Because someone messaged me to stop writing slash, I've decided to post this from my LiveJournal (where there is slash aplenty).

From the prompt: Holmes keeps kissing Watson like it's the last time he'll ever see him. Watson is getting more and more freaked out.

PS: If you loath the idea of Holmes/Watson, I recommend you not read those particular stories. I also recommend you don't ask people not to do it, as nothing good will come of that decision.

The first time it happened, we were huddled together and fearing for our lives. My hands were clamped to the sides of my skull as bullets grazed overhead and splinters of wood flew from the walls. My eyes were screwed shut and I could see nothing but the odd colors swimming throughout my vision. Holmes was to my left, half collapsed on the ground, half propped upon elbow and waiting for a break in action.

When we could see no end, I began to panic. I wanted to take a chance and shoot blindly at them; I wanted to scream out my frustrations at not being able to open my eyes; I wanted to make a dash and pray to God I wasn't hit. In that moment I had no idea where I was nor what surrounded me except loud noise and confusion. A faceless weight began to press against my chest and started moving my hand, causing my heart to skip. Before I could react rashly, however, clarity came rushing back and I was aware of Holmes' hand holding my own, drawing me to him. By instinct I wanted to bury my face in his chest to mute the small explosions and to feel the assurance of a warm heart beat, but no sooner had I fallen into him that I felt Holmes sinking along with me. He put a hand on my chest, the other brushing lightly over my eyelids, coaxing them to open. When I looked at him his face was drawn and pale, displaying a look I could not decipher. Before I could reach out and touch him he had me against the crates, his lips sloppily seeking mine while I sat frozen and wide-eyed. I could feel the raw desire he'd held if only to comfort and distract me. Whether it meant more then that, I had no realistic idea. It didn't matter. From the moment he took my hand, all I could remember of that awful day was that his tongue was warm and assuring as it pressed against my lips, begging complacency.

Our first kiss seemed like it would be our last, but by some miracle, we survived.

The second happened weeks after the first. No new romance blossomed between us, though we did pay thoughtful mind to each other in our day-to-day lives. The kiss had lingered upon my lips continually but I never felt the compulsion to ask for more. Shouldering it off as an act of possible farewell in a situation under fire, I paid no more mind to it then did Sherlock Holmes himself.

But that all changed one night as Holmes and I were returning from an opera. We walked arm in arm and talked about the performance and the dinner we were on our way to enjoy. I don't know what it was, but something off in the distance had caught my companion's eye and he very nearly ran off to pursue it. He stopped, of course, and turned back to me. My hand flew to the pocket where my old revolver was clutched against my chest while my eyes signified that I was ready to follow him unto whatever the night would bring us. However, instead of nodding or protesting, Holmes grabbed my hand and pulled me into the narrow passage between two buildings. Before I knew what was happening the back of my head hit brick and Holmes' full weight was against me. His eyes, large and foreboding, searched my face for a brief moment before I could feel his mouth crush against my own. His teeth were sharp as they scraped across my lip but his tongue proved to be the savior of the moment. Caught off guard I still savored the feel of him in my mouth. He pressed closer, panting as I moaned into him, his arms clasped round me like an iron vice. I could feel the stones behind me shifting until they were no longer at my back. Cool air blew across my neck and I suddenly grew frightened. I pulled away and, without looking at Holmes, turned to the open street. I turned back to my companion once I was satisfied that we were alone, but he was already gone. There was a ghost of slick remembrance across my gums; I could even swear to tasting saliva that was not mine.

After that I could no longer ignore the implications of these spur-of-the-moment romances. I was forced to return home alone after searching in vain for a half-hour. But come morning I was awoken by the sound of the door shutting closed. Holmes was bruised and dirty, but overall healthy. He smiled at me with tired eyes and I saw him turning towards his bedroom. As his doctor and his friend, I wanted nothing more then for him to catch up on his lost night of sleep. However, what I wanted more than his well being was an explanation for the desperate circumstance of last night's situation. His eyes dimmed slightly but still he smiled with such gentleness that I forbade myself from keeping him any longer.

Though once he was fed and rested, I put myself to determining exactly what kind of relationship we had between ourselves.

To call it love seemed, dare I say, romantic. And yet neither he nor I could ever deny loving one another. But to think that anything like this was even remotely possible seemed a dream in of itself. I don't mean to say that Holmes suddenly tossed away non-sexual nature, but I was admitted closer contact with the man then ever before. This meant the occasional embrace for no reason at all, curling up together on the settee on quiet evenings and even sleeping together from time to time. Nothing more explicit happened beyond kissing, sweetly and deeply, and though I could never ask more of my friend, I found that that boundary didn't at all cloud my desire to simply be with him.

We carried on like this for a while, until the third time I found myself worrying.

