories of John, but the memories were stale and pallid and not enough. So he gave in, in the end, fled from the void that was his flat and from the case that he couldn't solve and took a cab to John's house.

The thought of seeing John again had kept the memories at bay, but now the images, distorted and painted in blood and drenched in darkness, came back with force.

Stupid, a part of him was mocking him even as his heart started racing and his throat narrowed, it was stupid, so stupid to be affected by memories alone, but the other part of him knew that he needed John. Always needed John, because John kept him right, and because John had saved him before, so many times.

For a moment, as he stood in front of John's empty flat and tried to breathe, he didn't know what to do. He considered calling John; he considered waiting, as he had waited yesterday. In the end, he did neither; instead, he sent John a text – John, it read. Where are you? – and then started walking.

~(o)~

Sherlock was back in 221B when John finally replied.

Out with friends, John's text said, and nothing else.

Sherlock's mobile trembled in his hands as he lowered it to the armrest of his armchair. Out with friends. Of course. Obviously. Of course. John had friends, was supposed to have friends, because that was what people did. Course you're my best friend, he remembered John telling him, of course you are. It had been ages ago, eons, before John's wedding, before Sherlock had almost destroyed John's life with one enormous miscalculation.

Memories flooded his brain all of a sudden; they were memories of a gun shot, fired from John's gun, by Sherlock's own hand, on Magnussen's porch, in front of Mycroft and a dozen MI5 snipers taking aim at John, or memories of a bonfire licking at John, or John's face when he had realised that Sherlock did not have a plan, not this time, that Sherlock had failed, had gambled and had lost against Magnussen, and John would pay the price. Friends protect people, John had told him once, and Sherlock knew that he failed at that, time and time again.

The sound of his text alert interrupted his straying thoughts. Text. From John.

Any news on the case?

News on the case. The case he hadn't solved yet. He hadn't even succeeded in finding the connection between the victims. He couldn't solve it, couldn't, couldn't even look at the pictures of the crime scenes without remembering shackles around his wrists, without feeling the spray of blood on his face, without feeling the burn of the...

No.

No no no no no.

Sherlock's hands were shaking when he pressed them to his temples, to force away the unwanted images. Breathe, he told himself and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, he needed to breathe. Slow breaths, in, out, through the nose, slowly. Easy. Simple.

For minutes, the silence in 221B was filled with his carefully controlled inhales and exhales and the sound of his own rushing blood in his ears, until he, eventually, lowered his hands – shaking, still shaking – and opened his eyes. John, he reminded himself, he needed to text John.

He needed to text John, but he didn't know what to say.

He didn't want to investigate Lestrade's case; he didn't even want to think about Lestrade's case. He wanted to be in John's presence, watch John read the paper, work on his blog, sit in his armchair, drink tea, double over with breathless laughter in the hallway of 221B, roll his eyes at the body parts in the fridge, complain about having to go to the shops all the time.

No, he remembered, and his heart clenched and his eyes started burning, that couldn't be. John hadn't lived at 221B in almost three years. He had ruined that, irrevocably, when he had faked his death and disappeared for two years. He had no right, no matter how much he longed for it, to occupy more of John's time than John granted him, to place his own selfish needs over what John wanted.

And John wanted to know about the case.

Maybe, Sherlock typed. When will you be back?

He could almost picture it. So far, he had nothing about the case, no clever deduction, nothing. But when John would be there... John would say something so obvious and yet so brilliant, like he always had, and Sherlock's brain would finally do its job and solve the case. Because that was what John did, John who always said the right thing, always, always, who helped solve the case and managed to save the life. And then John would smile at him and would call his deduction brilliant, maybe, or fantastic, or amazing, and maybe Sherlock would even try to believe it himself, to forget that he had almost ruined everything.

The thought took his breath away. He rarely allowed himself to dwell on the magnitude of the mistake he had made with Magnussen. He had vowed to be there for John and Mary and their child, and he had forsaken that vow barely four months later. He had been cocky, over-confident in his own brilliance, and it had been John who had almost paid the price. The memory of Magnussen and John on Magnussen's porch, of Magnussen putting his hands on John while Sherlock was standing there, helpless, could do nothing to stop Magnussen, rose in him all of a sudden and brought with it a wave of nausea that had him crap his fingers into the leather of the armrests and hold his breath.

The nausea lingered, even as he dared to breathe again, a hot, winding sensation, like worms tangling with his intestines.

That was the last time he had seen John, he recalled, before his exile, before their goodbye on the tarmac. The last time...

He flinched when his mobile pinged. Swallowing thickly, he fumbled for it. John. John had texted him. John.

Don't know, John's text said. Sherlock stared at the words, read the letters, but his brain didn't grasp their meaning.

