A/N: This chapter kicked my ass to write. The mind of Sherlock Holmes is a crazy fucking place.

Inspired by As Much As I Ever Could by City and Colour.

Enjoy~

"Holmes?"

I hear his voice, but I cannot answer. It's as though all of my joy and happiness and ecstasy have been ripped from my soul in just moments. They are replaced by anger and terror. Images of our fate-hanging by a noose, being burned alive, being shot, or being put in prison, separated forever-all flood my vision. Words are simply impossible.

"Sherlock, please," he says, his voice shaking, "Let's go back to bed." He places his hand over mine and I bolt upright.

"We have a mystery to solve, Watson." I say the words, but they seem foreign on my tongue. I'm searching for a solution, a way to live, to survive, even just to keep him alive.

"What can we do?" He sounds so hopeless.

"We can hope and try." I cannot stay angry when I know he needs me.

"Which impossible deed will we try to conquer?"

The answer is terrifying. "We must tell Mary the truth."

"You're mad!" he practically screams.

"And brilliant!" I take a moment to calm myself, but when I close my eyes, I see him dangling, lifeless. I take a deep shuddering breath. "It is our only hope of survival."

"We have to trust that she won't turn us in," he says, "This plan could utterly fail."

If only he knew.

"Do you trust me?" I ask because I need him to do this.

"With my life," he answers, "I'll do it. Alone."

"No," I say, "She'll need someone to take her anger out on." I see Mary holding a pistol at my heart and pulling the trigger. "Let that be me."

"Holmes-" I silence him with a kiss.

"No more, please." I see him holding my nearly dead body, tears streaming down his face and broken sobs leaving his lips. He screams my name and I whisper my love to him before I die. When I come back to reality, I choke back my own tears. "Tomorrow we'll face this. Let's spend our last day together in peace."

He rests his forehead against mine. "Don't talk like that."

"I'd rather not talk at all." I kiss him softly and hold his face in my hands.

I want to memorize him. Every detail. Not just in this broken moment, but every moment of every day of his life. I want him locked away safely in my memory.

"We could run away," he says, breaking our kiss suddenly.

Another vision of us being pulled apart physically by policemen, as we try to get away. I will not cry. "No, Watson. I'm afraid we must face this."

I don't know if he understands my words, but he kisses me again, this time roughly. I respond with gentle caresses. There is no time for haste.

He melts into the kiss. One of his hands cradles the back of my head, massaging my neck. The other rests over my heart. I mimic his stance. In that moment, the world fades away. There is only us.

"Let's go back to bed," he says again, kissing me even softer. "Please."

I cannot resist him.

He takes my hand off his heart and twines his fingers in mine. We're moving in slow motion. I know he's pulling me to the bedroom, but I'm focusing on his hand, on every line and ridge, on the softness of his skin, on his warmth. Then, I see that warmth leaving him, his skin dead cold.

"Don't cry," he says. I'm unaware of my own tears. I can't see so I shut my eyes and the image becomes even more vivid. His lips are blue and a deep jagged scar wraps around his neck. "Lie with me, Sherlock," he whispers, pulling me back, his lips tickling my ear, "Let it be."

"I won't be parted from you," I whisper, though my mind doesn't believe the words.

"I trust you," he replies, pulling off his clothing, "Now lie with me and forget the world." With that he lay down in the centre of the bed.

I let my robe slip onto the floor. I'm still in slow motion, absorbing everything I can about him. Starting with touch.

I move my hands up his calves and thighs, the feel of his soft skin and hair prickling under my touch. "What are you doing?" he asks, his breathing uneven.

"Knowing you." I place soft kisses on his hips. I run my hands up his sides to his ribs then his stomach, moving a single finger down the patch of hair by his navel. I travel downwards, but not far enough. The feel of him is different on every inch, but I know him.

My hands travel his chest and shoulders, the skin slightly scarred and taut. His arms are firm with muscle. I love his soft hands.

"Lie on your stomach," I say and he obeys wordlessly.

His back is entirely smooth, aside a single white scar under his left shoulder blade. I kiss it lightly.

My hands roam his skin, relishing each new inch to explore. He moans under my touch. "I love you." I memorize that too. The sound of his voice. Another image, a noose around his neck, the last words before he dies proclaim his love for me.