I had been sitting before the fire one morning, reading the paper and idly sipping coffee. I was about to turn the page when I could feel Holmes's presence in front of my chair. I lay the paper across my lap and looked up at him; his face was like a mask. In my alert reaction Holmes took point to ignore my protest and to climb into the seat himself. His knees pressed uncomfortably against my thigh and so I squirmed so that he was straddle across my hips. I'd've thought this a random act of bodily desire if only I hadn't known that to be so completely out of his character. His hands remained on my shoulder until one came to cup my cheek. We stared at one another briefly before he slowly brought our lips together. It was a slow rhythm which communicated such warmth and tenderness that I didn't think much of it at first. It wasn't until he began to pull away but stopped before doing so. My bottom lip was held between his teeth and I could feel his tongue retracting away from mine. There was a small moment of hesitancy before his lips closed against mine and kissed both corners of my mouth very gently before burying his face in the crook of my neck. I asked quietly what was the matter, but he didn't respond.

It wasn't lust which drove my racing heart when he removed himself and took a seat in his own chair. I looked after him for some moments and indeed, for several days, hoping to find the root of these strange, sorrowful kisses. The breath in my lungs caught as I realized what it really was I felt.

It was as though these kisses were the last, and that each one was made to be different.

In complete horror I stood and gazed down at my friend and questioned him without comment. He met my gaze but looked as though nothing was amiss. When I brought it up later in the evening, he told me not to think about it because it didn't matter.

But it did, I just didn't know why.

Months passed and I had yet to experience a similar fright since that morning. Ever close, we retained the odd romance which developed between us and I found that I was happier then I'd ever been before. Holmes and Lestrade were drawing exceedingly close to the conclusion of a trifling case and all was going according to plan. All that remained was the fool-proof collaborative plan of Holmes' that would ensure the capture of our criminal at exactly eleven forenoon. Holmes' spirits were up and he treated me to a fine piece on his violin after a shared glass of whiskey. I had applauded him, he bowed for me, and we laughed until we couldn't breath. Once he regained control of himself, Holmes set his instrument aside and looked at me with his lopsided grin and tousled hair. I, too, was beaming at the mirth filling our rooms. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and tossed it in the general direction of his room. I watched as it fluttered down and rippled upon the floor. Holmes chuckled and went to retrieve it.

"I've never seen anything so marvelous," he said as he picked up the cloth.

"No indeed," said I.

He was standing between me and his doorway, shifting upon his feet in excitement.

"I say, Watson, it's rather late. We ought to head off to bed." Reaching out he took my hand in his and squeezed.

He didn't even need to word the proffered invitation. The moment I was on my feet he had pulled me into a full-body embrace, peppering my neck with gentle nips and kisses. He made his way up to my ear, across my jaw, and below my chin. I kissed the bridge of his nose which caused him to laugh. "Let us have this night together," he breathed. I could but nod as we made our way to his bedroom.

What could have been a night of pure bliss and intimacy was blown away by the forth, and final fright.

We were stripped down to our trousers and socks when we tumbled into Holmes' bed. I was shoved against the pillow as he threw himself across my chest, his hand forging a hot trail along my body and to the band of my trousers. I could feel his fingers sliding between the cloth and my skin, stopping at at the top button. He smiled at me then with a teasing gaze and mischievous eyes. My heart fluttered as his palm brushed the front of my trousers with unashamed torture until I was nearly blind with arousal. At that point I was begging him to touch me, knowing full well what his usual answer was; only this time, he did. It was the first time this happened. He released his hold of me and fell into a more natural position, obliging me with what has always, until this point, been denied. Shudders ran down my spine as I gripped the fabric over his hips, the dark hair of his head glistening like inky water over my exposed chest while his breath was a hot wave gliding over me. I could feel myself coming close to release and so wanted to return the favor before I was spent and exhausted. He brought his full attention to my face, thumbing over my cheeks and smiling as he kissed my chin, mouthing a silent yes. Despite my swimming mind, I was articulate enough to be amazed that Holmes was actually allowing me to do it. He lifted himself and watched as my hand passed over the muscles of his abdomen and towards his trousers. I undid them urgently and didn't waste a moment indulging him. Holmes let out a cry which I silenced with a messy kiss. He arched into me as I spoke his name in a breathy murmur, shuddering against me, thus triggering what I've been holding back for infinite moments.

Our breathing was heavy as we collapsed together over the blankets. Holmes dragged himself up so that we were equally aligned . His soft brown eyes settled on mine and he blushed, sinking his face into the pillow. I chuckled quietly and brushed a thumb over his cheek.

"You look beautiful," he murmured into my palm.

"You only think so now?"

"I've always thought so, actually."

"I never thought you noticed things like that."