Didn't know. Didn't know what?

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

The next breath he took hitched in his throat and his fingers cramped into the armrests of his chair as he struggled for control. Think, he needed to think. Focus. Focus. Control, control, control.

When John was going to be back, that was what he had asked, that was what John had replied to. Didn't know when he was going to be back. John didn't know when he was going to be back, that was what the text meant.

Sherlock closed his eyes. John, he typed then. Call me. I think I need your help.

This time, John's reply was immediate. Nice try, but I'm busy. Try Greg instead.

Sherlock let go of his mobile. His limbs felt heavy, all of a sudden, heavy and stiff and sore, and the pulsating pain in his head was back, along with the throbbing of his ribs and the nausea rolling in his stomach.

Busy, he thought, detachedly. John was busy. Of course.

Of course.

His head was spinning, and the pain in his ribcage was intensifying, and the thought of being here, on his own, without his faithful blogger, doctor, without John, made him want to throw up.

Drama queen, John's voice told him. You're a drama queen. You're not a puzzle solver, you never have been. Solve the case. Solve the case, save the life. Solve the case.

Solve the case.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. It was nothing, he told himself. Nothing. He simply needed something to do, something to distract him, a case, a good case, and he'd be fine. He'd be fine.

221B was silent around him, and already he could feel the abyss closing around him once again.

~(o)~

In the night, he slept for three hours. Dark images jolted him back into wakefulness after midnight, and memories, half-remembered from the dreams that followed him, stuck to his skin like blood.

Blood, blood, blood. His head was pounding with that one word as he lurched to his feet, and his heart was racing.

Blood on the pavement. Blood leaking from Magnussen's temple. Blood on his hands. Sherlock stumbled against the coffee table, but the pain that flooded his knee barely registered over the pain in his chest, over his erratic breathing. Blood on his hands. He needed to get rid of the blood on his hands.

Cold water hit him, all of a sudden, and Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, turning into a toneless whimper. He blinked, tried to focus on his surroundings. Home, he realised slowly, he was home, in his flat, in London. Home. He didn't remember walking into the bathroom, didn't remember stepping into the shower, but the cold spray helped clear away the vestiges of sleep and nightmares that came with it.

Instead, the water brought memories. It came down hard on him, drenching him, drowning him, making him shiver; Sherlock's heart fluttered when the water closed around him, around his mouth, nose, eyes, tossing him around in its current and taking his breath away. His next inhale turned into a choked gasp, and his knees gave way beneath him.

Sherlock didn't know how much time passed. When he finally found the strength to get to his feet and step out of the shower, his clothes were soaked, and he was shivering. He could do nothing but stand there for a few minutes, his heart pounding in his chest, arms bracing himself against the wash bowl, and gasp in heaving breath. Fine, he told himself, he was fine. Fine. Fine.

When he looked up, eventually, at the mirror above the wash bowl, a face was staring at him, his own, familiar and yet foreign, so foreign.

Sherlock blinked, and his reflection echoed the motion. Slowly, he brought a shaking hand up to the bruise on his left cheek, the bruise that stood out so grossly. He pressed his fingers against it and watched an expression of pain flash over his own face. His heart kept hammering in his chest; he brushed his hair aside, revealing the gash on his temple, the stitches Mycroft had forced him to agree to, somewhere back in Croatia. A strange doctor had done it, Sherlock remembered distantly, a strange doctor with thick, cold hands, so unlike John's.

John.

With a shuddering breath, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, before trying to unbutton his soaked shirt with trembling fingers. Instinctively, his gaze was drawn to his torso, to the ugly bruises mottling his skin.

Broken rib, he thought detachedly. He inhaled, watched the bruises move, a deep, unhealthy blue, yellow towards the edges, held the breath. Exhaled. Broken, maybe, or just bruised. Sherlock didn't know, found he didn't care, not really. It hurt, but that wasn't important. Not now. That pain, he could deal with.

Sherlock touched the discoloured skin with two fingertips, closed his eyes. Pressed down. Hissed at the wave of sudden pain and felt another fist connect with his abdomen, another shoe, felt the lashing waves of the river tossing him about, and...

His harsh breathing was loud in the small, tiled room, and the world started spinning, a spinning that was accompanied by a tightness, pressure on his chest that would, Sherlock could not help but think in that moment, never disappear again.

"No." It was his own voice, hoarse and raspy and breathless, and for a moment, he waited for John's voice, for John's reply, telling him: "All right, Spock, calm down", but John didn't, of course he didn't, because he wasn't here, because Sherlock was alone, because John wasn't here. And without John, he realised while the room kept spinning and turning around him and he sank down on the closed toilet lid, Sherlock was still drowning.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought - because it'd mean the world to me.