A few of my tears fall on his skin. He sighs, turning to face me. His hands hold my face and he gives me a wistful smile. He wipes away my tears. "Let go," he says, "Just for today, be nothing but mine. I am yours." His kiss is so soft and gentle. I let myself get lost in him.

I am lost in his taste, his touch, his smell, his sound, his sight. All that he is, I am diving deeper. I want to find my way into his soul and stay there forever.

You already have, he speaks through the kiss.

It is my powers of deduction that risk our lives. I am so overcome with my fear of losing him, of seeing him dead because of my foolish love. I can't focus. I can't shake my terror for more than a few moments.

He kisses me deeper, pulling me underneath him, pinning me down, forcing me into the present. "You haven't lost me. I'm here."

We are infinite kisses, knitting ourselves together closer and closer with every touch.

His calm washes over me. "Let's make love for hours," he says, planting lazy kisses all over my neck and chest. "Turn off your morbid thoughts and fuck me."

I shudder at his words. More images of him taking the shot from Mary, of our roles reversed, of me holding his dying body, of her holding the gun at my temple, of me begging her to pull the trigger. "I can't," I whimper, "I'm trying."

Suddenly, he pins my wrists above my head. "Then I will fuck you."

He ties my wrists to the bed posts with the discarded rope. I am so weak to his advances and desires.

"I am going to drive you so mad with pleasure you won't be able to think," he growls in my ear, "I'm going to torture you the way you did to me this morning."

"Untie me," I beg.

"Why?" his eyes have a wicked glint.

"If this is our last time together, I want to be able to touch you. I want to make love. Not fuck."

I can tell he's considering my words.

"There will be plenty of time for that later, Holmes." His voice is thunderous and his eyes flash as lightening.

He pours oil on his fingers and inserts them in me slowly. I'm still sore from earlier and I groan.

The world shifts and our roles reverse. It is me who wants that pain, giving me a quick escape from my horrific thoughts. "I'm ready," I whisper the lie because I don't want his sweet preparation. I need the harsh burning pain.

"As you wish," he replies. Slowly, painfully slowly, he pours a bit of oil on his cock and strokes it a few times. My mouth is dry and my blood is pounding in my ears. He is torturing me.

He wraps his arms around me, holding me close as he slowly presses inside me.

It's not enough. I can hear the gunshot, can smell the gun powder, can hear our screams. "John," I beg, "Please." I need the pain.

He lifts me off the bed and his cock goes in deeper. I swear I can see stars. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, even deeper.

All movement stops once he's fully inside me. He places soft kisses on my neck and chest. I feel a single tear fall down my cheek.

John kisses me slowly. Let go.

All I can see and hear is his death.

I'm trying. Another tear. I need you.

"I'm right here!"

He's fucking me now and it hurts, but I don't want him to stop. I want him harder and faster. I crave the pain. Each thrust sets me on fire, but that pain is slowly fading. I'm gasping for breath as though my very life depends on it.

John slows, pressing a kiss to my temple as he unties me. Immediately I push him onto his back, going back to our position from earlier. I'm riding him, searching for that pain, but he rolls and pins me down once more. The morbid thoughts are building, bubbling to the surface of my mind. His skin is so cold.

His thrusts are too slow but so deep, shaking me to my core. He's hitting my prostrate with every thrust and I am going mad with pleasure. I'm aching for release, but he's still going so slowly. I rake my finger nails down his back and bites my neck harshly, pace still too slow for release.

I let go then. All of my worries and fears float away as love and pleasure take their place. My mind stops racing and I go back to memorizing him. How his sliver-blue eyes lock mine and there's nothing to fear, because he soothes my soul from the burns of blind passion.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

We do make love for hours, or what feels like it. This slow building pleasure, like rainfall before a fierce storm, is reaching a crescendo. My heartbeat is going weak and I hope he hears my plea to not save my life.

"Bring me your love tonight," he whispers before kissing me passionately, my fingers twisting in his hair and I cry out in our kiss as wave after wave of pleasure and peaceful acceptance hits me. I see those stars again as I come harder than I thought possible. He's right here with me.

A beautiful image of us in a field on a sunny day, enjoying a picnic and infinite kisses with nothing but love takes over my thoughts. There is no more fear. I vow to make it reality.

"I love you, John Watson."