It's been ages, I know. But - in light of what's been happening these past few months - I thought that maybe a chapter of this ancient story might serve as a bit of distraction to those who might still be reading.

Thank you to all of you who reviewed despite my prolonged absence; it really means a lot. Thank you especially to Ranowa Hikura and Novva - if you read that, your words were inspiring.

Here goes nothing.

AND IN THE DARK, I CALL YOUR NAME

PART I

Sherlock VIII

Sherlock didn't go far. Of course not. Didn't even know where he wanted to go, because he was back home now, and home was John. What was he, without John?

John was happy, he remembered as he stood in front of John and Mary's flat. John was happy and that was, as he had realised after he had come back from dismantling Moriarty's network of criminal agents, the only thing that mattered. Because John Watson, his friend, the man who had saved him so many times, had saved him from himself, the army doctor who thrived on adrenaline and had found the perfect wife in Mary, the man Sherlock had caused nothing but harm and hurt, deserved nothing less.

Deserved everything.

Sherlock had faked his suicide and worked to rid the world of Moriarty's agents to keep John safe, John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson – but safe, for John, didn't mean happy. John had suffered, and John had grieved for him, and the very moment when John had found happiness again, in Mary, Sherlock had crashed back into his life, their lives, and had almost destroyed everything. Had underestimated Magnussen, had, however unintentionally, driven a wedge between John and Mary, had made one enormous, one fatal mistake that had almost cost John everything.

And then he had left, for his exile, for his final mission, in the knowledge that this was the last time he would ever see John, but John would keep going, John's life would go on, with his wife and a child on the way.

He had to close his eyes. He still remembered the feel of John's hand in his, their final handshake, final goodbye, and John's face in this moment, haunted and weary, but with maybe a spark of hope in his eyes, a spark of life, was burnt into his memory. To the very best of times, he had told John, had seen John smile one last time, but he had known that John would be all right, this time, would miss him, maybe, but would live his life, because he had Mary.

The game had been over for Sherlock, but that had been all right.

And now he was back, by some miracle, and John had a family, had friends, was happy. John was happy.

The people in there were John's friends; he could bear them, Sherlock resolved, could take this. For John, he could take everything.

So he turned around and raised his arm to ring the doorbell. His hand, he noticed distantly, was shaking, but it didn't matter.

John was happy, and that, Sherlock realised, was enough.

~(o)~

He stayed until everyone else was gone. His head was pounding, his ribs were flaring with pain, and everything was too loud, too fast, but when he concentrated on John, or Amanda, John's tiny daughter, he could ignore it all.

Amanda. John's daughter. She was on Molly's lap, for a while, squirming and making blubbering noises and throwing away her gruesomely pink rattle, and Sherlock could not stop watching her. John's daughter.

"Yes," Molly had crooned when Amanda had reached vaguely into Sherlock's direction, "that's your uncle Sherlock." Amanda had made another unspecified noise, and then, suddenly, Sherlock had found his arms full of John's daughter. He hadn't dared to move, had barely dared to breathe while John's daughter had been wriggling in his hold, only to then settle down and blink up at him with her wide blue eyes.

"She likes you," Molly had said, her eyes on Amanda.

And then John and Lestrade had appeared, and they had both chuckled; John, smiling, had snapped a photo, and something had loosened in Sherlock. He had, carefully, very carefully, extended one finger to touch the whiff of blonde hair on Amanda's head, only to flinch when she closed her tiny fingers around his and didn't let go.

He held John's daughter and couldn't stop looking at her, until Mary had approached and had picked her up, saying something about a nappy change.

The lawyer, Mark Stevens, and his wife had left already; as had some other friends of Mary's, and a colleague of John's and his wife. Lestrade and Molly were gone, too, and Mary and John were upstairs, together with Amanda.

Amanda. John's tiny, intriguing daughter. Your uncle Sherlock, Molly had said. Uncle. John's daughter.

His broken rib was jabbing in tact with his heart as he sat there, in John's living room, on John's sofa, after everyone had finally left, and his head was pounding, but Sherlock felt almost light. His eyes drifted closed. The images were still there, memories that had followed him home from Eastern Europe and that kept clinging to his mind and his body, but when he inhaled, he could smell John's cologne in the air and Mary's perfume and an echo of the disgusting mush they had fed Amanda. He could hear steps on the stairs, light steps, not John's, but Mary's, former highly-trained assassin, and his eyes shot open.

Mary went into the kitchen, then reappeared again, a glass of water in her left hand. Wearing a smile on her face, she made her way over and, with an exasperated sigh, slumped into an empty armchair. "Gosh," she drawled, "I swear, sometimes it's a relief when they're all gone."

Sherlock remained quiet. Mary Watson, he had to remind himself, she was Mary Watson, John's wife, not the assassin clad in black.

