Hello again.

Thank you - all of you who read, and all of you who reviewed (I have yet to reply to those, I know); your continued interest is the only reason this chapter exists.

All mistakes are mine. Enjoy.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock IX

When Sherlock came awake, it was dark around him. Cold sweat was soaking the collar of his dressing gown, and his heart was fluttering in his chest. It wasn't a new sensation.

He sat up, covered his face with his hands. Shaking, they were shaking again. Maybe, he thought absently, he should indeed try to eat something. Eat something and actually keep it down.

In the dark, he waited for his heartrate to slow down, for the by now familiar queasiness to fade. He hadn't even bothered to retreat to his bedroom the last three nights. He never slept for long, one hour, maybe two, before he always woke up again, with a racing heart, breathless and bathed in sweat.

With a shaky inhale, Sherlock lowered his hands. He didn't remember his dreams, nightmares, most of the time. There were flashes of water, mostly, flashes of a gun pointed at his head, or sometimes flashes of that one woman, a woman, innocent, civilian, who had tried to help him and who had payed the price when the men that were after him found her and slit her throat.

Sherlock cramped his fingers into his dressing gown and fought to keep his breathing even. That hadn't been it, today, not that, not that. Think of John, his brain told him, John, John, John.

And then the images of his dream suddenly were back, and Sherlock barely made it into the kitchen before he threw up.

John. It had been John this time, with a bullet hole in his forehead, his eyes vacant, blood darkening his hair.

Sherlock retched again, dry-heaved, but nothing came up. Nothing could come up because he hadn't eaten anything in... he didn't know. There wasn't anything to throw up apart from tea, coffee and a few of Mrs Hudson's biscuits.

His eyes were burning as he gagged again, burning with maybe the onset of tears. He spit out saliva mixed with bile and lurched away from the sink, towards his armchair where his mobile was lying.

John. He needed to call John.

His fingers were shaking, uncoordinated as he dialled John's number, and his breathing sounded loud, harsh in his own ears as he waited the call to be answered.

John picked up after the fourth ring. "Sherlock?" His voice was raspy, slow and he still seemed half-asleep, but to Sherlock, nothing had ever sounded better.

Just a dream, just a dream.

"John," he croaked. Couldn't say anything else. Are you all right, he wanted to ask, wanted to demand, but his throat had closed up, and he could barely think. He dug the fingers of his free hand into his temple, but it didn't help.

John groaned at the other end of the line. "Sherlock," he said. "Do you even know how late it is?"

He didn't, didn't care. John was fine, wasn't dead, was safe. Had never been in Eastern Europe with him, had been safe all the time, safe here, in London.

"Sherlock," John repeated. "Is it a case? Is someone in danger, or about to be blown up, or anything like that?"

Sherlock let out a breath of air. "No," he answered absently. Safe, his mind repeated, John was safe.

John's voice was clipped when he went on. "Then why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the bloody night?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. "I wanted to make sure you were all right," he finally whispered, said it before he could stop himself. Stupid, stupid.

John hadn't heard him. "What?" he said. "Never mind. Just... don't call me unless it's an emergency, all right? Some people actually want to sleep in the night, you know?"

Sherlock swallowed. "John, I'm sorry," he wanted to say, but John had already ended the call. It didn't matter. John was safe, safe at home, not dead. Not dead.

Sherlock's numb fingers dropped his mobile, and he let himself slide to the floor. Safe. John was safe. He let out another shaky breath and buried his head in his hands. There would be no more sleep for him tonight.

~(o)~

Mrs Hudson brought him breakfast later. Sherlock didn't know what time it was; it was bright outside, and he was standing at the window, his violin in his hand, but not playing anything.

"Morning, Sherlock," she chirped as she entered. "Oh, are you composing?"

She huffed quietly when she noticed the uneaten breakfast from the day before. "Have you been up all night? I could hear you pacing, you know. It's not healthy, young man, working all the time."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He wanted to listen to her, simply listen, to her voice, to her huffing, to her scolding him, wanted to listen to her and know that she was here, here with him, that he wasn't alone, not any more. For a moment, just for a moment.

