This one's for Ernil i Pheriannath, whose latest review gave me the kick in the ass I needed to finish the chapter. Finished it is, but only very lazily proof-read - so please ignore all mistakes you might find.

Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock VII

He didn't go back to sleep that night. Would, if he had tried, only have come awake after a few hours, his heart jittering and his mind filled with images he didn't want to remember.

Instead, he tried to work on Lestrade's case. He could barely focus, his mind wandering between dark images of then and memories of John, memories that had kept him sane for the last seven months, and he knew, he knew that he wanted nothing more than to call John, hear John's voice, remember what was reality, remember that John was safe, was fine, was here, still considered Sherlock his friend. He didn't, in the end; he didn't call John. He didn't, because it was in the middle of the night, and John was busy, and he couldn't call John in the middle of the night.

He didn't solve the case. Of course he didn't solve the case.

In the morning, Mrs Hudson brought him breakfast, croissants and biscuits and toast and tea and orange juice. "Oh, Sherlock," she said as she set down the tray on the table in the living room. "Have you been up all night? I could hear you pacing." Before Sherlock could reply, she went on, with a conspiratorial smile: "It's a case, isn't it? Don't worry; I won't bother you any longer. I know how important your cases are to you." She gave him another smile. "It's good to see you sitting in that chair again. Now, young man. Don't forget your breakfast."

Sherlock blinked. "Mrs Hudson," he croaked.

Mrs Hudson had already turned around, retreating into the kitchen. "Yes, yes, I know," she tutted. "You're busy, you need to solve the case. I'll be off, then."

The scent of her perfume lingered in the living room even after she had left. If Sherlock closed his eyes, he could almost picture her, seated in the armchair opposite of his, in John's armchair, chattering away about Mrs Turner's married ones, and the owner of the café downstairs, and the latest gossip. But when he opened his eyes, the flat was empty, void of Mrs Hudson, void of John.

His head swam, for a moment, when he stood. Breakfast. On the tray on the table. Breakfast Mrs Hudson had made, for him. The smell of toast and croissants caused his stomach to twist and churn, but Sherlock forced himself to eat. Because Mrs Hudson had made breakfast, for him. The croissants and biscuits and the toast tasted like ash in his mouth, and the orange juice was stale river water forcing its way down his throat, but Sherlock chewed and swallowed and tried to breathe through the tightness in his chest and the silence of the flat, even as his hands shook and the walls threatened to close in around him.

~(o)~

Mrs Hudson didn't come back.

Sherlock had moved to the sofa, the safety, the solidity of the wall in his back, and Lestrade's case files were spread out on the table.

Case. He needed to solve the case. Everybody expected him to solve the case.

Of course. Of course.

Consulting Detective. The police came to him for help when they were out of their depth, his own words, from years ago, mocked him. Consulting Detective. A conultant who couldn't even bring himself to look at the pictures and reports. What good, he wondered, was he when he couldn't even solve the one simple case Lestrade needed him for?

Fantastic, he remembered, staring ahead blankly. Fantastic, John had said. Amazing. Brilliant.

He could hear John's voice, still. Could recall the inflection, the disbelief, the amazement.

Fantastic. Brilliant. Amazing. 'course you're my best friend.

You machine. You cock. You stay here, on your own. You machine.

Good to have you back. Fantastic. Dinner? To the very best of times.

The sound of John's voice was floating around him, but it was merely an echo, nothing more, void of the warmth, the exasperation, sometimes mingled with something akin to fondness, sometimes with anger, that used to lace John's tone during conversations with Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. John wasn't here, and his mind's projection of John was nothing but a pale shadow of the man who had saved Sherlock, so many times and in so many ways. And without John, he was nothing.

The scattered sheets on the table in front of him were staring at him, mocking him, condemning him. The files included pictures, obviously, pictures of the victims, throat slashed, blood speckling pale skin, eyes wide open, empty and unseeing.

Sherlock blinked, but it didn't help. His hands had started shaking, he noticed, and Mrs Hudson's breakfast was a heavy, rolling weight in his stomach.

He had barely even looked at the pictures, had barely dared to look at them. He remembered the tang of blood, the stickiness of it against his skin, the brownish-red stains it...

His mobile pinged, and Sherlock flinched. The living room of 221B swam back into focus around him as he fumbled for his mobile, unlocking the screen with trembling fingers.

Text, the screen said. He had a text. From John.

John.

Sherlock, his eyes deciphered, you free this afternoon?

Another ping. Text. A second text. Mary's invited some friends.

And I don't really want to spend the day talking about knitting and yoga classes.

Sherlock blinked. Friends. Knitting. Yoga classes. You free this afternoon.