Her eyes were on him, scanning him, looking right through him. Fibbing, he remembered. Mary Watson could tell when he was fibbing. Sherlock wanted to squirm. "Where's...," he began, then had to clear his throat. "Where's John?"

Mary tucked her legs under her body. "Oh, he's reading Amanda her bedtime story," she said.

Bedtime story. Of course. "Oh," he made, and then fell silent again. His brain replayed the memory of Amanda's tiny fingers squeezing his, and...

"So," Mary said, and Sherlock flinched. Stupid, he told himself immediately, stupid, stupid. She was only Mary, John's wife. Mary Watson, who loved John. "You're back."

All of a sudden, the weight on his chest was back, crushing his lungs. "Yes," he croaked.

Mary was still watching him. "What happened?" she wanted to know.

Sherlock didn't meet her eyes. "Oh," he said hoarsely, did his best to sound disinterested. "You know. The cases there... not worth my time."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Sherlock" she huffed. "You can try that with John, if you want. I can tell when you're fibbing, remember? And I know that you weren't exactly meant to come back from this exile."

All the air was sucked from his lungs. He tried to speak, tried to think of something to say, tried to breathe. "It's... I...," he managed. "How?"

"Oh please," Mary said and gave him a disarming smile. "I haven't completely forgotten my past, you know. I still know how to read people."

Mary Watson, highly-trained. Professional. Clever. Of course. Sherlock cramped his fingers into his trouser legs, to stop their trembling. "John..."

Mary's smile faded as she shook her head. "John doesn't know," she said.

You don't tell John, he remembered her, looming over him, looking like Mary Watson again. Sherlock. You don't tell him.

"You..." He swallowed, tried to take a deep breath. His head was spinning. Goodbye, John, he had said. To the very best of times. The East Wind takes us all, in the end. "You won't tell him?"

Mary leaned forwards in her chair, towards him. Something flashed across her face, something like pain, but Sherlock couldn't pinpoint it, couldn't decipher the expression. "No," she said; her face was calm now, and serious. "John must never know. It would do nothing but hurt him, and I'm not going to let that happen."

There's nothing I wouldn't do to stop that happening, she'd told him, in Leinster Gardens.

This time, when she leaned forwards even further, she rested her right hand on top of his left. "I know you'd never hurt John, either," she told him, "not on purpose."

Sherlock swallowed. But he had, those were the words she didn't say, He had hurt John, so many times, in so many different ways. They'd both hurt John, the man they loved most, but Sherlock knew that what he had done was worse than Mary's lie to hide her past, so much worse.

When he looked up, she was smiling at him again, and this time, she was Mary Watson, no-one else, with crinkles around her warm eyes, witty, clever, funny. He nodded.

Mary squeezed his hand, then let go and leaned back in her chair.

Sherlock was still trying to calm his racing heart when another set of steps sounded on the stairs – John, John coming downstairs. "Are you two having fun without me?" he asked, before settling into the armchair next to Mary's.

"Yes," Mary said, smiling at him, a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Is she asleep?"

"Out like a light."

Amanda, Sherlock realised, they were talking about Amanda, their daughter. Mary said something else, and John answered, but the words mingled in Sherlock's head, became a steady noise instead of intelligible sentences. There was an odd pain in his chest, a tightness that made breathing difficult, and so Sherlock concentrated on John, the sound of John's voice and the certainty of John's presence.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes shot open when John addressed him. He blinked once, twice. Looked at John.

John had said something, he realised. Expected an answer. "What?" he made.

John rolled his eyes, but there was no anger in his expression as he exchanged a glance with Mary. Not yet, Sherlock's brain reminded him. "Mark and Gemma and Daniel and Alice," John expalined. "I know you," he went on when Sherlock still didn't say anything. "Your brain must be bursting with deductions about them by now."

Sherlock swallowed tightly. His hands were trembling again, he noticed, and his head felt light. Mark and Gemma and Daniel and Alice, he remembered. John's friends. "They were... nice," he said. His head was spinning. He wanted to lie down on the sofa and listen to John slowly type away on his laptop, wanted to listen to John muttering under his breath and groaning occasionally when he forgot to save the blog post he had been working on, wanted to pretend they were back in 221B, years ago.

"Sherlock."

Years ago. The truth of what he had done, of what he had done to John, hit Sherlock like the current of a cold river. Moriarty. Magnussen. The pool, the sniper at Bart's. The bonfire. Mary. Magnussen. Appledor. John, on Magnussen's porch. All the times John had been in danger, all the times John had suffered. Because of Sherlock. Because Sherlock craved the thrill of the game; because Sherlock thrived on danger, with no regard for the safety of others, with no regard for John's safety.

"Sherlock," John said, exasperated. "Did you hear a word I just said?"

Sherlock blinked. All the times John had been in danger, all the times John had been hurt, had suffered. Because of him. Always because of Sherlock. And now that John had a family, a happy life, a good future ahead of him, Sherlock was back, and the thought of more harm coming to John, coming to John's daughter, because of him made Sherlock almost physically sick.