"You haven't even been back for a week," she went on, "and already this place is a mess." She tsked; Sherlock could picture her, shaking her head in exasperation, her arms in her hips. He could picture to John, seated in his armchair, half-hidden behind a newspaper, but smiling at Mrs Hudson's antics. "Different drugs for her hip," he would mouth, and Sherlock would grin and then turn back to his violin and his composing.

Instead, Mrs Hudson huffed again. "Really," she muttered, more to herself, "I don't know how John did it, living with you and your mess and your... you all these years."

The thought of John brought a cold lump to Sherlock's throat. John, with a bullet hole in his forehead, his dead, empty eyes staring accusingly at Sherlock, telling him: you didn't save me. You didn't keep me safe. You swore, and you broke that vow. Sherlock shook his head, curtly, to disperse these memories. Thoughts. Images. "John," he began while he could hear Mrs Hudson shuffling around in the kitchen. The sink, thankfully he had cleaned the sink. "John is moving."

Mrs Hudson emerged from the kitchen and nodded. "Yes, I know. They've been thinking about it for while now, actually, but it seems they've finally made a decision... About time, I'd say. That little flat of theirs is no place to raise a child."

Child. Of course. Amanda. Something warm flooded him for a moment, and he remembered the way she had looked at him, remembered her blue eyes, John's, almost, and how she had held one finger of his with all of hers. Uncle Sherlock, Molly had called him. Uncle to John's child. He almost felt the urge to smile.

"Is he..." He had to clear his throat. "Is he happy?"

Mrs Hudson picked up the tray from yesterday. "John?" she made. "Yes, I think so. Mary's good for him, and the little one, of course." She sighed softly. "He deserves it, don't you think? After everything he's been through."

Sherlock turned around, his back to Mrs Hudson. "Yes." John deserved it. And so much more.

"Oh, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson was still there, but he didn't turn back to face her. "You'll still see him, you know. You're still his friend."

Sherlock swallowed. Remembered. Good to have you back, John had said. Remembered the grief he had caused John, the hurt, the destruction he had brought into John's life. Remembered John's face, the lines, the worry, the weariness, after Magnussen, and remembered John's face last Saturday, with his wife, his daughter, his new friends. Remembered John laughing, on Saturday. Remembered John with his daughter.

"Well." Mrs Hudson's steps were moving to the door. "I'll leave you to your composing, then. And don't forget your breakfast, dear."

The sound of her footsteps disappeared, but Sherlock didn't move. Happy, she had confirmed, John was happy.

Good, that was good, he knew that, but his eyes were still burning. He blinked, once, twice, and finally simply squeezed them shut. It was easier to think that way, he told himself, but it was also easier to pretend that John was here, sitting in his armchair, and that he wasn't alone in his empty, cold flat.

~(o)~

He didn't sleep again until Friday. Didn't try to. Friday, John had said, he had Friday off; he had time on Friday.

Sherlock forced himself to drink one cup of tea and swallow one slice of toast, even took another shower, shaved and put on fresh clothes. He was aware, on some level, of how terrible he looked, with red-rimmed eyes, dark rings beneath them, the ugly bruise on his cheekbone a sickly yellow. That wouldn't do, not for John.

He had texted John, occasionally, in the past six days, when the silence in his flat was too loud, too heavy, too empty, and John had replied, sometimes, but he had taken care not to bother John, apart from his one nightly phone call. John had a job, a family, friends, and Sherlock, he had realised, had to respect that, especially since he had never done so before. Had always taken John for granted, before his fall. Would never do that again.

John hadn't specified a time, so Sherlock took a cab to John and Mary's flat in the early afternoon, late enough to, by his best estimates, not disturb any nap Amanda might be taking, but early enough not to disturb any plans for the evening John and Mary might have.