Friends.

People've got friends, people they like, people they don't like. Friends. You're my best friend, John had told him, once. You're my best friend. The memories of blood, of the river, of cuffs around his wrists, of shaking John's hand, one last time. You're my best friend. Friend.

Friend.

You free this afternoon. Free this afternoon.

For John, always.

Yes, he typed, holding his breath.

John's reply was almost immediate. Yes? Just like that?

Sherlock stared at the words.

Another ping. This is about the case, isn't it? John had texted him.

Case. Right. The case. He needed to solve it. John expected him to solve it. Yes, of course. Needed to solve it, but couldn't. John couldn't know. Something, something. Needed to reply something. I need your input, he texted back.

Fine, came John's answer. See you later.

Fine. It took Sherlock's brain a few seconds to grasp the meaning of John's words, and when it did, all he could for seconds, moments, was to breathe, to breathe against the tightness in his chest while his heart was racing. John. He could see John again.

Light-headedness flooded him for a moment when he got to his feet, and he nearly knocked the mug, the mug that was still half full with cold tea Mrs Hudson had made for him, off the table.

John. Needed to call a cab, to get to John.

Case. John had asked about the case. With still shaking hands, he assembled the scattered sheets into one pile. Needed to be prepared, in case John wanted to talk about the suicides.

What else? Something, something else... Something he needed to do.

Get dressed, he realised. He was still in his dressing gown, hadn't bothered to change. But now he had to; he needed to look presentable for John. Friends, John had texted. For John and John's friends.

He undressed in the bathroom, removed the dressing gown and the tee he'd been wearing beneath. The bruising on his torso was still there, but this time, Sherlock chose to ignore it. His arms were trembling nonetheless as he put on a pair of suit trousers and a crips white shirt. The long sleeves covered the bruises on his torso, bruises that didn't want to fade just yet, but rather seemed to gain in gruesomeness. Covered the abrasions on his wrists, still visible, after almost two weeks. Covered everything.

He wondered, for a moment, as he forced his arms through the sleeves of a suit jacket, if John would be able to see through the facade. If John would be able to concover how broken he was, how far from brilliant, how useless. If John could tell that Sherlock's presence in John's life brought destruction and death, always had, always would, that Sherlock's presence would, sooner or later, destroy the life John had built for himself, with a wife and a career and normality.

Sherlock swallowed, held his breath. Enough, he told himself. Enough.

Another glance in the mirror. His skin was pale, shadowed beneath his eyes. The bruise on his face stood out, of course. Grey strands in his hair, sparse, but there. Dressed in trousers, white shirt, suit jacket. He looked... almost normal.

Normal. Normal was good.

And now he didn't have any more time to waste.

Sherlock directed another brief glance at the mirror, forced himself to straighten his shoulders and left the bathroom to call a cab.

~(o)~

By the time Sherlock had arrived at John and Mary's flat, the Lestrade's case files tucked into his coat, his heart was racing, and his throat was dry. Friends, John had said; friends of his were visiting. The thought of meeting people, people he didn't know, made him vaguely nauseous, but he pushed the thought away. It didn't matter anyway, not really, as long as John was there.

This time, in contrast to his last visit, John was at home, and when Sherlock rang the door bell, John opened.

"Sherlock, hey," John greeted him with a smile, and Sherlock felt something come loose inside his chest. "Go on, come in."

John closed the door behind him. "They're all very excited to meet you," he said. "The famous detective."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. "Ah," he made, stupidly.

John chuckled. "You know, I'm a bit surprised you actually came."

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes following John. "Why wouldn't I?" he asked.

John raised one brow. "Really? Because you're you. You didn't even stay for our wedding reception, remember?"

That shut Sherlock up. He remembered the wedding reception, the hollow pain in his chest at seeing John with Mary, so happy, so radiant, more at peace and filled with joy than Sherlock could ever have provided him with. The end of an era, he remembered Mrs Hudson telling him, before the wedding, and in that moment, alone, a silent, uninvolved observer of his best friend's bliss, he had truly understood the truth of those words. Because John deserved this, deserved the happiness, but the knowledge had done nothing to dampen the pain.

But beside the pain, he could also recall the vow he had made, to both John and Mary: to be there for them, always, to keep them safe, and happy. He swallowed. Good to have you back, John had told him, in the carpark in front of the clinic, and that was more than enough. For Sherlock, it was more than enough. "Yes," he said, eventually, his voice quiet. "Sorry about that."

John merely shrugged his shoulders. "It's fine. It's not like I didn't know that social gatherings aren't really your thing." He went on before Sherlock could think of something to reply: "Come on. Time to meet the others."