"Since when could you ever be considered with things, Watson? You are not things, you are my dear companion with whom I've fallen in love." he laughed at that and slid his fingers between mine. "Falling in love was unexpected."

"Had it been expected, I don't think it would have happened. We never would have shared this moment, for instance."

"It was nice... I was afraid to engage in such a thing because I thought it'd be so prosaic and base, but it was not."

"Just don't think too much of it, Holmes."

"Of course not. Doing so would disturb the romance and utterly destroy it."

I didn't say anything more after that. Holmes snuggled against me and I kissed the top of his head quietly. What we did that night was monumental despite being so completely simple. Holmes had given me this; not just the passions, but the assurance I felt being with him and talking to him. Thinking back to the days before love began to bloom I could not help but picture all the things he'd said and what ulterior meanings they may have held. Feeling his heart beating steadily against mine, I was soon lulled into a comforted sleep where I did not dream or think.

It was in the throws of a warming darkness that I was suddenly brought back into conscience. It was dark yet, and I could still feel the weight of Holmes at my side. But when I opened my eyes I was surprised to find him leaning over and looking at me.

"I've told you you were beautiful..." His voice was strained with a slight tremor running through it. I allowed him to move without my doing anything at all. He rolled himself until he was lying fully his stomach atop the mattress. His hands snaked across my chest and over my shoulders, cupping my head and holding me still. I could feel my gut rolling as that forthcoming chill shoot down my spine by the look in Holmes' lustrous brown eyes. I began to panic.


"Sush, my dear Watson. Don't be so afraid of me."

"I'm not... I'm not afraid,"

"Oh? You've paled considerably and your pupils are contracted." And there it was. His lips were hot as they pressed down against my own. His eyes were closed while he took in a deep breath through his nostrils and expelled over my mouth. When I did not immediately initiate him he took it upon himself to lead. Again I could feel his wet tongue easing between my lips and shoving against my teeth. I thought, stupidly, that I could avoid the haunting kiss all together if I refused to accept it, but that was a lost battle. He scooted farther up so that his face was at a more directly above angle, tilting my head back and forcing me to accept his tongue into my mouth. It was a delicious feel in that moment, imposing the fear which crept into my performance.

He withdrew, leaving me blank and breathless.

"I'm frightening you," his lips brushed my cheek as he said it.

"I don't understand what this means, Holmes."

"What confounds you so, my dear heart?"

"You are."

"I know this isn't what you've expected of me,"

"No," I pushed him back so we were looking eye-to-eye. "Holmes, I'm frightened because every time you kiss me, really kiss me, it feels as though you expect it to be the last. Is that... are you afraid of something?"

His eyes were large and glassy as I looked at him in that instant. "My only fear, Watson, is being wrong."

"Do not for a moment think-"

"I don't doubt you, how could I? Though perhaps what I'm about to say if even more harmful that that supposition..." in a moment his gaze went from slack and easy to stern and sharp. "My dear Watson, I do not fear you ever thinking this wrong. I fear it of myself."

My heart dropped into my stomach. "You're... afraid you'll stop caring?" My voice was barely above a whisper.

"I've never been in anything like this before. It's beautiful, Watson, simply beautiful! I've never felt happier in all my life." A shadow fell across his eyes. "But I push myself to savor it, you see. I love you, Watson, don't ever deny that. But I simply cannot ignore the possibilities." I could feel my heartbreaking as he spoke, and yet by some miracle of the light I saw that his eyes were rimmed with moisture as well. "I am terrified to wake one morning and find it all gone." he said with a deep, trembling voice.

I could do nothing but watch as his collected mask melted away. His brows began to furrow as his eyes got red. I lifted myself up and collected him in my arms.

"Love doesn't die, Holmes. You hear of fine couples' romances dissolving in an instant, but this isn't at all like that. We weren't bound to fall in love, no false ideas of fate forced the leap from friendship to this... Holmes, by all means, none of this should have happened and yet it did. I found you, I loved you and I worshipped you, but it's nothing so thinly veiled as what you fear."

"Your heart is so full and capable of love, Watson. People are naturally drawn to you just as you, in turn, give. But I am not like that. I can't possibly look into my life down this path... I am in complete fear of coming upon conclusions which seem inevitable. They would most likely-"

I stopped him with a kiss. "Don't look down that road, Holmes. We needn't worry ourselves about that now. Besides, too much has already happened to prevent any hurt, if that is what's to come."

We were silent for a long while before Holmes finally accepted my words. He tugged us both down, bringing the blanket over our naked torsos and engulfing me in a desperate embrace. Our noses were but an inch apart and yet our eyes closed for the night.

"I'm sorry for all this, Watson. It was not my intention."

"Nothing ever is."

He didn't kiss me again, but instead took my hand in his and tucked it quietly between ourselves.