That wasn't allowed to happen. It wasn't.

Not again. Not to John Hamish Watson, who kept him right.

"Sherlock," John repeated, more urgently now, and Sherlock surfaced. John. John, talking to him. Answer, he needed to answer.

"I...," he began, stopped before his voice could break. Stopped when the feeling of tight ropes around his wrists returned, when he could sense the fibres scalding his skin once more, his wrists raw and bruised, stiff and hurting. He could still sense it, he realised, and it still felt real. The dampness of that basement on his face, and in...

No. It was over, truly over and in the past. He was back, and he had left it behind, had to, had to if he did not want to let the darkness in him take him and drown him. No.

"I've been working on the case," he croaked, before he could choke on the words and shatter to pieces under John's gaze, in front of John, could fall apart and never be put together again.

The sentence burnt him, singed his throat and almost made him gag, but Sherlock didn't take it back. He clang to the feeling of John's sofa beneath him, to the knowledge that John was here, to John's smell, uniquely John, surrounding.

A weary sigh came from John. "Do we have to talk about this now?" he wanted to know. "When's the last time you slept, anyway?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. "I can't." It came out as barely more than a whisper, but John had heard him.

"Because you have a case, yes, I know." John sighed again, and Sherlock's heart clenched. "Did you at least get that bruise looked at?"

The bruise. Green, yellow, days after it had happened, on his left cheek. "Yes," he forced himself to say and kept his eyes on John, John, John, not on freezing, violent water around him, rocks everywhere, making contact with his head, enough to render him dizzy, to... Not on a doctor with cold, thick hands, probing him, touching him. "Yes," he repeated, and it wasn't even a lie.

Fibbing, Mary Watson's voice was saying in his head. I'm not John. I can tell when you're fibbing.

"Good." John nodded, a faint smile on his face. "I'm not even going to ask what you said to whoever took a swing at you. You deserved it, probably."

Deserved it. Maybe he had, Sherlock mused, for all the hurt he had caused John. And even if he hadn't – a bruise was a small price to pay for John's safety, for John's happiness. Happiness.

"You pack a harder punch," he said. His voice was hoarse, and he barely managed to get the words out, but it was worth it when John chuckled. "You deserved that, too," he said, but his voice was warm, warm and gentle, without real anger.

Sherlock's eyelids were drooping. He could hear John's breathing, could hear John's voice as he said something to Mary. His mind, his body were heavy, and maybe, he thought, mabye he could find some sleep here, on John's sofa.

"Sherlock." He flinched when a hand came to rest on his shoulder, and his eyes flew open. Mary's face was in front of him, smiling, smiling. Mary Watson, with a gun, telling him: I'm sorry, Sherlock truly am. "Why don't you let John call you a cab and get a few hours of rest?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock mumbled instinctively. He was, he was. Sleep wasn't important; he had gone without sleep for much longer.

John gave a curt laugh. "Sure you are," he said, and his tone was still warm, still gentle. "Except that you're nodding off on our sofa."

Sherlock's eyes had closed again. He didn't want to sleep, knew of the people, moments, memories lurking in the darkness, waiting for him, but with John, maybe...

"Sherlock." Mary's voice again, Mary, John's wife. Sherlock could barely bring himself to open his eyes. Mary shook his shoulder, a light touch, and he wanted to recoil, tried to hide it. She seemed to hesitate, bit her lip. Something was happening in her face, something Sherlock couldn't name, couldn't decipher, and then she smiled. "You can't sleep here, Sherlock," she said. "Amanda can't sleep when there are strangers in the house."

Amanda. John's daughter. He had made a vow, to always be there for John and Mary, and that included their daughter, too. "Yes," he slurred. "Yes, of course." He stood, ignored the numbness in his legs and the throbbing of his ribs.

Mary smiled at him again and hugged him. "Take care, yes?" she told him, and Sherlock nodded.

John accompanied him to the door. Sherlock stepped outside, into the darkening dusk, his shaking hands hidden in his coat pockets, and turned to look at John again. "I'll-," he began, only to cut himself off. He used to occupy John's time as he pleased, but John had a job now, a loving wife, a daughter, had friends, friends that were important to him. "I'll see you round?"

John pursed his lips, then nodded. "Yeah, 'course."

Sherlock blinked, averting his gaze. "When..." He cleared his throat, looked back at John. John, whom Sherlock's imperfect memories could never do justice. "When do you have time?"

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Jesus, Sherlock," he said. "I don't know. Next Friday, maybe? I've got next Friday off, so... yeah, next Friday."

Sherlock swallowed tightly. Next Friday. Six days from today. "Okay," he said. "I'll see you then."

He turned around after a few dozen metres, but John had already closed the door.

Thank you for reading.

Stay safe, and stay healthy.