Sherlock followed John, through the tiny hallway and into the living room. There were people gathered there – friends, Sherlock had to remind himself; they were friends of John's – people he didn't know, people he had never seen before. He swallowed. It didn't matter, he told himself. It didn't matter, because they were John's friends, people John cared about.

One man – early to mid-forties, dressed in khaki trousers and a polo shirt, well-to-do, obviously, hair gelled back, an open beer bottle in his left hand – appeared next to John and clapped him on the shoulder. "John!" the man boomed. "Is that him? Your famous friend, the... what's it called? Private detective?"

John grinned at Sherlock. "Yes," he said, "that's Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Mark."

Mark – lawyer, Sherlock concluded, or maybe banker – removed his meaty hand from John's shoulder and offered it to Sherlock. "Mark Stevens," he said. "Me and my wife are good friends of John and Mary's."

Sherlock couldn't move. His throat hat narrowed, his muscles had locked up. Friend, the man had said. Good friend of John and Mary's. John's friend. Should shake his hand, he knew, but the mere thought of coming in contact with the man's fleshy limb had bile rising in Sherlock's throat.

There was a frown on John's face. His fault, Sherlock knew, always his fault. "It's all right," John said. "He doesn't really do social events."

Mark Stevens retrieved his outstretched hand and gave a roaring laugh; Sherlock flinched. He needed to say something, anything, to this man, a friend of John's, anything, but his brain wouldn't work, couldn't think of anything.

"Mark," John was saying now, "have you seen Mary? I want Sherlock to meet someone... Ah, there she is."

There she is. Sherlock followed John's gaze, and there was Mary, Mary Watson, professionally trained killer, assassin, and John's wife, her blonde hair falling around her face in soft waves, with a child in her arms. I'm sorry, Sherlock, truly am. Mary with a gun. The scar, the scar where her bullet had been lodged, where she had shot him, puckered but faded by now, gave a twinge.

Then she turned around, and her eyes locked on Sherlock. For a moment, the expression on her face was that of the assassin, clad in black, not of Mary Watson; for a moment only, before she had herself back under control, because then it was gone, was replaced by a smile so wide and convincing that Sherlock was almost inclined to believe that he had imagine the cold steeliness in her eyes before. "Sherlock!" she cried, coming closer. "Oh Sherlock." Then her arms – the baby, Sherlock noticed, distractedly, was in John's arms now – were around Sherlock, soft and warm and closing around him, and he couldn't help it; he stiffened. The scar just below his ribs was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and an odd, cramping sensation took hold of his heart for a moment. He closed his eyes, just for a few seconds, and when he opened them again, she was still Mary Watson, her arms around him, clad in jeans and a blouse and not the assassin, all in black and lethal and armed. "John invited you, didn't he," she asked, and Sherlock managed a nod. Mary gave a sigh. "Of course," she said, finally moving to let him go. "It's good to see you, though," she added, and her smile flickered just the tiniest bit.

"You too," he managed to croak. Mary, he forced himself to remember, John's Mary. Not an assassin in Eastern Europe, not a murderer. Unlike him. Mary.

She pressed a brief kiss to his cheek and directed another smile at him. "Still not one for hugging, are you," she remarked.

John, at her side, gave a chuckle. Sherlock's attention snapped back to him immediately. The child – baby, still a baby, a whiff of blonde hair on its head, in a yellow bodysuit, blue eyes wide open, waggling its tiny fists about – was still in John's arms, and...

John's child.

It hit Sherlock like a sledgehammer to the chest. John's child. Of course. Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A whiff of blonde hair on its head, brighter than John's, not greying, of course, bright, blue eyes, blue, blue, John's maybe.

Sherlock managed a shaky breath. John's child.

John hefted the baby up higher and turned it towards Sherlock. "Amanda," he said, "that's Sherlock, your uncle. Sherlock, that's Amanda, my daughter."

Daughter. Sherlock blinked slowly, but it did not keep John's living room around him, John's family, the people in John's living room – friends, John's voice reminded him, friends – from blurring or black and white spots from dancing across his eyes, across his vision. His head felt empty, oddly vacant, and everything was floating around him for a few seconds.

The sound of loud babbling, wailing, pierced his stupor, and he realised John's child was waving its – her, her – fists at him and kicking her legs. John's child.

John chuckled, chuckled, and it sounded happy. "Someone seems to like you."

Sherlock stared at John and the child in his arms. "Hello," he whispered finally, and the girl – Amanda – gave something like a chuckle, or maybe a bubbling breath, and Sherlock did not dare to move, did not dare to breathe and disrupt this moment, risk exposing it as another phantasm of his, a product of his failing mind, a dream, nothing more, while he was still in Eastern Europe and would never escape.