When he rang the doorbell, it was Mary, in a dressing gown, with loose trousers and slippers on her feet, who opened the door, not John. Sherlock, for a moment, didn't know what to say. "Mary," he then croaked. "Is... Is John here?"

A frown appeared on Mary's face. "Oh Sherlock," she said, biting her lip. "Didn't he tell you? He went fishing with one of his friends."

Fishing. With one of his friends. The words hit Sherlock like a physical blow. Friday. Friday off, John had said. "Oh," he managed. "When... when will he be back?"

Mary had pulled her lower lip between her teeth. "Tomorrow evening," she said. "Oh Sherlock, I'm so sorry. Ed is one of his best friends; he must've forgotten to tell you."

Sherlock's heart twinged; he could feel the heat in his cheeks. Best friend. Stupid, so stupid. There was a pressure on his chest that made it difficult to breathe. "Oh," he made again.

Mary smiled and took a step back. "But come in, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed. "No, I-," he began, but Mary cut him off: "Oh, don't just stand there! Come in."

Mary, he forced himself to remember, Mary, Mary, John's Mary.

"Sherlock!" she called again; Sherlock took a deep breath and forced his transport to move and follow Mary. He sat when Mary told him to, on the sofa, while Mary seated herself in the armchair, folding her legs beneath her.

"Really, I'm sorry," she told him. I'm sorry, Sherlock, truly am. "John must have forgotten to tell you. About his fishing trip, I mean." She gave a faint smile. "He's had a lot on his mind, lately, you know, with Amanda, and the house..."

Sherlock couldn't look at her. Stared at his feet instead. "Yes," he croaked. Yes, of course. Plans, John had plans, was busy, had a family, a life now.

"I'd never thought I would move to the countryside." She sounded almost wistful. "But it's been John's dream, I think, and with Amanda now... We can't possibly raise her here in London."

Sherlock didn't reply.

Mary chuckled. "Oh, Sherlock, there's no need to sulk," she told him. "You can always come and visit, you know. You're still our friend."

Friend. Sherlock forced himself to nod. You're the best man, and the most human human being I have ever known, John had told him once, had told his grave. Friend. He was still John's friend. He took a shaky breath, looked up at Mary. She was still smiling at him.

"You hurt him deeply, you know," she said, sounding almost as if she were talking to herself. Sherlock's face was burning, and his throat narrowed. "He grieved for you for two years, and then you came back, only to leave him again."

I didn't mean to, he wanted to tell her, I did it for John, to keep him safe, but it was useless. Because she was right, and he knew it. He had hurt John with his faked suicide, and then he had left John behind again, but not before he had almost destroyed John's life and everything he had hoped for. Mary was right, and Sherlock knew it. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She put a hand on his knee. "Oh Sherlock, I know," she said. "But that doesn't really change anything."

For a moment, there was only silence. Silence and the knowledge, the guilt, that threatened to drown Sherlock.

"He just... he can't go through that again, Sherlock, and that's why he can't allowed himself to get too invested. Not again. You understand that, do you?" Mary's voice was soft, calm, and Sherlock, with a shaky breath, could only nod.

"And there's Amanda now," she went on. Sherlock raised his gaze. Her eyes were full of sadness, of sympathy. "You shot a man, in cold blood. And," she was quick to add, "I don't blame you for it, I never would, but... you're a murderer, and danger follows you at your heels. You're not... You do understand that we can't have you around our daughter too often, don't you?"

It's not true, he wanted to say again, wanted to protest; you're an assassin, John is a soldier. But then he remembered the faces of those he had killed in Serbia, and in Croatia, and in Romania, and how he had shot Magnussen, point blank in the face, and everything he had wanted to say simply vanished. There was nothing he could say. "I'm sorry," he finally whispered.

Mary gave his knee a gentle squeeze. "Oh Sherlock," she said again. "Don't tell John," she added. You won't tell John. You won't tell him. "He loves you too much to tell you so blandly."

Sherlock swallowed tightly, then nodded. "I'm sorry," he said again, but he knew it would never change anything.

Thank you for reading.