"Come on, you," Mary said, taking the baby from John. "It's time for your nap." She turned around, and then she was gone, and John smiled at him, and when Mark said something, John turned around, too, and Sherlock was left standing in John's living room, surrounded by people, like he had been surrounded by water, water closing over him and trapping him and drowning him.

And then he heard a familiar voice, forced his eyes to focus and noticed Lestrade on John's sofa.

"Sherlock, hello," Lestrade said; he chuckled as Sherlock slowly made his way over to the sofa, one hand still clenched around the folder with case files, and, at an inviting wave from Lestrade, sank down into a nearby chair. His shaking hands he hid in the pockets of his coat.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Lestrade said with a grin. "So, you've finally met Amanda, eh?"

Amanda. John's daughter. Yes. He had known, of course, that Mary had been pregnant, had deduced it, but... but to see it, to wrap his mind around the fact that there was John's daughter now, a piece of John, and...

Lestrade's voice pulled him back to the present, to John's crowded living room, filled with strange people – no, Sherlock corrected, not strange; friends, John's friends. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Sherlock blinked. Going to come, of course he was going to come, it was John, John had invited him. "Why...," he began. "Why wouldn't I?"

Lestrade shrugged and took a sip from the beer bottle in his hand. "You know," he made vaguely. "I didn't think you'd be too happy about John and Mary's plans."

"Plans?" he echoed stupidly.

"Yeah, I know," Lestrade went on. "Who would've thought that John Watson would one day be so domesticated? I mean, getting married and having a kid is one thing, but buying a house and moving to the countryside..."

All the air was compressed from Sherlock's lungs; the sounds, the presences of the other people around him faded. Countryside. Moving to the countryside. Buying a house. John?

He recoiled when Lestrade's hand landed on his shoulder, and the world around him sped up again, the sounds resurfaced, everything. "Oh, come on, no need to pout," Lestrade went on with a chuckle. "He'll still want to solve cases with you."

Sherlock felt like he was drowning. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I...," he croaked. "It's... where?"

Lestrade seemed to furrow his brow, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure. Everything was blurring. "The house? Sussex, I think."

Sussex... Sherlock wanted to lurch to his feet, wanted to get away from the noise and the people and the nausea churning in his intestines, but he couldn't move. John, moving. Leaving London. Sussex.

"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice. Sherlock's eyes flickered back to Lestrade. There was a frown on his face now. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock drew in a gush of air. "What? … Me?... Yes, fine, I'm fine." Fine, he was fine. Everything was fine.

"Sherlock, hi!" Another voice appeared, Molly's, Molly Hooper. "Didn't expect to see you here," she said with a smile, sitting down next to Lestrade. Lestrade's arm moved around Molly's shoulders. Sherlock blinked.

"So," Lestrade said, "how's the case coming along?"

The case, the case... Lestrade's arm around Molly's shoulder. Moving, John was moving. John had a daughter. The case. Needed to solve the case. Lestrade and Molly. Lestrade's arm was around Molly's shoulder, and Sherlock finally got it.

"Oh," he made. Date, Molly had said, she had a date. As did Lestrade. Stupid, so stupid.

Lestrade chuckled; Molly's face was flushed, but she was smiling, too. They looked... good together. They looked... well.

"I thought you'd never figure it out," Lestrade remarked. "Took you long enough."

Molly and Lestrade. Lestrade and Molly. John, moving. John's child. Mary. John. "I... I need to..." This time, Sherlock's body obeyed; he got to his feet, stood there, his knees weak and his stomach churning, and everything was moving too fast around him. Too much, too much. He blinked, turned around, and there was John, in his line of sight, John, talking to Mark Stevens or someone else, and John laughed, and still looked happy, and Sherlock's brain was threatening to explode in his skull.

He hadn't been here, had been gone, and everything else had gone on. John and Mary, and their daughter, daughter, Amanda; and Molly, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson... Looking for a new tenant, she had told him. She had been looking for a new tenant.

Too much, too much, too much.

He hadn't been here, and now that he was back, everything was different; everyone had moved on, had gone on with their lives, and they didn't need him any more. Had, maybe, never really needed him. Because John looked happy now, was happy, and Sherlock could still, all too well, remember the lines in face, the bags beneath his eyes and the heaviness in his gait from before, from all the hurt he had caused John.

He had been gone, and maybe he should have stayed gone.

Molly and Lestrade were watching him, and John was laughing, sounding happy, at home, carefree, somewhere in the distance.

"I need to... to get some air," he managed to croak and, on shaky legs, made his way out of the room.

Thank you for reading. If you happened to find the time for a review, it'd be much appreciated.